LimeyG | writing about eating

Be-Ro gingerbread recipe: Good British baking

2012-01-29T17:27:00.012-05:00

I don't have a huge collection of cookbooks, but among my prize possessions are three editions of the Be-Ro Home Recipes book. It's a slim little volume, published by a flour company founded in the north of England in the 1920s. My oldest volume is from 1957; my newest, the fortieth edition, is from 2007.

I like them because they're a link to my childhood, and to weekends spent baking butterfly cakes and drop scones with my mom.

And they're a way to chart changes in British baking: there's no quiche or pizza in the '57 book, though there is something called milk bread (1lb plain flour, 1 tsp salt, half a pint of milk, mixed well and baked for an hour at 375-425 degrees — how's that for an exact science?).

The '57 has exactly two recipes that call for chocolate, while the '07 has 15. Simpler cakes like walnut and cherry are still with us, but now stand alongside coconut-lime loaf and peach-butterscotch pudding (um, eww?).

Some things are constant, though: Victoria sponge, Welsh griddle cakes (amazingly on page 9 of all three editions), Swiss roll.

And all three have a type of gingerbread, which is what I was hankering for today. I wanted to go with the '57 recipe, but wasn't sure about measurement; how much milk is in a teacupful?

Instead, I went with the most recent edition's gingerbread recipe.

English baking recipes measure by weight instead of volume, so a kitchen scale is a good thing. As this gingerbread is so good, I decided to convert the measurements so I could share it with y'all.

Warning: This gingerbread contains a lot of sugary, buttery goodness. If your name rhymes with Taller Green, do not attempt.

Start by heating the oven to 300 degrees, and grease an 8" square pan (unless, like me, you use silicone. What did I do before silicone??)

Two cups flour
A pinch of salt
Two teaspoons of ground ginger (or three if you want it super-gingery)
One teaspoon of allspice
One teaspoon of baking soda
Half a cup of light brown sugar
Half a cup of molasses
A quarter cup of golden syrup (treacle)
One! Stick! Of butter!
Half a cup of milk
Two eggs, beaten

What is golden syrup, you ask? It's like molasses's blonder brother; in Britain it's used in baking, and you can also spread it on toast like super-sweet honey. You can find it at Amazon; one can goes a long way.

Sift the flour into a big mixing bowl and add the rest of the dry ingredients.

In a small saucepan, combine the molasses, treacle and butter. Heat it slowly while the butter melts, but don't let it bubble.

Important note: This part smells uhhh-mazing. Be sure not to miss the chance to inhale deeply over the pan. It's like hot buttered rum without the booze.

Once the butter has melted, take the pan off the heat and add the milk. Then let it cool completely before adding the eggs (so you don't cook them) and stirring everything together.

Pour the wet ingredients onto the dry and mix well. The batter will be quite runny. Pour it into the baking pan (or rubber square, if you will).

Bake for an hour, or until a knife comes out clean.

Let it cool in the pan until you can't bear to wait any more. Slice it into generous squares while it's still slightly warm. You might need a fork, as it's sticky. This is good.

From reading other recipes containing treacle, my guess is that this will improve with age. My other guess is that this won't be around long enough for us to find out.

Burns Night: Haggis is a good thing!

2012-01-22T11:22:00.010-05:00

If there's one thing Americans are better at than the British, it's centering holidays around food. Yes, British Christmas and Easter involve good traditional meals (and cakes and snacks and sweeties), but what else is there in the calendar?

Meanwhile, in the US, there's Thanksgiving (turkey and pumpkin pie!); July 4 (burgers and blueberry pie!); even Hallowe'en is basically an excuse for pigging out on chocolate.

So if there's even the slightest excuse to celebrate a food-related British holiday, I'll jump on it. Which is why we make a point of celebrating Burns Night every year.

Robert Burns is Scotland's poet; he wrote hundreds of poems and songs (if you warbled along vaguely to a tune at midnight on New Year's Eve, you've half-remembered one of them).

I don't pretend to be Scottish, or particularly a poetry fan. But Burns' birthday, January 25, is celebrated with readings of his work, speeches, and ... haggis.

Don't even start with the "ewww" stuff. Haggis is not gross, or slimy, or disgusting. Yes, it uses some sheep organs that are more usually discarded, but that's a good thing; waste not, want not. And on a cold January night, it's good, satisfying, stick-to-the-ribs food.

For this year's feast, we cheated on two counts. First, we used canned haggis (because the only alternative was a 4lb "presentation" haggis, which we'd be eating until next Hogmanay); and second, we celebrated four days early, so that we could properly toast the haggis with whisky (not a good idea on a school night).

Also, planning the meal for a Saturday meant I had time to do it up right.

First, cock-a-leekie soup. Main ingredients ... well, it's pretty self-explanatory.

Instead of following a specific recipe, I made up my own: softened a mirepoix, added herbs and chicken stock, threw in the sliced leeks, poached and shredded a couple of chicken thighs.

Before we ate, The Boy said the traditional Selkirk Grace (because nothing's cuter than Scottish read in a Spanish-American accent):

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Next, haggis! With neeps and tatties! Which means mashed potato and rutatbaga! Is this not the best dish ever??

Of course, by the time the rutabaga is softened and sweet and tossed with butter and black pepper, and the potato is whipped into creamy clouds, and the haggis is sizzling hot, it all looks much better.

Before we ate, The Boy read Address to a Haggis.

So what does haggis taste like? Like it says on the tin, it's lamb heart and liver (sometimes tongue is also involved), so it has a deep, earthy flavor. The texture is meatloafy, with the oats (or barley) adding little bit of chew. It really is pretty good, even from a can.

And of course we had to go traditional with the beverage.

And then dessert; this can either be a clootie dumpling (basically a steamed suet pudding); a whisky-laced trifle called Tipsy Laird; or cranachan, which involves heavy cream, toasted oats, raspberries and, uh, more whisky.

We decided on the latter, but in a rash moment of healthiness, decided to use Greek yogurt. It still turned out rich and creamy, with the honey and whisky adding sweetness and smokiness and the oatmeal providing a nutty note.

If this has piqued in you the slightest interest in trying haggis, The Haven in JP is holding Burns Suppers this week.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Apples and oysters: The Harvest Review

2012-01-13T18:14:00.008-05:00

Um, why did nobody tell me about Harvest's monthly dinner series? Seriously, don't pretend to be interested in my blogroll all of a sudden; look at me. I want answers!

Turns out Harvest in Harvard Square presents a dinner once a month called The Harvest Review. Each dinner is based around a theme: food, mostly (I'm guessing, as no one told me), though chef Mary Dumont did mention a Bob Slate-themed event that somehow involved, yes, pens, ink and paper.

Did I mention that's it's four courses with wine?

Did I mention that it's $39 a person??

So, to recap: A unique meal. At one of the best restaurants in Cambridge. For FORTY BUCKS.

See why I'm miffed to have missed out?

When I heard about January's dinner, I may have squeaked a little: a menu of apples and oysters, hosted by two authors I like: Erin Byers Murray, whose Shucked describes her year working at Island Creek Oysters; and Amy Traverso, whose The Apple Lover's Cookbook makes me want to lick the pages.

So, yeah. We were going.

I'd assumed the event would take over the whole of Harvest; instead, it was in the smaller, separate dining room, with seating for about 40 people. Which meant the kitchen was turning out two separate menus — one for us, one for the main restaurant — and ours had to be coordinated so that everyone was served at the same time. That takes skill.

The dinner was supposed to start at 6pm, but because they were doing synchronized service, we had to wait until the last stragglers showed up. (And that is why you should always be on time, people!)

But it was okay, really, because we were able to quell our hunger with finger sandwiches of cheddar, apple and whole-grain mustard, grilled in butter. Very simple, very sinful.

Once everyone had arrived, Chef Dumont gave a brief introduction, and then both Amy and Erin talked about their books. I felt quite envious, as I always do around people who get to write about food for a living.

And then we began. First, Island Creek oysters two ways: raw, with quick bread-and-butter apple pickles from Amy's book, and pan-fried with a piment d'Espelette sauce.

The first was briny, chilled, with the pickled apple providing just an edge of vinegary sweetness. The second was warm, a little oily, with a slight crunch from the breading, the sauce adding a creamy smokiness. They were almost each other's opposite; I could almost imagine one with wings and a harp, and the other with little horns. Good and evil, both delicious.

Next up, oyster stew, creamy and fragrant with fennel and Pernod. The stew itself was great, but what made the dish, for me, was the squid-ink tagliatelle, deeply flavored but light as a feather, and the single slice of pancetta so thin you could see through it. For real, check it out:

For the third course, we moved back to apples, which came braised with cabbage with a hint of caraway. There might have been something else on the plate ...

Well, hello there ...

That would be the pork shoulder sausage, almost boudin blanc-like in texture, dense and delicious.

We were pretty full by this point. Too full for dessert? Ha! Especially not this: warm apple brownies with caramel ice cream and walnut brittle. A perfect end to the meal.

What do you mean, there's more? Apple donuts, you say? Served warm, coated with sugar? Well, all right, if they're small. Just a couple. After all, apples are good for you.

At the end of the dinner, Erin and Amy stuck around to chat and sign copies of their work, so I'm now the proud owner of both books. Perfect reading (and experimenting) for chilly winter days.

And because I'm nice, I'll mention that upcoming Harvest Review dinners highlight local businesses that work with Harvest: Taza Chocolate (February 15), Hearth Wood-Fired Bread (March 14), and Espresso Express coffee (April 11).

You're welcome.

2011: A year in (tasteful, tasteless) review

2011-12-30T08:51:00.006-05:00

Everyone else seems to be doing end-of-year lists, and I'm nothing if not a bandwagon-jumper, so here's my run-down of most memorable Things Consumed in 2011.

It's hard to do a rated list, because this year was a challenging one: Some things were painful to eat, some things had no flavor, and anything consumed in the last few months has been the Best (insert ingredient here) Ever, purely because I could taste it.

So instead of a Top Ten countdown, we'll go (mostly) chronologically.

Hospital food
In January, I spent a week on the cancer ward, and became a little too familiar with hospital food. I'll be honest: I find it hard to even look at the images in this post. Especially the last one. It took a while before I could enjoy a golden sunrise without thinking about processed cheese squares.

I have awesome friends
Why? Because they recognized that the best way to respond to my illness was by bringing me food. Precious few of their gifts were healthy (ha!) but they were suitably high-calorie and, of course, delicious.

Losing it
I can't talk about this year in food without mentioning the three-month period where I was unable to taste anything. Yes, it gave me a new appreciation for the subtleties of the palate and the distinctions between flavors, but mostly I learned that having no tastebuds is the opposite of fun. And it's very nice when they come back again.

Home cooking
Not a single incident, this one, but a variety of memorable dishes made at home. Or at the house we rented in Gloucester, where the vintage kitchen was a perfect place to make blueberry cobbler, lemon meringue pie, and beef Wellington (The Boy's birthday-meal request).

And also a great location for inviting friends to share steak with chimichurri, grilled chourico, and various salads.

Back at our apartment, I got into a baking Thing, and managed to fill the freezer with chocolate-zucchini cake:

and peach cake:

My intention with the latter is to save it for the crummiest winter day possible. Nothing better than eating summery peaches during a snowstorm.

British food
Between finishing treatment and going back to work, I had a small window of time to zip back to England so my parents could see all my limbs were still attached. Even though my tastebuds weren't completely recovered, I still managed to eat ev-er-y-thing.

Which includes the obscene Sunday lunch, including baby's-head-sized Yorkshire pudding, at the Toby Carvery:

My dad at the gravy station. STATION. Because one type of gravy is not enough.

Dessert was Eton Mess, a bucket of meringue, cream and fruit:

Celebrations
There were lots of reasons for good times (come on!), including The Boy's grandmother's hundredth birthday; the wedding of our good friends Eric and Nicki, with a fabulous reception at Oleanna; and my almost-completely recovered sense of taste, with an incredible dinner at Journeyman.

Honorable mentions
I don't write about everything I stuff in my face, obviously. But I do record a large quantity thereof. Delicious things I had to capture for posterity this year included:

This treat, almost (almost!) too gorgeous to eat, buttery with a hint of lemon, from The Cookie Countess:

Rich, sweet figs stuffed with peach brandy ganache and covered in dark chocolate from Capone's in Cambridge:

And a stunningly complex housemade fig vermouth at Island Creek Oyster Bar (very small-batch; there was only one bottle left when we tried this):

You know, despite evidence to the contrary, I feel as though I've been very lucky this year. Yes, there were long-drawn-out moments of suckiness, but there were also a lot of extremely fun times and reasons to be thankful, especially for The Boy, and for friends and family.

I'm also very grateful to everyone who posted supportive comments on this here blog; I'll probably never meet most of you, but your kindness meant a huge amount during a tough time.

So happy New Year — wishing good health, happiness and delicious food to all!

Saloon in Somerville is a swell joint

2011-12-18T08:13:00.005-05:00

Okay, before we start, it's important to have this tune playing in the background as you read.

Ready?

This week saw the opening of Saloon in Davis Square. Owned by the same people who run Foundry on Elm, Saloon angles itself as a pre-Prohibition joint. But this is no sleazy speakeasy; it's a ritzy juice joint, see?

Entrance is via a narrow door on Elm Street, marked by two glowing orb lights. And here's the odd time-travel thing: I worked next door in the Gorin Building for two years, and I have no recollection of seeing that door before. And when I check Google Streetview (which is a little outdated, as it still shows McIntyre and Moore — sob!) it's not clear where the door should be. So, you know. Spookeh.

Down a flight of stairs is a windowless (and TV-less, amazingly; I assumed all bars in Davis Square were required by law to show ESPN at all times) room, handsomely outfitted in dark, heavy woodwork sourced from the now-closed Newbury Street branch of Capital Grille. The bar dominates one end of the room, with the dining area at the other. UrbanDaddy has a nice slideshow of the interior.

Is there drink? Yes, there's drink; a 200-plus library of liquors, including bourbons, ryes, single malts and white whiskeys. Many of them are available in three serving options: on the rocks, Old Fashioned or Manhattan.

On our first visit, on Thursday, we stuck to cocktails: The Boy tried the Old Pal (rye, aperol, averna) and I had the Brown Derby (rum, antica formula, maraschino, mole bitters). Both lovely, well-balanced drinks.

Last night I started with the Ward 44 (because pork belly whiskey) and ended with another Brown Derby; apparently my new tastebuds have decided that bitter and aromatic are Good Things in a drink. The Boy started with an Old Fashioned made with Willett bourbon and moved to neat, smoky Russell's Rare.

One could, if one was so inclined, take on the liquor menu as a winter project. Also a spring one.

Is there food? Oh lord, is there ever food. The menu at Saloon isn't huge — a handful of appetizers and around nine entrees — but it makes me happy in every way.

When we went on Thursday, my goal was to have the steak and kidney pie. Because even though it's often used as a cheap way of saying English food is crap, a well-made S&K is a thing of beauty, and they're pretty much impossible to find over here.

I was a tad concerned when I saw the price ($26? Serious?) but then our waitress explained it served two. And indeed it did.

The crust was buttery and flaky and, as is right and proper, nicely moistened on the underside with pie gravy. The steak was fall-apart tender, the kidney was earthy, and there were generous chunks of carrot and mushroom (I'm prepared to overlook the latter). The gravy was rich, deep, complex. The whole thing was perfect.

So I say to you: If you've never had steak and kidney pie, you should absolutely go to Saloon. And take a friend, 'cuz it's large.

(Oh, and sorry there's no photo. Saloon is a dark place and the only shots I took, using the flash, made the interior of the pie look scary.)

On our Saturday night visit, we started with a charcuterie plate. All the meats are made in-house by someone who clearly knows their stuff. Best were the prosciutto and the salami; note how they're marbled with sweet fat. Delicate, not overly seasoned, so the flavor of the meat came through.

And then I went for the bubble and squeak, another fine English dish, traditionally intended as a way to use up leftover veggies from Sunday lunch. This one involved very flavorful root veggies and Brussels sprouts, topped with sausage and finished with a rich onion gravy.

The Boy ordered the flatiron steak au poivre, which came nicely medium-rare with fries and creamed spinach.

Sorry, that should be: with creamed spinach finished with shaved parmesan, and fries IN A SILVER BUCKET.

The fries, BTW, were so good that I award them the highest honor: they were chips. Real proper chips.

After this enormous amount of food, we really shouldn't have had dessert. But it was trifle, so.

Bavarian cream, dulce de leche-soaked sponge, candied hazlenuts. Apparently Saloon only offers one dessert at a time. But frankly, one is all you need.

It's also worth noting that Saloon doesn't offer coffee (because bars didn't in the 1900s), a fact which took the pompous actor types at the next table ("It's so sad that I'd never be allowed to direct at the Globe in London because I'm American") by horrified surprise. Deal, people. The Diesel is close by, though apparently you preferred to go to Starbucks, thanks for sharing.

Sorry; it's been a while since I snarked about diners who converse in outside voices to people sitting three feet away. This bunch was particularly annoying.

That aside, dinner was fabulous. As we walked home, we talked about the fact that we no longer have to go into Boston to find good food and thoughtfully made cocktails. Between Pizzeria Posto, Foundry and Saloon (not to mention longstanding favorites like Redbones and Tu y Yo, and the soon-to-open Painted Burro), we're pretty well sorted. And that's just the cat's pajamas.

State of the Tastebuds

2011-12-10T18:07:00.006-05:00

I figured it was time for a quick update on my eating abilities.

(If you're new to the blog, you can catch up on my cancer treatment adventures.)

The good news is that, tastewise, I'm pretty much back to normal. I can distinguish flavors almost as well as I could before treatment, as my recent post on dinner at Journeyman will attest.

But there are still a few annoying details, such as:

Dryness
Radiation zapped out my salivary glands. Allegedly they will return at some point (months? Years?), but until then my mouth dries out constantly. Me + water bottle = Linus + security blanket. I get like a junkie between fixes if I think I won't have a chance to refill it.

And of course it's not just an issue when my mouth is at rest (like that ever happens); there's now a whole new set of concerns about what and how I eat, especially when it comes to foods like:

Bread (soaks up any residual saliva like a sponge)

Cheese (turns gummy and gluey)

Chocolate (does not melt in the mouth. Sticks to the teeth and stays there)

Nuts, crackers, chips, popcorn (you know the Saltine cracker challenge? Like that. All the time).

Of course, generally all this discomfort can be avoided by taking a sip of water with each bite. But what does that mean? The intrinsic flavors of whatever lovely thing I'm eating get diluted — literally watered down. So instead of some carefully crafted cheese, I get liquid with a vague hint of two-year-old Comté.

Hotness
Okay, I never had the oral fortitude to take on vindaloo. But I do (did?) enjoy cuisines that employed spices: Mexican, Middle Eastern, Chinese, Indian. Now, though, I stare warily at fresh-ground pepper. I find gingerbread adventurous. Pesto is a teeny bit too garlicky.

A while back, I picked up some Vosges Aztec Elixir hot chocolate mix, which is kicked up with ancho and chipotle chilis. I was planning to keep it for the first brutal snowstorm; I was almost hoping for a good blizzard (me, Miss Anti-Winter) so I'd have an excuse to break into it.

But now I'm worried that after all the anticipation, I'll take one sip and realize it's too much for me to handle.

I've become one of those people: "Excuse me, but how hot is this dish? Is it spicy? Because I can't eat anything spicy."

I still love going out to eat, of course. But I used to be able to close my eyes and point at any menu item and say, "Yes, that one" (not that I would, but you know what I mean). Now I have to read each description carefully: how hot are the "spicy garbanzos"? Is pepper jack the only cheese option? Do all the maki rolls have wasabi in them?

This is supposed to get better over time; I just don't have a sense of how long "time" is. It's the kind of thing that depends on age, treatment type, and the body's overall ability to recover from trauma.

Big bites
One of the post-treatment gifts that keeps on giving is the dime-sized chunk of scar tissue in my cheek. It's not visible from the outside, but it limits my ability to open my mouth as wide as I used to.

You know when you're being overly dramatic and you stick two fingers in your mouth and pretend to blow your brains out? (Or is that just me?) Anyway I can't do that. I eat bananas by nibbling daintily around the outside. I dine most comfortably with a dessert fork or a teaspoon.

Again, this is supposed to be temporary, but change is all up to me. If I'm good and do stretching exercises, it will eventually loosen up (though I don't know whether it will ever return to its original flexibility).

Problem is that I forget. Or I remember at inopportune times, like when I'm on the subway or in a meeting. Not the time to start randomly opening and closing my mouth ("Hey, guess what I am now? Goldfish!")

Yech, this turned into a bit of a complainy thing. Not my intention; just wanted to share some of what life is like right now. And I know things could be muuuhuuch worse.

So, back to talking about food I can eat.

Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard

2011-11-27T19:04:00.005-05:00

So, you want to hear about Thanksgiving lunch at Eastern Standard? Sure you do!

The day itself was lovely; we checked in to the Hotel Commonwealth, which inexplicably and wonderfully always smells of lemons, and got a corner room on the fifth floor with views over Kenmore Square and down Comm Ave.

And then we went down to Eastern Standard for lunch.

We started with drinkies: a glass of sparkly Schloss Gobelsburg Brut Reserve for me, and a Houdini for The Boy.

The Houdini (genever, Cocchi and benedictine) and the Gala Brand (made with house apricot vermouth — in which apricots are first soaked in gin for six weeks — and finished with bubbles) are my two favorite recent additions to the cocktail menu.

And then food. First, oysters from Bar Harbor and Eastham. Below is the latter, juicy and tender, called Sunken Meadow Gem. Love that name.

Then, from the Thanksgiving menu, The Boy went for salad, a loose pile of greens with a light sherry vinaigrette, scattered with pumpkin seeds.

I had apparently decided it was necessary to have more oysters; these are baked, topped with brioche crumbs, sitting on buttery leeks with a hint of rosemary:

As usual, we both ordered turkey. There were other nice-looking options on the menu (roast venison, pork osso bucco with polenta, New York strip steak with truffled potatoes), but well, you know, turkey!

And it was this.

"It looks like cafeteria food," said The Boy. It did.

And perhaps our disappointment was in part because last year's Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard was so much prettier. (The link opens in a new window so you can compare and contrast.)

The turkey was moist and flavorful, though the gravy was already a little congealy by the time it reached us. The yam was extremely candied; the potato was smooth and buttery; the cornbread stuffing was unexpectedly light and airy and laced with fresh herbs. All in all, pretty good, though it did leave me thinking wistfully of last year's meal.

But wait — there was still dessert!

The Boy got the punkin pie, which came with a puddle of dark chocolate for a creative flavor contrast.

I chose the apple and huckleberry pie; the big chunks of apple were still quite crunchy, and I'm not sure whether this was a bug or a feature. Maybe I just prefer my pie fruit to be more yielding and comforty. The anise ice cream was nice, though.

We contemplated a cheese course, but then decided we were too full. But then I got a text from LC Sarah about the cheese plate she'd devised for her family Thanksgiving dinner: Munster, Manchego, Cotswold and Chabis Feuille. (You'd think she'd taken a cheese class or something!)

So Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard was good. But ... it wasn't as good as we expected. And I think I've decided it's not a good idea to do Turkey Day at the same place twice.

Compare with our two Thanksgivings at Rialto: the first was almost perfect in terms of food, service, and atmosphere, while the second saw us squashed between large parties and served courses out of order.

It was the same here. And maybe memory gives everything a rosy tint (though having photos and a write-up provide focus) but I think, to be safe, we'll come up with a new plan for next year.

Hey, we might even stay home.

My NPR Thanksgiving interview

2011-11-22T17:17:00.005-05:00

Ah, the power of social media! One minute I'm idly browsing tweets, the next I'm chatting with Nancy Shute, NPR science writer, about my plans for Thanksgiving.

Nancy was looking for people who dine out on Turkey Day, and as that's a Thing We Do, I got in touch. This morning we talked; this afternoon her piece, When Thanksgiving Means Making Reservations, Not Turkey, was up on The Salt, NPR's box-fresh new food blog.

Of course, I made sure to say lovely things about Eastern Standard, which is where we're heading on Thursday. And of course, as I've done for the past few Thanksgiving dinners, I'll be documenting the experience.

What do you think about eating out at Thanksgiving?

Journeyman, Somerville: Fifty flavors in two hours

2011-11-20T10:22:00.007-05:00

I'd been battling a cold all week, which left me lumpen and miserable. By Saturday, I was starting to feel more human, so The Boy decided to lift my spirits with a trip to Journeyman in Union Square, Somerville.

Our last dinner at Journeyman was back in February; interestingly, it was also a cheer-up respite from illness. Not that I want this to become a habit, but if poor health ends with food like this, I may start paying small children to cough on me.

We had a six o'clock reservation, so the place was almost empty, which was lovely. And we were seated at the counter, looking into the tiny kitchen, which was perfect.

I love watching the dynamics between people in a kitchen. Here, the four chefs worked almost in silence, leaning close to talk (no loud voices), moving around each other in a fluid dance. The motion was constant and focused, calm and confident.

We started with cocktails: for The Boy, an Old-Fashioned made with his choice of spirit. He went with genever, which came nicely finished with citrusy Bittermens' Boston Bittahs. I chose the Dartmoor, a milk punch infused with heather and lapsang souchong tea. The result was so extraordinarily good, it made me misty; it was light, slightly citrusy, with complex floral and smoky notes.

We got to chat with Meg, who made this incredible drink, and she gave us a quick history of the milk punch.

Not to be confused with the New Orleans-style milk punch, which is essentially a boozy milkshake, the (very) old-school version involves curdling milk with lemon juice, scooping out the curds, and combining the remaining liquid whey with spirits and botanicals.

And then she came back with the recipe for the Dartmoor. I might have told her I love her.

But wait, it gets better: there was food as well.

Journeyman offers three prix-fixe options: three, five, and seven courses. We went for the three-course; The Boy took the "omnivore" version and I took the vegetarian, so we could try each others' entrées.

First, an amuse-bouche of smoked bluefish rillettes,

and white bean consommé with a tiny biscuit stuffed with an amazing miso butter. The former was light and refreshing. The latter, unfortunately, was eated before it could be photographed.

We'd decided to add a charcuterie plate to the three courses, because meat. There was a choice of six options: you could order one for $5 or four for $15. Which meant we had to decide which two not to get. We ended up nixing the lardo (regretfully) and the bluefish, which we got to try anyway. So it all worked out.

And then came the charcuterie: quail galantine, oxtail scrapple, duck liver pâté, and a terrine of lamb tenderloin.

Everything was beautifully made, but we decided the winners were the rich, creamy, duck liver pâté:

and the warm, earthy, beef-hash-like scrapple:

Next came what was described on the menu as "salad." Which is like calling the Sistine Chapel "painting."

Each ingredient stood on its own, and each also added to an overall harmony of tastes and textures: cubes of sweet root vegetables, a single, warm Brussels sprout, paper-thin slices of pear and black radish, wilted leeks, a marinated mushroom, crunchy red cabbage, swirls of creamy caulflower and celeriac sauce, drops of vibrant red pepper purée, and my favorite: a rolled red carpet of beet leather.

And then the mains: for The Boy, Chinese roasted duck leg and seared duck breast, served with black rice on a ribbon of huckleberry sauce.

(The next shot is a little NSFW.)

The main reason I chose the vegetarian option was that the entree was described like this:

SWEET POTATO
cheese, coffee, hazelnut

How could I not?

The tortellini were filled with tangy, melting taleggio. The potato was a sweet, creamy swoosh of sauce. The foam and the croutons held varying intensities of coffee. And there was a single, perfectly roasted shallot.

It's hard to explain how — or why — these flavors worked together. But they did, unexpectedly and yet completely naturally. I'm not sure how easy it would be to replicate it at home. It was a delicate balance that probably took a lot of work to refine; too much coffee could overwhelm the milder flavors, but too little could make the whole thing seem insipid. This was perfect.

Of course, we weren't done yet. Next was a palate-cleanser of cat-mint ice cream garnished with Sichuan pepper leaves. It was —

Wait. Cat mint?

Yes.

As in cat mint?

Yes!

The flavor was distinctly catnip; a muted, almost sagey mint. I was a little concerned about the pepper leaves; chef Diana explained they would "leave a tingle on the tongue," which to my (now-teenaged) tastebuds could have meant "carpet-bomb the forest floor." But actually the leaves were light and fresh, with just the slightest buzz. So maybe my 'buds are all grown up now?

Then came dessert, described on the menu as:

CARAMEL-APPLE
brioche, scotch

What this actually meant was fresh brioche roll, sliced and filled with a smoky bourbon cream, served with a bright, fresh apple sorbet and a hunk of caramelized apple.

Again, flavors balanced each other, and variations in texture and temperature made every mouthful different: cold and hot, tart and sweet, creamy and spongy. A lovely fall dessert.

But wait, there's more: a final plate of sweetness. This one had chocolate brownie bites, pumpkin spice-filled eclairs, and chipotle marshmallows.

Oh yeah.

As we made our way home, we tried counting up how many different flavors we'd tasted over the course of the two-hour meal. We decided it was close to 50.

Fifty distinct, individual flavor types. How often can you say that?

Well lit at Samurai Boston

2011-11-05T14:27:00.007-04:00

You may wonder (or perhaps not) how I choose which restaurants to write about. Does it depend on the type of cuisine? The cost? The creativity of the menu?

Is it all an elaborate cover-up to mask thrice-weekly visits to Texas Roadhouse?

Actually, it's much simpler: Did I get decent photos?

See, it's one thing to write about the food: how it smelled, how it tasted, whether it was satisfying. But the visual aspect is a huge factor for me, so it's something I like to share. And I'd prefer not to show you muddy or blurry shots that don't do anything to communicate the look of the plate and give you a sense of the experience.

Which is why, despite repeat visits over the past couple of years, I've never written about Samurai Boston, a Japanese-Korean restaurant on Boylston (right next door to the Apple store).

It's a long, narrow, basement space with a small bar at one end and a sushi bar at the other, and tables lined along the wall. The staff is young and cool, the music is varied (last night it was The Killers and Weezer), and diners are a mix of Japanese students, office workers, and hip twenty-somethings.

Usually we get a table against the wall, where the lighting is low. Last night, however, we were lucky: the place was full. So we had a choice of waiting for a table or sitting at the (well-lit) sushi bar. Easy choice.

Samurai Boston has a nice collection of sake and soju. And the glassware is lovely.

The blue indentation in the carafe is filled with ice, so it keeps the sake cool without diluting it. Love. That.

We tend to get the same things each time we go to Samurai (so I don't feel as bad about not telling you about it earlier). Always on our list are the thin-sliced beef tongue, broiled and salted, over a bed of greens:

and the grilled yellowtail collar, with a crispy skin and fatty, deeply flavorful meat (and also a good test of chopstick skills if you can pull all the fish out from between the bones):

This time we also tried some new stuff. First, fresh, briny oysters with sweet ponzu sauce:

And then takoyaki, griddled balls of sticky dough filled with octopus and topped with shaved bonito:

And then ... "What's ankimo?" we asked our waiter.

"Oh, that's monkfish liver. It's kind of like ... cheese, maybe?"

Cheese?

"Well, kind of soft, but with a fishy taste."

Uhhh ...

"Actually, it's sort of like foie gras."

Fishy foie gras? Sign us up!

It was certainly very pretty.

And indeed it was a lot like foie gras in texture: soft, creamy, very rich. The flavor was both fish and liver, but not overwhelmingly either. Not cod-liver-oil intense, but a milder and very lovely level below it. Definitely one of those why-have-I-not-tried-this-before? moments.

At some point we might make it past the first page of appetizers on the menu and try out something else; Samurai Boston has a lot of Japanese and Korean dishes, and I always end up coveting whatever the people at the next table are eating.

Oh! And I just saw that the desserts on Samurai's dinner menu include cassata! Okay, that's a definite for next time.

And I'll make sure it's well-lit. Promise.

Kickass Trick or Treat cupcake is eeeevillll!

2011-10-29T15:31:00.003-04:00

I used to be beeeeg into Hallowe'en (yes, it has a frickin' apostrophe). And then for some reason — I suspect it was I got old but let's not go there — my interest waned. The box of decorations stayed untouched in the basement. We stopped buying candy (kids rarely trick-or-treat on our street). Costumes? Meh. I wear black every other day anyway.

I was about to let Hallowe'en pass in similar fashion this year. And then something happened to change my mind. Maybe it was the appearance of four fat orange pumpkins on our porch, courtesy of the kids who live upstairs. Maybe it was listening to Dracula by Philip Glass and the Kronos Quintet, one of my favorite atmospheric pieces, perfect for a rainy fall day.

Or maybe it was the heads-up email that arrived yesterday to let me know that Kickass Cupcakes in Davis Square had a Hallowe'en special: the Trick or Treat cupcake.

"A chocolate cupcake baked around a mini candy bar ..."

So of course I had to check that out.

We picked up the Twix and Milky Way Trick or Treat cupcakes, and also a Sammy, because what's not to love about a cupcake made with Sam Adams stout?

They were almost too pretty to eat.

Almost.

Kickass cupcakes are perfect if you like 'em super-sweet and indulgent. They don't just use butter, they use Plugrá (that's "more fat" for the non-francophones). Which explains why their buttercream frosting looks like this:

Here's the inside of the Twix one - see the cookie at the bottom?

So if you take that level of richness and then you add a candy bar — well, I think you get the picture.

There's a good reason Kickass only offers the Trick or Treat cupcake once a year. Anything more would be a serious (delicious) health hazard.

Il brutto, il buono, il formaggio

2011-10-16T12:22:00.014-04:00

This week I sat in on a cheese tasting class at BU's Metropolitan College, part of their Seminars in Food, Wine & the Arts program.

It was LC Sarah's idea to go, she being as much of a cheese-lover as I, and we met up with her friend Pooja and grabbed a table for three.

The class wasn't as full as I'd expected, and certainly not as busy as when we've been there for cocktail classes with Jackson Cannon. Which was surprising, given that our instructor was as big (if not bigger) in the cheese world than Jackson is in the, uh, spirit world: Ihsan Gurdal, owner of Formaggio Kitchen.

As a bonus (like we needed an incentive), class participants got a copy of The Cheese Primer, a nice introduction to worldwide cheese regions.

In the angled mirror above the counter, you can see the reflection of the evening's intensive study focus.

Ihsan got straight into the important stuff: cheese storage. Saran wrap was right out, because it messes with the cheese's natural moisture balance; wax paper was better. At the Formaggio in Cambridge, Ihsan has built a cheese cave to replicate perfect storage conditions. For the rest of us, the salad crisper in the fridge is the best option (who knew?).

He explained the importance of checking cut cheese for a shiny coating (the result of oils rising to the surface), and of scraping it off, because the oils quickly turn rancid and spoil the flavor. And he described the best way to slice a cheese: in wedges that include both the center and the outside, because the flavor is different at the core than at the rind.

Then he outlined the differences between cheese made with goat, sheep, and cow milk: how the first is the most sensitive to pasteurization; the second is fattier; the third is most common because it's available year-round. How the first milking of the morning produces creamier liquid, because the animals have been resting and digesting all night. How the grazing location (high altitude, for instance) or season (dictating availability of herbs and wildflowers) creates variations in the same cheese throughout the year.

And he talked about how he builds relationships with cheese producers, buying directly from the source, rather than going through importers and distributers. This allows him to find small-scale suppliers and unusual varieties, but also means he has to win over producers who are reluctant to sell outside of Europe.

Ihsan recounted visiting a producer in France who houses thousands of wheels of cheese in an old underground fortress and doing a taste-test under the affineur's watchful eye.

"I taste pineapple," he said, "and ... hazelnuts."

"Hazelnuts? French or Italian? Skin on or skin off? Roasted or unroasted?"

Luckily for us, he passed the test.

The class (consisting largely of women who were all, I think, quite taken with our raconteur), sat in rapt silence while he shared anecdotes of travel, and tasting, and discovery.

And then we started on our own taste adventure.

First, two goat's milk cheeses: Meg's Big Sunshine from Ruggles Hill Creamery (check out the photos of their awesome goats!) and Robiola di capra al fico from Piedmont, Italy.

Both were creamy and butttery, with a slight citrus hint. I preferred the American over the Italian, but it was close.

The red stuff on the top plate is an insanely good strawberry-rose jam from Blue Chair.

Next up, sheeps. Ihsan served up two Corsican cheeses with both the best-smelling and worst-smelling rinds evar. The good was the Saveur du maquis (literally "taste of the brush"), the outside of which was coated with the same scrub vegetation that the sheep eat: juniper, rosemary, thyme, and other herbs. It smelled like Sunday lunch and tasted amazing.

The ugly, at the other end of the spectrum, was L'Empereur. The cheese was nice enough — slightly crumbly, with a rich flavor — but the rind is rubbed with lamb fat, which gives it an aroma best described as litière de chat.

Breathe it in, won't you?

Then we moved on to cow's milk cheese: a creamy, fabulous comté from Marcel Petite (he of the underground cheese fortress)

and Wavreumont from Belgium. It's made in a style once practiced at monasteries, and it has strong flavor; Sarah described it in her notes as "funky monk." 'Nuff said.

And then the last tasting: blue cheeses. First, Stichelton, an unpasteurized cow's-milk variety from Nottinghamshire, buttery, creamy, with notes of caramel.

And then Blu di Capra stagionato at its ripest. Check out this beast. Meant either to kill or cure.

Okay, maybe that's an overstatement. Alls I know is that my still-baby tastebuds are not quite ready for the intensity of flavor in a blue like this. My notes read, "IT BURNS! IT BURNS!" so I wasn't able to identify anything more subtle.

Lest you think this put a damper on the evening, rest easy. I added another item to my list of Things I Can't Eat Yet, discovered some amazing new cheeses (and jams and honeys and wines), and found an excellent excuse to make a trip to Huron Village.

So, who's up for a cheese-tasting party?

Preserving three seasons

2011-10-09T16:39:00.008-04:00

An unseasonably warm October day is the perfect time to write about the three seasons sitting in my kitchen.

The first is winter, which comes in the form of maple syrup, courtesy of Dave of the Useful Arts digital marketing blog.

Dave and his daughters tap the maple trees in their yard each winter; I believe this year they harvested 40 gallons, which they then boiled down to sweet syrup. The flavor is darker and richer than most commercial maple syrup, with an edge of caramel. Perfect on pancakes on a chilly day.

Next is summer, which means flowers, which means bees, which means honey. This stuff is hyperlocal: it came from our next-door neighbor's beehive. Last year was his first with the hive, and I loved seeing the little guys all over our garden.

The bees produced 30 pounds of honey last summer; they particularly liked our lavender and thyme, which became apparent as soon as we opened the jar and inhaled the scent of sweet summer flowers.

Sadly, the bees didn't make it through the harsh winter. But our neighbor decided to give it another shot. And when Noah from Best Bees came to install the new tenants (10,000 of them) this June, I was invited to watch.

The aromatic honey, drizzled over figs and Greek yogurt, is summer in a bowl.

The third season I have in a jar is fall, in the delicious form of pear marmalade made by my coworker Robbin.

I'd never heard of this before she told me about it — I only knew of marmalade as a citrus preserve — so I was very excited when she presented me with a jar. Pears don't have a particularly strong flavor, so unsurprisingly the fruit isn't the dominant note; instead, it's spices like cinnamon that come through and make me think of fall foliage and hot apple cider.

On this warm October day, though, it's also good with a goat brie.

I'm really lucky to have friends who like to put edible things in jars and share them.

Eric and Nicki's wedding; an Oleana reception

2011-09-24T18:20:00.002-04:00

Today our friends Eric and Nicki were married in a beautiful, simple ceremony in the rose garden in the Fens.

Nicki's brother read an e.e. cummings poem; the vows made everyone cry; the unexpected ice-cream truck musical accompaniment (with this tune) made everyone laugh.

And then we headed to Cambridge for the reception at Oleana.

Though the sky threatened rain, we didn't get a drop, so we could sit among the fruit trees and herbs on the patio.

Lunch was served family-style, which meant we got to pass around plates and share with new friends.

The appetizers included spinach falafel with tahini, yogurt, and a creamy beet sauce:

Lamejun (think Middle Eastern pizza) with haloumi and grilled peaches:

and an amazing, airy buttered hummus wrapped in something I'd never had before: basturma, a paper-thin slice of air-dried beef. It was fantastic.

And then the mains, also served on sharing plates: salmon roasted in fig leaves with plums,

Beautifully pink, tender lamb,

and simple, delicious sides.

For dessert, there was plum tart in a buttery crust with a lovely almond-milk ice cream.

By the end of the meal, I was running out of steam, so we headed home, happy with thoughts of amazing food, great company, and true love.

Oh, and the realization that we really, really need to eat at Oleana again soon.

If it's fried, it must be at the Big E

2011-09-18T19:03:00.008-04:00

Today we made the pilgrimage to The Big E, the multi-state state fair in Western Mass, to do two things:

1) Eat disgusting fried food
2) Check out the farm animals

Let's take them in reverse order.

Cows!

Sheep!

Woolly and naked sheep!

Mexican wrestler sheep!

Just-back-from-jazzercise sheep!

Real Sheep of Beverly Hills!

Okay, enough of that. Now to the food.

One of my goals was to find a place selling deep-fried butter, which debuted at the Texas State Fair in 2009, hit Iowa earlier this year and finally (finally!) showed up on the East Coast.

Butter? Meh! How about this?

It was a tough decision, but we opted for the butter and the Kool-Aid.

The latter, it turned out, would be easy to replicate at home: the secret ingredient is Kool-Aid powder in the batter, with a generous amount shaken like sugar over the dough while it's still hot. Inside, they're a stunning color not found in nature.

And they were pretty good; the slightly tart flavor of the drink powder gave a nice contrast to the sweet dough.

And then to the other. The secret is to freeze the pats of butter so that they don't immediately soak into the dough. There's a pool of hot, cinnamon-sugary butter inside each ball, which means you have to eat them very carefully.

I liked the butter better; The Boy had expected a more salty, savory taste, so preferred the hot pink variety. Neither of us felt the need to eat anything else for a while.

After a couple of hours of sheep/cow/piglet/chicken/goat-gazing, however, we were ready for more. In particular, I had my eye on something I'd seen advertised in previous years but never tried: the Craz-E Burger.

All I knew was that you could buy t-shirts that said something like, "I finished the Craz-E burger!" which led me to assume it was either so huge, or so rich, or so labor-intensive to devour that the few who did so were hailed as champions.

Now I realize that it's because the Craz-E burger is crap.

Thing is, when I think "bacon-cheeseburger inside a doughnut," I imagine a hot, fragrant Krispy Kreme, fresh out of the oven, glistening with melted sugar, enveloping a patty of sirloin, cooked medium. The cheese is melting onto the meat; the bacon is crisp. The flavors dance together, varying levels of sweetness and saltiness playing off each other, creating a perfectly balanced whole.

This is what we got.

The doughnut was cold, the meat was gray, the cheese probably didn't even possess the capacity to melt. And yes, maybe I shouldn't have expected more from something served up at a state fair, but still. It was sad.

Thank goodness happiness was close by.

Hot, salty, with a crisp batter and perfectly soft cheese.

Then, as we have on previous visits, we headed to the houses of the individual New England states for dessert: rich, eggy Finnish pancakes with blueberry sauce;

and fresh raspberries.

And then, just because: a piece of bacon covered in dark chocolate. That's how you do the sweet-salty thing.

All in all, a fun trip, though not one we need to make again for another couple of years. The attractions were pretty much the same as on our previous visit (we later realized we'd taken photos of the exact same food stalls in 2009 as we did in 2011), and state-fair-food trends move so gradually that we're not likely to miss out on the next deep-fried delicacy if we skip a season.

Though I can't say the same about the spring line of sheep fashion ...

Things we ate at the 2011 Cambridge Carnival

2011-09-11T20:32:00.006-04:00

Saturday was the Cambridge Carnival, an annual celebration with live music, a parade down Main Street, and Caribbean food.

Which of the three did we care about most? Hmmm ...

The food booths were in Kendall Square, so that's where we started. First, the booth for La Auténtica, which we assumed was a local restaurant, though I can find no trace of it in the Internets; not a review, not a location, nada.

I'm pretty sure we didn't make up the just-enough-filling, not-too-fried, hand-sized empanadas:

Or the amarillo with a mainline of cheese:

Or the golf-ball relleno de papa, where the fried sphere of mashed potato had a core of chorizo:

And we certainly didn't make up that those three items cost $15. Fifteen! Bucks!

Mind you, they were pretty filling. We couldn't manage anything else right then, so we headed down to the Central Square end of Main. And just as we were about to turn back, we realized the parade was starting right in front of us.

Yes, for some reason, that is Predator. In a thong.

And then we started back toward the food.

Every summer, we try to get to at least one of the handful of local multicultural festivals, with the basic aim of finding two items: the empanada (or Jamaican beef patty) and the fishcake. We'd already checked the first one off the list, and we'd seen a likely candidate for the other.

Aha — fishcake!

However, there were three problems:

1) There was much more cake than fish, and the batter was thick and heavy;

2) The cakes had been fried some hours back and then stored in an aluminum tray covered in foil, where the steam made them even more stodgy and dense;

3) There was a special secret inside, in the shape of fiendishly spicy peppers. My still-baby tastebuds did not do well with this; The Boy (who is no wimp) bit into a generous slice of pepper and had to spit it gracefully into a napkin.

Our tongues ablaze, we headed for the best antidote: a mozzarella-stuffed arepa, bursting with sweet corn flavor. It put out the fire and served as a reasonable solution to dessert.

That evening, the air carried a definite hint of fall. If summer is really over, at least it went out on a lively note.

Cupcakory is on a roll

2011-09-07T18:09:00.004-04:00

Though I was aware that Boston now has food trucks, somehow I hadn't really investigated. This is partly because there didn't seem to be much truckular action near my office near Fenway (as opposed to, say, the Back Bay, where there are already a squillion places to eat).

Okay, there are restaurants near me as well; they're just of the red-meat-and-fried-everything-and-beer-and-multiple-flat-screen-TVs variety.

And yes, I could spend my lunch half-hour running to Copley or the CS Plaza and back, but that seems to defeat the principle. They're food trucks. With wheels. You don't go to them; they come to you.

Soooanyway, when I checked the City of Boston food truck map one day and realized the Cupcakory truck was going to be parked around the corner that afternoon, I became a little too excited.

I enlisted Eric to come with. Someone had to carry the cakes back.

We found the (adorable) truck on Comm Ave.

There was a little display window with that day's selection.

A lot of tempting flavors! We couldn't decide between raspberry-lemon, salted caramel, lemon-blueberry, and double dark chocolate. Luckily, this was not a "choose one" situation.

Okay, I'll just say it: These are fantastic cupcakes. The sponge is light and airy. The flavors are well defined and nicely balanced, especially in the delicate lemon cake and the fabulous pairing of dark chocolate, caramel and exactly enough salt.

And the frosting ... oh baby, the frosting ...

Do you see the air pockets in the above shot? Or here?

Some cupcakes have a dense, thick frosting that sticks to the roof of the mouth and makes your teeth ache. Which is fine if that's what you're looking for.

But Cupcakory's frosting seems whipped, almost fluffy, not too sweet and yet still substantial. They're cupcakes for grown-ups; they fulfill the need for a sweet treat without assuming that if you're eating cupcakes, you expect to be transported back to sugar-laden childhood.

And just to prove that they were not too rich, I devoured two of them in quick succession. Which is not something I do very often.

It's good to be a grown-up.

Felicidades Fina and goodnight Irene

2011-08-28T10:39:00.007-04:00

I had planned to spend today writing about Restaurant Week, and the fifth consecutive visit that Lovely Co-Worker Sarah and I had planned for lunch at L'Espalier.

And then Irene happened. (To rub it in, she's hurling herself against our windows right now.)

See, last weekend we went down to Puerto Rico to celebrate The Boy's grandmother's hundredth (!) birthday. The plan was to fly in on Saturday, help set up the function room, have a blast on Sunday, and fly back Monday.

The first part of the plan went very well.

The birthday girl:

Despite the fact that we knew a hurricane was coming, we were pretty confident that we'd make it out. But then Irene descended, knocking out power to most of the island (including the airport). On Monday morning, our flight was canceled.

The Boy made a call to JetBlue. The next available flight was ... Thursday.

Now, it could have been worse. There were 90,000 people without drinking water; roads were flooded, trees were down, traffic lights were out. Our only problems were not having clean clothes for a couple of days and having to use up the little vacation time accrued since I finished treatment and went back to work.

With the power out (except for the single line from the neighbor's back-up generator to run the fridge and charge our phones) and a forecast of torrential thunderstorms for the next few days, we settled into a routine of Trivial Pursuit and eating.

Luckily, the power was on at some good restaurants.

Metropol (beware! Website is Flash and has music!) supplied us with avocado salad ('tis the season), ham croquetas, and a fabulous Ropa Vieja:

At Zayas in Hato Rey, there was a very tender empanada de pollo with rice and beans. Oh, and avocado.

At La Parrillada Argentina there was a rich, dark morcilla, served with olive oil-whipped mashed potato:

But it wasn't all meat and fried. On Wednesday, once the worst of the rain had passed, we went to the Plaza del Mercado in Rio Piedras to pick up veggies for lunch.

Oh, and avocado.

The Boy's mom put together a beautiful salt-cod salad:

with a variety of local root veggies.

(Before)

(After)

So while our stay was longer than we had anticipated, it was great. We got to spend extra days with the family; we had some peaceful down-time; and — as is always the case in Puerto Rico — we ate very, very well.

So as long as you don't do too much damage up here, Irene, we'll say nothing more about it. Except perhaps goodnight.

Eating art at Bergamot

2011-08-18T08:46:00.004-04:00

I love the fact that, at least in Boston, Restaurant Week is as much a week as Happy Hour is 60 minutes long. (Not that actual "Happy Hour" exists in Boston, but that's another story.)

So the 2011 Summer Restaurant Week happens over two weeks, which is a good thing, as a)there are so many restaurants to try and b)most of the time it takes me at least a week to get around to booking anything.

This week, as is often the case, we relied on the initiative of friends. DJ Huge was in town after a European tour, so we started with G&Ts on his patio and then went to dinner at Bergamot.

I've only been to Bergamot once before — also for Restaurant Week — and both times, I've come away thinking, "Why the heck don't we do this more often?"

Here's a sense of how awesome Bergamot is: While we were looking over the menu, our server brought out tiny amuse-gueles of cod and sriracha. Unfortunately, Huge is vegetarian and I, as you may recall, have the tastebuds of a newborn, so can't handle anything hotter than a scallion.

We both passed our plates to The Boy, who was, of course, delighted to take on the burden.

Our server, with genuine concern, asked what was wrong; when we explained, she went to the kitchen (against our protests that we were perfectly fine) and came out with a vegetarian version for Huge (with cucumber and garbanzos) and both the veggie version and a not-spicy cod version for me. How sweet is that?

My one (tiny) issue with Bergamot is that it's atmospheric; in other words, the lights are low. Which means it's hard to take good photos. Which is sad, because the food is so lovely that it deserves to be captured.

So this time I'm trying something a little different: I've 'Shopped the images with artistic filters, hiding the flaws in the photography while (I hope) retaining the beauty of the plates.

And so here's my impression of the cod amuse:

And the cucumber version:

And then appetizers; both Huge and I chose the heirloom tomato and peach salad with fennel and Thai basil. Every mouthful was summer. And the colors were stunning.

The Boy went for a simpler salad with kohlrabi, radish, and purslane, a vivid combination of bitter and sharp and bright — quite a contrast to the sweet fruitiness of the tomatoes and peaches.

And then entrées. For me, local cod with summer squash and fresh cranberry beans:

For The Boy, pork with escarole, about which he noted that it was the second time recently that he'd had pork and greens that were better than Redbones (the previous time was at Henrietta's):

And Huge went for potato gnocchi with tomatoes; as it was so Mediterranean, and as attempts to photograph it did not go well, I present it here in mosaic tile form:

And then dessert: stone fruit crisp with an oatmeal tuile and a goat-cheese crème:

and a moist and delicious carrot cake garnished with cream cheese and fresh carrot. So on average, it was healthy.

In all, a lovely evening. Now I just have to remember that Bergamot does exist between Restaurant Weeks.

Also, what do you think about the photos? Should I do more like this?

Invasion of the giant squash monsters

2011-08-13T13:36:00.004-04:00

Back in spring, we planted a small raised bed in the only part of the garden that gets any sun. We started tomatoes, basil and rainbow chard from scratch.

After a couple of weeks, we noticed a couple of volunteer zucchini plants had set up residence as well. You can see them at 12 o'clock and 6 o'clock in this image.

All to the good, we thought. We hadn't intended to do squash, but hey, if they wanted to hang out, they could stay.

And then, it seemed, we turned our backs for two minutes, and when we looked back, the zucchini had waged a full-on takeover.

We studiously cut back enough leaves to give the rest of the plants some light, but otherwise let nature take its course.

And then we saw the monsters.

Those were the first two. It's cool; we had uses for them. One went into zucchini bread (using the Wilson Farm cookbook recipe); one we stuffed with quinoa and other good things and then baked.

And then we found more.

And more.

We steamed them. We grilled them. We gave them away.

We made more zucchini bread.

(The four loaves above used two cups of shredded zucchini. Which amounted to half a squash. Getting through this stuff was slow work.)

Part of the problem was that zucchini are sneaky. You may not have realized this, but it's true. They hide under leaves; they camouflage themselves against other plants. They do not want to be found.

We took to checking the garden every morning for new arrivals, and still managed to overlook a prize specimen that must have been growing for at least two weeks before it was brought to justice.

But I think we might be done now. One plant looks to be on its way out, and the other has only a few male flowers left (the females are the ones that bear fruit).

And we completely missed the August 8 holiday Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night. Next year, maybe.

Henrietta's Table (Manners)

2011-08-07T13:48:00.008-04:00

Last night we ate at Henrietta's Table in Harvard Square. We've been there quite a few times; they do a great Sunday brunch buffet, and the regular menu involves comfort-food staples (roast chicken, pot roast) and local ingredients.

At my previous visit, for lunch with my friend Jean, she had a beautifully subtle chilled carrot and ginger soup, and I had a three-foot-high slice of the fluffiest quiche I've ever tasted.

Last night's visit started with salads. For The Boy, red oak leaf/fennel/Westfield Farm goat cheese/blackberry, flavors that sang together. Love the daring color scheme, too. Reminds me of my wardrobe.

For me, watermelon/arugula/feta, with grilled red onion and a pleasantly tart cranberry vinaigrette:

The cheese was lovely, and went salt-and-pepper with the arugula. But ... but. The watermelon was full of seeds, which wasn't cool; I spent too much time trying to spit them gracefully over The Boy's shoulder. And the salad greens included more than a few yellow-spotteds (you can just see one top-right in the above shot), which suggests someone wasn't paying close attention to what was going on the plate.

The mains were a good recovery, though. I went for striped bass with julienned Drumlin Farm cucumbers and — best invention evar — cheese-and-tomato mashed potato. Which, come fall comfort-food weather, I will crave fortnightly.

The Boy ordered smoked, roasted pork shoulder with pork sausage, beans and greens. It was a little too spicy for my still-baby tastebuds, but The Boy described it as "like Redbones, but fresher and better."

No problem there, right?

Well, not with the food. But yes with the fact that when our server initially took our order, which included cocktails and wine, he brought all the drinks out together.

So the wine sat and warmed up while we drank our martinis and ate the salad (a slight pause between gin and greens would have been nice, but hey). Apparently it didn't occur to the server that we didn't intend to double-fist our drinks. Sure, he didn't know we wanted the wine to go with our mains, but then again he didn't ask.

This isn't the first time I've felt that the service at Henrietta's Table is wonky. When Jean and I went for lunch, we were halfway through our apps when our entrées came out, leaving us to figure out whether to cram down the rest of one dish before the second got cold, or abandon the appetizer altogether.

Don't get me wrong; the servers aren't bad. They're friendly and positive and seem to be having a good time. So I don't know whether the issue is in the kitchen, or whether there's a breakdown in communication that means the staff isn't aware of who should be doing what.

I should go back a few more times to investigate. At least as long as they have strawberry-basil ice cream on the menu ...

Testing taste with a tasting at No. 9 Park

2011-07-24T19:49:00.004-04:00

The realization that my tastebuds were back was quickly trumped by the even better news that my post-treatment scans show no sign of cancer cells remaining.

I'm a little uncomfortable about using the phrase "cancer survivor" — I feel as though that title sits more appropriately with people who have seriously been through the medical wringer than with someone whose worst inconvenience was needing a turkey baster to eat soup — but please feel free to use it if you want.

To celebrate my all-clear, we went to No. 9 Park in Boston. It's where we went for lunch after my citizenship ceremony. A good place for momentous occasions.

And it seemed only fitting that we go for the tasting menu. So I think I can taste, huh? Time to make sure!

We ordered cocktails, and while we waited, they brought out what I guess you'd call amuse-foies: 2oz glasses of Philadelphia Fish House Punch (though I'm sure the version we had used apricot liqueur and brandy rather than the peach brandy mentioned here). It was a lovely summer drink: light and fruity without being overstated.

Then came the drinks we ordered: the perfectly balanced La Palabra (mezcal, Chartreuse, lime, Combier triple sec) for The Boy. For me, La Vie du Canard, which bravely tried Cynar and Cocchi (this year's St. Germain, apparently, as it's suddenly everywhere) with foie gras-infused bourbon.

The three spirits went well, and I'm a sucker for bitter drinks. But the intensity of flavors overwhelmed whatever the foie was supposed to do. Still, pretty.

And then on to the food, starting with a tender, Asian-style fluke crudo with miso and garlic,

followed by excellent monkfish with olives and intense fresh-roasted tomato,

and then dense, chewy wholewheat agnolotti stuffed with zucchini and topped with Pecorino Romano.

The tasting menu is seven courses, but we decided to add a couple more. Because we frickin' deserved it. Which is how we got to try both a creamy foie gras terrine that came with cherries, arugula and Vidalia onion:

and No. 9 Park's signature dish, the rich, sweet, decadent prune-stuffed gnocchi with more foie gras:

Next up: a tender piece of quail on a fried green tomato on ... something buttermilky, though I don't recall what. Good though.

And then a beautiful piece of ribeye with two accompaniments that were my favorite of the evening: a bright green, intensely flavored spring onion coulis and a fresh, summery corn cake.

You may have noticed that the light in the room was dimming during the course of the courses. By the time we reached the first dessert — a pool of tart, red, plum soup with bright, gingery tapioca — there wasn't a lot of ambient light for photos.

I did my best with the evening's last dish, a fabulous yogurt panna cotta with fennel ice cream and fresh berries, but the image is a pale (or at least dim) representation of the dish, which brought together creamy and crunchy, mint and berry, anis and sugar, and made them sing.

At least I know one thing for sure: If I can taste the tastes in a tasting menu, I can taste any tastes anywhere.

But I'll keep testing. Just to make sure.

Eating dessert first

2011-07-10T13:14:00.004-04:00

Life has returned to normal, or as close as it's possible to get. I'm back at work and mostly fine, although I'm pretty tired by the end of the day and have occasional spacey moments. It's going to take a while to get back to my former level of energy.

The many weeks of radiation have left my skin at heightened risk for sun damage (and worse), so I cover my face in SPF 45 and wear a hat everywhere. I guess that if I have to take on any kind of accessory by medical decree, there are worse things than starting a hat collection.

And best of all, my taste buds are (mostly) returned — though they're sensitive, so anything even remotely spicy is intensified, and I still don't have salivary glands, so dry foods (bread, crackers, nuts) can be a challenge. I don't know how long it will take for them to be back to full power, in part because I can't tell how far off they are now.

I'm certainly able to distinguish subtleties of flavor — strawberry notes in a glass of rosé; the grassy background of hummus made with fresh garbanzos; the play of sweet and salty (yes!) in a piece of buttered toast with honey — but I don't know whether there is more sensation yet to return, or whether this is as good as it gets. If so, it's still pretty good.

Yesterday I had plenty of opportunity to test out the taste buds, beginning with an afternoon snack (understatement of the year) with my cousin Andrea, whom I hadn't seen in 30 years (thirty! Years!). She was in town from Singapore visiting her friend Paula, so we introduced them to the dessert menu at Brasserie Jo.

First, there were bubbles. Pink bubbles, in the form of a Crémant de Bourgogne rosé.

And then sweeties. For Andrea, a summery lemon tart.

For Paula, crêpes Suzette (though they were not flambéed at the table, as we had hoped).

The Boy had an unfeasibly large crêpe that enshrouded what appeared to be an entire bunch of bananas with caramel and ice cream. I meant to take a picture but was distracted, understandably, by profiteroles.

Wait — it gets better.

Jug o' chocolate. They pour until you tell them to stop.

We had a great time; thirty years means there's a lot to catch up on. And then we hugged and promised not to leave it so long next time, and The Boy and I headed out to ... um ... dinner.

Okay, not immediately; first there was wandering in Copley and strolling through the library and sauntering into the South End. By the time we reached Estragon, we were just about ready for more.

Here's what you should know: Estragon has some lovely cocktails at the moment. The Boy had a Scarlet Ibis, which held bourbon, Aperol, lemon and orange-blossom water. I went for the Silent Order: green Chartreuse, lime and basil, fragrant and fresh with an edge of herbal depth. This was one of those times I was so glad I had taste buds again.

And then a few nibbles, starting with chickpea crack (of course).

Then boquerones with manchego and tomato. The tom was kinda flavorless (and I even took a perverse joy in recognizing that fact) but the anchovy was salty and the cheese was creamy and that's all that matters.

And then the special: lamb sweetbreads, deep and earthy and tender.

What's all the white stuff, you ask? That would be garlic. Garlicgarlicgarlic. Oh yeah baby.

Then thick morcilla on toast, topped with sweet roasted red peppers:

And finally some vegetables, because we like to be healthy. Sure, the Brussels sprouts were roasted and loaded with chorizo, but what do you expect?

None of these were enormous plates, but by the end we were decidedly full. And when the server asked if we wanted dessert, what could we say? That's where we started!

Gray days, blue berries

2011-06-24T10:02:00.007-04:00

It's the last day of our vacation in Gloucester, where we've been renting a house on the Annisquam River. The week has been perfect — fresh air, long walks, kayaking, and peaceful stretches where the silence is broken only by birdsong and the sound of a cormorant's wings hitting the water as it takes off.

(Full disclosure: as I write this, however, there are buzzsaw noises and salty language from across the street, where contractors are building a McMansion for a speculator who apparently razed a nice wooded lot for the purpose. Good luck selling that, jerkfaces!)

The week started off hot and sunny, but around Wednesday afternoon gray clouds rolled in, and it has been foggy and wet, alternating between drizzle and torrential, ever since. But heck, we're on vacation, and I'm English, so we've still been sitting out on the porch in rocking chairs, staring out across the water. The river is tidal, so the view changes every few hours.

Just so you know it's not always so gray, here's a sunset from earlier in the week:

When the breeze picks up and drives us back indoors, we retreat to the kitchen, of course. The house has been in the same family for at least three generations, and the cooking equipment reflects the passage of time. I love these cabinets.

One section of the countertop is metal; I don't know whether this was common at one point, and whether the purpose was to provide a place for hot dishes or a colder surface for rolling out pastry. Any thoughts?

This is a family that likes to cook, if the preponderance of baking tools and recipe books is any indication. The best discovery was the box of handwritten recipe cards, including annotations and comments.

Blueberries feature in many of the recipes. As we'd just bought a pint, and needed a reminder that it was actually summer, rain notwithstanding, we decided to try a blueberry cobbler adapted from this recipe. The berries are briefly boiled with sugar and lemon juice before being poured into the baking dish on top of the batter.

Before:

After:

The fruit was intense, the cake acted like a sponge for the juice, and the leftovers made a lovely breakfast.

I also wrote down the family's recipe for blueberry slump, in which the batter is dropped onto hot fruit and steamed like dumplings. I'll be making that when we get home.

It's good to have vacation mementoes you can eat.

Art, or metaphor, or something

2011-06-22T18:34:00.009-04:00

When I started radiation treatment, they made a custom mask to keep my head still (so the "lasers" only hit the parts of my valuable real estate that they were supposed to). I asked whether I'd be able to take the mask home when I finished treatment, and they said yes.

This is what I did with it.

Note my lovely helper.

First we shredded paper, and added it to a flour-water glue (I used this recipe).

The first layer:

After three layers:

And now to paint! First, a coat of gesso and a background of white. And then the fun stuff.

The finished product, painted during a perfect, rainy afternoon in Gloucester, listening to birdsong and watching the river.

It turned into a cross between a Mexican wrestler mask and a superhero motif, which I guess is vaguely relevant.

The "POW!" is part-asskick and part-reference to my oncologist's observation that the only other patient he'd known with an attitude as positive as mine was a guy who'd had military training in Prisoner of War eventualities. Which says something about me, though I'm not entirely sure what.

The gold heart is where the Lump appeared.

The purple circles on the green background mark time; my treatment lasted 114 days, and each dot represents a three-day period. There are seven partitions around the top of my head for the seven weeks of radiation. (That's about as symbolic as I could get; the rest are just colors and patterns I thought were pretty.)

I've left one section blank white. I go for final CAT scans in two weeks, and after that I'll find out whether we caught all the rebellious cells, so I'm not completely finished yet. And there'll be at least a year of regular checkups, so I'm not going to declare victory until I'm completely confident.

For now, though, this is good.

They're coming baaaack ...

2011-06-20T08:24:00.005-04:00

After weeks (or possibly months; I'm losing track of time) of everything tasting like beige cardboard, I've started saying things like this:

"Wow, it was a good idea to add a little cumin to the guacamole."

"Did they just throw a KFC spice pack onto this chicken?"

"I love when pork sausage has fennel in it."

Yes, please welcome my brand new baby taste buds to the world.

They're not all the way back yet, though, and sometimes I get fooled. Like the other day when I ordered an iced chai latte at Starbucks, and exclaimed delightedly to The Boy that I could taste sweet things again. He took a sip and winced (this from someone who likes Vietnamese coffee loaded with condensed milk).

"No," he said, "you don't have your sweet buds back yet; this is just an obscenely sweet drink. If you could actually taste it, you'd hate it."

Turns out the iced chai latte has 31 grams of sugar (the recommended daily allowance for women is 25g). A dead elephant would have been able to detect sweetness in that one.

I'm particularly happy that I'm getting my tastes back in summer, when there are so many good things to eat. After a winter of bean and root vegetable soups, and a spring in which I missed out on ramps and fiddleheads and shad roe, it's great to be close to a point where I can enjoy ripe peaches and tart cherries and sweet tomatoes.

The other day, we harvested our strawberries. Okay, it was only one tiny berry; the other 50% of the crop — that is, the only other berry — was nabbed by a bird. But that thumbnail-sized fruit was pretty much the best thing I'd tasted all year.

Needs more salt/sugar

2011-06-04T17:12:00.007-04:00

I haven't posted in a while because, it seemed, there wasn't much to report. But that's not actually true.

My skin has healed up, and there's now just a heightened redness on my cheek to show where the radiation was focused. (Oddly, I've also lost some sensation on my face; I can feel my hand on my chin, but not the detail of my cat's fur).

My mouth is still pretty dry, and I carry a water bottle everywhere, a little obsessively, which makes me feel like Linus with his security blanket.

I'm tired, but less so each day, and I'm finding small projects around the house and in the garden to keep me active.

But on to important matters: how are the taste buds?

They're still mostly sleeping, it seems, but waking gradually. I'm more aware of certain flavors, though they're still dim, as if they're in the next room.

Sweet and salty stil do not register at all. I can sprinkle sugar right on my tongue and get nothing but the feel of the crystals as they slowly dissolve (very slowly, given my lack of saliva).

And I remembered something a friend said after he had finished cancer treatment and was just getting his taste buds back: that he could taste something and recognize it — oh, that's chocolate — but the recognition was not enough to make him crave a second bite.

At the time, I only understood what he meant in theory. Now I'm entering that stage, it makes much more sense. And I realize how much our enjoyment of food is related to how sweet or salty it is.

So I've been trying different foods to see what registers: a bite of cheese here, a strawberry there. Yesterday I tried a salted cashew. I definitely got a (dim) nutty flavor, but of course no salt. And unsalted nuts are just not as tasty as salted.

I also had coffee with a friend, and tasted a little of her slice of chocolate cake. Yes, there was a hint of chocolate, but without the pull of sweetness that fills the mouth and draws you back to the plate for another forkful.

(My oncologist has predicted that it could take four months — four! Months! — before I can completely taste chocolate again. I hope to prove him wrong.)

It's more than just the simple on/off of sweet or not. Flavors are one-dimensional, devoid of detail or subtlety. Load something with fresh herbs if you wish, or create a complex marinade, but don't expect me to react with more than, "Is this chicken? I think it's chicken."

None of this has dampened my interest in food, thankfully, or my desire to cook and eat. Next week I'm trying out an apple-maple-bacon cake for The Boy's birthday; I'm also waiting for a chance to try out these beautiful Chinese tea eggs.

And I just have to keep reminding myself that this is a temporary state. One day, I'm sure, I'll be halfway through eating something and suddenly realize I can taste everything.

My muted tongue

2011-05-21T18:31:00.005-04:00

So here I am, a week and a bit out of treatment. As predicted, my skin has healed remarkably fast, and now I'm only waiting for a small area on my cheek to clear up. My salivary glands, which had taken a hit and started producing excessive mucus instead of saliva, are mostly back to normal, though my mouth still gets dry if I don't drink water regularly.

And while I was quite fatigued on the last day of radiation (a fact I only learned when I wore myself out baking cookies as a thank-you for my technicians), I'm getting much better.

But I still have no taste.

Okay, not entirely true: I've discovered that I can identify coconut, so avocado-coconut smoothies are my new friend. I can also taste the sweetness in turnip, which was in my soup last week. And I can detect lemon (I added some zest to an asparagus soup today), though it has an odd metallic edge.

But sugar just feels like granules in my mouth, and chocolate might as well not exist.

On top of the taste issue is the fact that my dry mouth makes it difficult to eat anything that's not already moistened. Cereal in milk is okay; bread is not.

So I'm in this strange position of craving certain foods — cheese, toast, roast chicken, oatmeal raisin cookies — but at the same time not wanting to eat them, because doing so would be frustrating.

A couple of weeks ago, The Boy brought home tres leches cake, which I love. (And it was a good idea, because it's a pretty moist treat.) But because I couldn't taste it at all, it just made me sad.

Being able to see delicious food — and perhaps worse, being able to smell it — is like watching your favorite music video with the mute button on. You get the visual, so some of the pleasure is there, but there's such a large part missing. And you can hear in your head how it's supposed to sound, but that's not the same as actually listening.

I'm trying to be patient, but I really want someone to hurry and turn up the volume.

Aaaand ... we're done

2011-05-11T15:50:00.004-04:00

That's it. Treatment is finished. We're done.

The last session was quite the event. In the waiting room, I was approached by a patient I'd seen a few times — she's memorable because she puts on a bright blue silk robe while waiting for treatment, rather than the sad hospital gown that everyone else wears — who gave me a canister of Republic of Tea Get Wellness blend because she's doing this 29 Gifts challenge.

She didn't realize it was my last day; it was just coincidence that I was her recipient today.

And then I went to be strapped to the table for the last time, and listened to the Pixies, and at the end Liz came in wearing a graduation mortar, and she and Sid presented me with a certificate and a pin. Plus I got to keep my mask.

I had a great team of technicians: young and cheerful and spirited. It was always fun to be in the room with them.

Celebration time? The gift-giving woman said she was going to do vodka shots after her last session. That doesn't work for me: my mouth is too banged up to handle alcohol at the moment. But I'm looking forward to some quiet recuperation, healing, and getting my tastebuds back.

And then all bets are off.

Oh, for something crunchy!

2011-05-07T11:07:00.004-04:00

Okay, final stretch: Three more treatments to go. The plan is to finish on Wednesday, but that may change.

I'm not pretty right now. The left side of my face is ... icky. Blistered and cracked and red and scabby, with occasional pustulence. Requires daily soaking in an astringent solution and then liberal application of petroleum jelly.

And when I go in for radiation, and they fit the mask over my face (which is also swollen, so the custom fit is a little tighter than it was), the wounds start to bleed, and I spend the 15 minutes of treatment feeling blood trickle down the side of my face and onto my neck.

I must have looked especially gory on Friday, because the technician made a note to check with my radiation oncologist to see whether we should take a break until my skin has healed a little. I do not want. I've been focusing on the finish line for seven weeks now. I want to end on time.

Happily, pretty much everyone I've talked to at MGH has said that the skin will heal quickly; apparently it's almost miraculous how fast it happens.

In eating news, there's nothing new to report. I still have no tastebuds, and I'm still on semi-solids. An average day's menu looks like this:

Breakfast
Fresh fruit smoothie
Weetabix, sogged to pablum with milk and yogurt

Midmorning snack
Odwalla protein shake

Lunch
Scrambled eggs

Afternoon snack
The Boy's milkshake of the day (could involve ice cream, yogurt, almond butter, maple syrup, banana, avocado, coconut milk)

Dinner
Soup

The other night I dreamed I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich that looked like this:

In my dream, I thought, "Oh cool! I'm using my whole mouth again! Yay!"

And then I woke up.

It doesn't matter, they all taste the same

2011-04-24T15:57:00.007-04:00

Counting down to the end of radiation treatment: 13 sessions to go. That means two more weeks of Mon-Fri, plus three days. Ohai light, I see you at the end of the tunnel!

And things are going more or less fine. I'm still able to eat semi-solid food (carefully, using a teeny espresso spoon, chewing on one side only) and my weight hasn't changed. My team is keeping watch on my red blood cell count — if it drops below 30 somethings, standard practice is a blood transfusion — but at least this week the number went up.

I had my third acupuncture session this week: needles in two points on my ankle (for the spleen), two in my hand (for dry mouth), one in my stomach (general well-being), one in the bridge of my nose (emotional balance) and one in the very top of my head (no idea). I can't tell whether it makes a difference, because I have no 'puncture-free experience to measure against. But I'll do a couple more sessions just in case. Can't hurt, right?

And I still have no taste buds. Or more correctly, I have even less taste sensation than last week. And somehow my brain hasn't quite caught on to this fact yet.

Example: I was hungry after treatment on Thursday, so we went to the main cafeteria at MGH. It's like a food court, with areas for salads, pizza, soups, and an ice cream bar doing scoops, banana splits, frappes, etc. Perfect.

As we were standing in line, waiting for our turn, I checked out the ice cream flavors. Hmm, what do I want? Coffee, chocolate, strawberry? Peanut butter — ew, no! Ooh, raspberry ripple. Yes.

And then of course I got my frappe and took a sip and remembered that it doesn't matter what flavor I choose, because they all taste the same: neutral.

Later, we went to the grocery store to stock up on Odwalla protein shakes (because they're quick and easy and go a long way towards my daily protein intake). I grabbed a couple of each flavor so I wouldn't get bored of the same thing every time — again, as though option A would taste any different than option B.

Something else I've noticed: I don't remember what things taste like.

If I try and imagine the taste of, say, chocolate, or cherries, or cheese, I come up empty. I can remember how it feels to enjoy the flavors on a more emotional level, but it's as though someone has gone through my mind with a black marker and redacted the sensation. I can understand the concept of flavor intellectually, but not practically.

I can still smell, of course. The Boy has a chicken stew going right now, and the house is fragrant with bacon and onions. He'll cook it until everything falls apart, and then he'll let it sit for a day so all the flavors come together.

And while I know that, from my perspective, that doesn't make a difference, I'm still looking forward to eating it.

Tasteless

2011-04-15T17:52:00.005-04:00

I'm almost at the halfway mark in my radiation treatment: 17 sessions down, 18 to go.

The sessions themselves aren't too bad — I show up, choose some music (they have Grooveshark set up so people can listen to whatever they want) and then lay down so that the technicians can fit my customized mask over my face and secure it to the table. Then I stay perfectly still and focus on the music while an enormous machine rotates around my head, zapping me with high-intensity beams from different angles.

And then it's over and I go home and wait to do it again the next day.

That's not all, of course. On Tuesdays I also meet with my doctor; on Wednesdays I get chemo; on Fridays I've been getting acupuncture as well. My days revolve around getting ready for hospital, traveling to the hospital, waiting in the hospital, being poked with needles/pumped with drugs/zapped with lasers, and traveling home again. Busy busy.

For the most part, luckily, my eating habits have not been disrupted. Or at least not until this week, when mucositis stopped by for a chat and decided to stay. Unable to chew food without pain, suddenly I was back to a diet of soups, Odwalla shakes, and anything that would surrender to my hand-blender.

How I love that blender; it turned leftover bolognese sauce into a rich beef soup (with a good dollop of Greek yogurt). It whizzed a spring risotto into something we decided would make a great party dip. It transformed mashed potato into velvety pommes purées (I suspect the 4:1 potato/butter ratio may have helped a little — hey, doctor says I need calories!).

But something else is happening at the same time: I'm losing my sense of taste.

I knew this was a likely (if not inevitable) side effect of the radiation, but I didn't have a sense of when it would happen or how long it would take.

One morning, as I was slicing up banana for our breakfast smoothie, I popped a piece in my mouth. It tasted ... as though the banana was in the next room.

Later I had pasta, and couldn't detect any flavor (though the pesto with it was as bright as ever).

Roasted cod I tasted, though dimly, especially in contrast to the accompanying black olives.

But cheese is gone. Gone. I tried some Borough Market cheddar — which is pretty strong — and it was just texture, nothing more.

HOW CAN I NOT TASTE CHEESE????

By this morning, the mucositis had subsided to the extent that I was ready for something non-liquidized for lunch. I fried some of the leftover pureed potato in olive oil and made a hole in the middle of the potato mass in the pan. Then I dropped in a pat of butter and threw in an egg. Then I covered the whole thing in parmesan and put it under the broiler to finish. It smelled great.

I was halfway through eating it (small, careful bites) when I realized that I could hardly taste it. There was plenty of mouthfeel: the creamy potatoes, the rich egg yolk, the crunchy extra-fried bits. But not much else.

I went to the kitchen, got the salt grinder, cranked a little onto a mound of potato. Mm .. nope, nothing. Maybe more salt? Nuh-uh.

How about just eating salt by itself? Apply crystals directly to tongue: nada.

Naturally, I did what any self-respecting modern gal would do: I posted this news as my Facebook status. I got a quick response from former coworker (and host of the fabulous 60 Second Recap) Jenny, who asked, "What about umami?"

So I reached for the Heinz ketchup, because it covers all the taste bases. As Malcolm Gladwell writes in The Ketchup Conundrum (a great read in general):

"The taste of Heinz's ketchup began at the tip of the tongue, where our receptors for sweet and salty first appear, moved along the sides, where sour notes seem the strongest, then hit the back of the tongue, for umami and bitter, in one long crescendo. How many things in the supermarket run the sensory spectrum like this?"

But I didn't get the crescendo. I got:

Sad Trombone

A thin shiver of vinegar; a shadow of sweetness. That's about it.

But my taste hasn't completely gone, at least not yet. I can still tell when something is chocolate, and berries are more or less berries.

And in general, I'm hopeful that the other senses will step up and take over. I'm planning on using a lot of fresh herbs and aromatics, and on making sure (at least when I can chew) there's a good variety of texture in my meals.

Right now I hear The Boy wielding the trusty hand blender. He's roasted some butternut squash and whizzed it into soup for dinner.

I have no idea whether I'll be able to taste it, but boy does it smell good.

The last ONCE of Winter (the last meal for me?)

2011-04-02T18:15:00.003-04:00

When I started cancer treatment, I knew I might reach a point at which eating would be at best unpleasant and at worst impossible. Once treatment is over, there will still be a chunk of time before my tastebuds returned (and some tastes may change completely).

Result: I have to assume that any really good meal could be my last, and therefore all opportunities for really good meals should be pounced upon and devoured.

Which is how I ended up claiming (in pathetic tones), "This might be the last chance I have to eat well" at the Bloc 11 pop-up, Journeyman and Craigie on Main. And then going out and eating, happily, elsewhere.

Okay, but this time I'm serious. I just finished seven of 35 radiation treatments, and already feel sore-throated and dry-mouthed. And it's going to get worse before it gets better.

So I was delighted that I was still in good shape for The Last ONCE of Winter, another of JJ Gonson's wild rides into local, seasonal dining. This ten-course extravaganza was slated to include some of the dishes featured at Valhalla, which I missed.

(Read about previous adventures with Cuisine en Locale's One Night Culinary Events.)

We trudged through a late (and quite unnecessary) snow shower and arrived to a table of glistening oysters. Which I can't eat right now — boo!

But they were being shucked by the lovely Trevor, who first introduced me to JJ and also to the fab Five Corners Kitchen in Marblehead — yaay!

As usual, the menu for the evening was upon the blackboard with extra notes. Don't worry if you can't read it; I'll walk you through.

First up, some lovely lamb from Stillman's Farm, with sweet roasted beets and a yogurt sauce (the note says, "It's a sheep/goat's milk mix! It's so good and you can get it in Belmont!").

Next, mussels in a bourride broth of garlic, tomatoes, wine and beer. I wasn't sure whether I should eat the mussels, given my allegedly compromised immune system. But they smelled so frickin' good that I couldn't just let them sit there.

From bourride we moved on to bunny, braised in tomatillos, fall-apart tender, and combined with Baer's beans. If dried beans are better than canned, Baer's are better dried beans than most dried beans. This was a perfect winter dish.

And then: ribs! Juicy Stillman's pork, marinated in apple cider, served with purple potatoes. Take a moment to admire the fat.

And take another moment to admire some of the chefs working on the ribs.

Next: porridge, cheese and onion flavor. For realsies. This was apparently a big hit at Valhalla. It's hard to describe, so I'll let the Lovely Locavore Ladies take care of the details.

And then a lovely piece of beef brisket with pureed root veggies (heavy on sweet parsnips) and pickled beets that carried a hint of fennel.

Next up, fishcakes. I'm not entirely sure why the menu ran this way — from oysters to lamb to beef to fish, rather than starting light and ending rich and heavy — but after so much big meat, the fish worked well. On top of which, I'm a sucker for fishcakes.

These came with young greens and flowers from NorthStar Farm in Westport that had been picked and driven into Somerville, through the snow, just for us to eat.

By this time, eight courses in, we were all flagging. The room was warm (how warm? I had to take off my hair) and the hour was late. And yet somehow, JJ managed to get us to take a (belated) seventh-inning stretch. I'm disappointed that my camera failed me for once, as I was sure I'd captured video of 40-some people singing "Sweet Caroline" while JJ danced wildly in the kitchen.

You'll just have to take my word for it.

Next came a sorbet to cleanse the palate, featuring last year's peaches. There was a little too much Pernod (or some other anis liqueur) for my taste; I'd have preferred to get a clearer promise of summer flavor. But perhaps that was the point. We're still too far from peach season. For now we just get a cloudy hint of what's to come.

And finally, a lovely selection of cheeses. Before:

After (or perhaps, before demolition):

By this point I was fading, so remember only that there was Bayley Hazen Blue from Jasper Hill, plus a fabulous, nutty 10-year-old Gouda, and some others whose names I don't recall but made me think of Yma Dream.

The next day, when I went for my radiation treatment, the technician asked, "How's your appetite? Any loss of tastebuds?"

I just smiled.

Huge thanks to JJ and her pirate crew!

And congrats to Janna for attending her tenth ONCE!

Another last supper: Craigie on Main

2011-03-28T17:39:00.005-04:00

Still got a few good meals in me, it seems, and I'm making the most of it. Which meant a trip last weekend to Craigie on Main, where we had:

The ridiculously good grilled octopus. I don't know how they get such an incredible texture; forget everything you thought you knew about tentacles.

A lovely little cake of fromage de tête with a duck's egg. Here's the before and after (or at least during).

Then The Boy had chicken-sausage-stuffed chicken. The bird was brined, juicy and delicious.

And I went for the lamb three ways: a sweet, fatty piece of slow-cooked neck, a grilled tongue, and a very nice heart sausage that was light in texture but deep with flavor.

And then dessert — no, wait, first a sorbet of grapefruit and Campari topped with champagne foam. Palate: cleansed.

And then dessert: for The Boy, a just-tart-enough sour milk panna cotta with a nutty, spicy granola and cherry puree. Meanwhile, my pork-dar stopped at the bourbon-pecan ice cream pie, whose crust contained bacony goodness.

And then we were done — no, wait, first there was cardamon-ancho chile hot chocolate, smooth and spicy and warming.

And then a tiny, perfect, lemon-filled macaron.

In other news, I've gained back the weight I lost when I started chemo and have added another four pounds. Coincidence?

Next step: radiation and related suckiness

2011-03-22T17:33:00.007-04:00

What has happened so far: I'm done with the three rounds of induction chemo. Apart from a handful of bad days where I couldn't eat solid food, and some other minor side effects (hair loss, slight ringing in the ears, a constantly runny nose — somehow I didn't realize my nose hairs would fall out — minor fatigue), it was surprisingly easy.

So now it's on to Stage Two. Thirty-five sessions of radiation, five days a week for seven weeks. Oh, with a weekly chemo session thrown in, but at least that's just one drug (Carboplatin, for those keeping track).

Because they're zapping radiation into my face, which is pretty much prime real estate, I have to wear a custom-built plastic mask to hold my head completely still. I'll look a lot like this (though obvy without the chest hair. As far as you know).

The mask is constricting but not uncomfortable, and I don't have issues with claustrophobia. I just close my eyes and breathe and try to relax. Oh, and apparently I get to take it home at the end of treatment. Some people make them into art projects; one guy uses it as an ice mold to float in a punch bowl at parties. The possibilities are endless!

For the first couple of weeks, I won't notice much in the way of side effects.

And then ... things will start to go downhill. The combination of the chemo and the rays will start to blast out my taste buds (which will make things taste strange and then make things not taste at all), and I'll lose my appetite. Then I'll lose my salivary glands, which will instead start to weep mucus (frickin' A!) that I'll have to spit out every few minutes.

Eventually, it seems, the inside of my mouth and throat will be so raw that eating will be extremely painful. And I'll have no appetite and no energy, so I won't want to eat anyway.

At this point, the Thing To Do is get a tube fitted in my stomach, through which I can deliver specialized liquid nutrition directly. Bypassing the middle man, so to speak.

However. It is my absolute goal not to have to do this. I can't quite explain why, apart from On General Principle. I eat. I write about eating. So as long as I can hold out — as long as the pain is bearable and I have the willpower — I'll do my damndest to keep my weight up, get my RDA of calories and nutrition, the way humans are supposed to, and avoid the tube.

One thing that will help, I think, is acupuncture. I did a couple of short sessions during chemo, and the last round of mucositis, which I expected to be most severe, was the most manageable of the three. I take this as a sign that I should do more.

Once the seven weeks are up, it can take another few weeks before things slowly start to improve, and around eight weeks before things are more or less back to normal.

Taste buds can take up to a year to come back fully; some tastes may be permanently altered. So that will be ... interesting.

I'm going to keep writing about as much of it all as I can. But there may be chunks of time when I don't post much. Don't worry; I'll be back.

Lunch at Summer Winter

2011-03-21T09:35:00.008-04:00

For my second winter Restaurant Week lunch, I went with my friend Jean to Summer Winter, which is in a Marriott in Burlington.

That's right: lunch at a chain hotel in the 'burbs.

But I had high expectations; Jean, who loves food as much as I do, had been there before and reported back positively, so I knew it would be good.

Even when we arrived to find a Compaq seminar in full swing at the hotel.

Even when we passed the fauxing "Irish" pub, decked out in faith-and-begorrah cartoon kitsch.

Even when the room next door seemed to be hosting a Charles Schwab-sponsored buffet.

The entrance to Summer Winter is warm wood and textured stone, which kind of evokes Tuscany or perhaps Napa.

It's a big space, with a long bar with lounge area, a small oyster bar and a few dining tables on one level, and a lower level with even more tables. There's also an outside patio with a greenhouse, where they grow herbs and veggies all year round to use in the kitchen.

Given the backgrounds of Summer Winter's two chefs, one of whom spent time in Beijing, I expected a diverse and adventurous menu.

But both the Restaurant Week and regular lunch menus focused on yer usual New England lunch favorites: soup, salads, sandwiches. Lobster roll with french fries. Cheeseburger with french fries. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Crab cakes; clam chowder; chopped salad.

Jean said, "We should get the strange-flavored eggplant."

Was she kidding? Nope, there it was on the menu. So we did.

Oh boy. The flavor wasn't so much strange as awesome. But I guess if they called it "awesome-flavored eggplant" it would seem to be over-promising.

It was soy sauce and ginger and brown sugar and red pepper and lime; it hit every kind of taste bud and made them all smile.

Jean ordered the cod burger (with french fries). It looked exactly like every burger everywhere.

But the fries were surprisingly good — crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy inside — and they were still good cold; they didn't dry out or lose texture.

The burger was more like a traditional fish cake, with the cod combined with mashed potato; good comfort food.

I had a tempura haddock curry, which came in a nice plating with peanuts, pickled veggies, and fried shallots.

The curry was light and sweet and coconutty; the fish was fresh, and it was fun to try different taste combinations (nuts and curry! Shallots and fish! Fish and strange-tasting eggplant!)

And then we had to have dessert, of course. Of course.

My lemon tart was bright and zesty, and came with the added bonus of a brulée-like sugar crust.

Jean went for the blueberry upside-down cake, which had a fabulous topping of sugar and fruit and a lovely, light hint of lemon.

Summer Winter is an interesting place; its menus seem aimed at the diner who is more comfortable with recognizable dishes. Dinner is much like lunch, with the addition of the usual suspects: filet mignon and steamed lobster and roast chicken.

But there's a level of creativity and skill that isn't always found at steak houses and other (shudder) "fine dining" places. It's a definite step up from the nearest decent restaurant, Legal Sea Foods, and I'd choose Summer Winter over Legals from now on, given the option.

Even if just for more of the blueberry cake.

Lunch at L'Espalier; Restaurant Week 2011

2011-03-15T13:31:00.003-04:00

There are some things so important that nothing, not even cancer, can stop them.

Example: the tradition of Restaurant Week lunch at L'Espalier with Lovely Co-Worker Sarah.

This was our fourth trip (here are one, two and three) and we got lucky. Not only because Restaurant Week coincided with my Good (i.e. Eat! Eat!) Week, but also because, though it initially seemed we'd left it too late to get a reservation, LC Sarah was diligently monitoring the situation; as soon as she noticed a table had become available, she pounced.

Usually we order different things so we can try each other's food; this year it wasn't as easy, as there were a lot of seafood items. Sarah is allergic to fish and I'm staying away from anything that might mess with my weakened immune system (I know, I'm probably safe at L'Espalier, but I'm not taking any risks).

So the mussels with garam masala and cashew-curry sauce were out, as was the lobster BLT with avocado butter.

Not that we suffered, of course. First, a goat cheese curd salad with rhubarb. The curd, which I hadn't tried before, has a texture much like flan: light, almost custardy, with more of a tang than regular goat cheese. I'd definitely look for it again.

In this dish, it balanced nicely with the bite of the rhubarb, the cabernet sauvignon vinaigrette, and the deep, salty Kalamata olives.

Sarah said, "It's like Lily Pulitzer on a plate." It was certainly the preppiest salad I've ever had.

Next, we both went for the short ribs.

Side note: Two breaks from tradition here. One is that Sarah did not get the burger, as she has done the previous three times we've done Restaurant Week lunch at L'Espalier. The other is that the burger is now part of the Restaurant Week menu, rather than being a regular-menu item. (It's also $10 extra.)

Anyway. Short ribs.

Below the meat, a swirl of sweet, creamy parsnip purée; above, some kind of fried, crunchy deliciousness; to the side, more sweetness in roasted red onions and barely cooked carrots.

(As we were leaving, we heard a women remark to the hostess that "the short ribs were a little dry." She was evidently insane.)

We were able to diversify on the dessert options. As usual, there was something involving exotic fruit, fluffiness, and lychee: buttermilk panna cotta with guava-cream cheese mousse.

The little black beads? Chocolate-covered rice. Genius.

And something chocolatey: a dark-choc cake topped with caramel, with a pool of intensely flavored blood-orange gel to the side.

In my last post, I gave thanks for friends who bring food. I'm also extremely grateful to friends who say, "Cancer schmancer — let's go eat!"

So Sarah, thanks for keeping up tradition, and let's plan ahead; by the time the next Restaurant Week rolls around, I'll be back to my full eating potential.

Friends who have food

2011-03-12T17:18:00.003-05:00

When a friend of mine was going through cancer treatment, he told me, "When you have cancer, you really learn who your friends are ... who have pot." Apparently his diagnosis prompted various acquaintances to suddenly offer him herbal remedies.

In my case, my friends know my body is a temple (this is always funnier when said while holding a martini) so instead of offering drugs, they tend to my needs with food.

Here are a few of the lovely things that have arrived in the past couple of months:

From Eric and Nicki, an insane amount of homemade ice cream and frozen yogurt. Best flavors are the roasted banana, the anise, and the coffee. But frankly they're all delicious, as is evident by the fact that I ate most of them before I remembered to take a photo.

From Mary D., a deeply decadent Nutella-chocolate torte, topped with — get this — white-chocolate-dipped hazelnuts. Oh yeah.

(Also Italian custard, rice pudding, and a vanilla pound cake of extreme awesomeness):

From Amy, some fabulous truffles with a nice crisp chocolate coating and a buttery interior:

From Mike, a thick Middle Eastern yogurt drizzled with olive oil and a fresh, bright baba ganoush:

From Robbin, a selection of goodies from the Chefs Cooking for Hope fundraiser, including addictive candied lemon slices:

and this:

Maple. Bacon. Cotton. Candy. Smoky and sweet as it melts on the tongue.

From my cousin Deborah, a Harry & David hamper — Moose Munch FTW!

From my dear mother-in-law, Puerto Rican comfort foods and some colorful candy:

And then there were all the lovely non-food gifts I've had: books and hats and flowers and toys and jewelry, not to mention the much-needed emotional support in the shape of emails, cards and phone calls, or the visits from friends that lift my spirits and make me feel normal.

I said it before about The Boy and I'll say it again about my amazing friends and family: I am a very, very lucky girl.

Being (almost) normal in NYC

2011-03-03T10:32:00.004-05:00

We always try to do something special for our anniversary, and this year it felt particularly important to celebrate. So we headed to New York City for eating, shopping, eating, museum-ing, eating, and walking. And eating.

The big caveat was that I was supposed to avoid crowds, sniffly kids, and any risk of exposure to colds, germs, and general infection. I've been fantastically lucky so far in terms of staying healthy throughout treatment, but a nasty flu would be tough on my immune system. So we were more observant about our surroundings that usual, but otherwise took no strict precautions.

We always visit MoMA. This time, there was a good exhibit on the design of the modern kitchen and the movement to more efficient use of space. Among the articles on display was something I recognized from my childhood:

I have a strong memory of drinking ice-cold milk out of these Tupperware beakers.

There was also an installation by George Maciunas, displaying the packaging from all his food consumption during one year in the '70s. His diet seemed to consist of imitation rum, powdered egg nog, and some 200 cans of lemonade.

Yep, that's healthy.

(Having said that, I was quite taken with this poster and was happy to find the related postcard in the gift store:)

Healthy and Good with Butter!

And then, of course, it was time to eat in the MoMA Cafe. The Boy had a salad with arugula, paper-thin bresaola and Humboldt Fog cheese (which, due to my no-blue-cheese restriction, I could only stare at, wistfully).

Mindful of my nutritionist's advice to pile on the protein, I went for a trio of bruschetta: tuna with olives; lemon hummus with prosciutto; white-bean puree with roasted root veggies.

Dinner that evening was at Union Square Cafe, which was fabulous. Sadly, it was too dark for good photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it that The Boy's pork chop was nine inches thick, and that my grilled lamb chops came with a creamy, garlicky gratin dauphinioise, and probably took care of my protein quota for the day.

On Saturday, we'd initially planned to walk the High Line, but then I saw that the Concorde was on display at the Intrepid Museum. I'd always wanted to fly in it, and this was the closest I was now likely to get. So we headed to the waterfront, and ended up seeing not only inside the pointy bird but also exploring a submarine and the aircraft carrier itself.

After lunch at Vynl, where the service was so-so, the food was diner but good and the bathrooms — four separate spaces dedicated to Cher, Dolly Parton, Elvis and Nelly (?) — were fabulous, we took a cab to the halfway point of the High Line and started walking.

It was so cool to get a different view of the city.

There's a nice gallery of old photos showing the High Line in operation.

Our next stop was a couple of chocolate stores in SoHo: Kee's Chocolates and Vosges. Apparently I was too overcome to take photos in either place.

At Kee's we tried four flavors of handmade chocs: smoked salt, fennel, blood orange, and lemon-basil. They were all amazing, though the latter was a definite winner.

At Vosges we picked up some items we hadn't seen locally, and I was also forced (forced!) to get a chili-cinnamon hot chocolate. Oh boy: a warm, spicy embrace. Completely delicious. Apparently I need to pick up their Aztec Elixir blend to keep me going at home.

Dinner that night was at Resto, a Belgian-isch place whose motto is "Bringing fat back." This speaks to me.

Actually, what spoke to me most was that one of the first items on their menu is bitterballen, which we fell in love with on Aruba and actively sought out while stuck at Schiphol airport at Christmas. They're usually deep-fried balls of meat in a roux sauce, but at Resto they're a little drier, which doesn't detract at all and makes them easier to eat.

Then we went for the charcuterie plate:

Again, it was a little too dark for good photos, but this gives a sense of the selection:

Each meat had a side — the lamb with tzatziki, the chorizo (unexpectedly) with honeyed ricotta — and each was full of fresh flavor. We also ordered the tête de cochon sandwich, which was good but not fantastic; the thick brioche and the slaw overwhelmed the meat, which to me is the whole point of eating a pig's head.

Full to bustin' as we were, it was somehow necessary to get the beignets. They were more like donut holes than the rectangular, powdered-sugar-coated treats we expected, but they were warm and accompanied by three dipping sauces: berry compote, melted chocolate, and caramel. So that was nice.

Apologies again that the photos do not do justice to this meal!

All in all, it was a lovely break; so good to get away from all the hospitally stuff, and stress, and overload, and just act like normal people.

Year thirteen: I am lucky

2011-02-21T07:31:00.002-05:00

Thirteen years ago today, I stood in front of family and friends, held The Boy's hands in mine, and promised to spend the rest of my life with him.

I don't remember much about the ceremony itself, apart from these two things:

1) Our officiant began his sermon with the words, "We stand here today on the brink of war." This was news to us; had we been so busy with wedding prep that we missed a major event? Turned out we'd bombed some stuff in Sudan and Afghanistan, but it didn't develop into anything. Not that time, anyway.

2) When it was my turn to recite our vows, my use of the phrase "I choose you" caused The Boy to think of Ralph Wiggum on Valentine's Day, which brought on an unstoppable giggling fit. Everyone else thought it was nerves. But I knew. And I have not yet let him forget it.

What I don't recall is whether we mentioned anything specific about sickness and health in our shared promise.

In past anniversary posts, I've written recollections of things we've eaten during our time together.

This year, I want to talk about right now.

The past couple of months have been crazy, scary, strange, frustrating — and occasionally amazing. And The Boy has been at my side for all of it.

When I was in hospital for five nights, he stayed with me, sleeping on a fold-out couch, leaving only to go to work and then run home to shower and shave and feed the cat.

(That's [shower and shave] and [feed the cat].)

This is one of my favorite shots from that week. It's about 6am and there's a snowstorm raging outside (which is why nothing is visible through the window). I'm in bed, The Boy is working, and the nurse is in the bathroom emptying my hat.

Since we got the diagnosis, he has rearranged his schedule or taken time off work to take me to every appointment. He comes home with new types of yogurt for me to try, to keep up my protein. He collects my prescriptions. He makes sure I stay warm and rested and hydrated.

He doesn't complain when I wake up several times a night for water in- and output. He hugs me when I'm sad, calms me when I'm frustrated, understands what I want to say when my mouth is too sore for me to talk properly.

He has missed out on evenings with friends, not to mention the loss of our usual adventures with cocktails and good dinners. He has shouldered more than his share of snow shoveling, housework, and general stress.

There aren't enough ways to describe how much I love this man.

Happy anniversary, sweetie.

I am what I eat

2011-02-19T17:28:00.004-05:00

Before I started Round Two of chemo, I made a point of eating ev-er-y-thing in sight; my friend Jean observed that I was like a bear preparing for hibernation, piling on the calories for the time when I wouldn't feel up to chewing.

Right now, I'm coming out the other side of what I'm starting to think of as Bad Week, when mucositis hits and the best I can manage is taking tiny sips of liquid.

And I do feel like a bear, emerging from its cave cranky and ravenous (if less hirsute), ready to get back to living.

This morning I got to leave the house to get groceries.

It's amazing how a once-mundane task is now a major highlight. That's partly because 1) I don't go out much at all these days, unless it's to go to hospital, to be stuck with needles; and 2) getting to choose my own food is one of the few areas of control I have right now.

That sounds dramatic, I know.

But look at it this way: My schedule for the next few months is in the hands of my health care team. They decide where I'm supposed to be, and when. Their decisions affect how I feel from week to week, according to the chemo cycle. And their treatment plan has changed my appearance: hair loss, a little weight loss, drier skin — oh, and the new scar and alien-implant bump under my skin where my port was installed. They're pretty much in control of my body.

So as much as possible, I want to be in control of what I feed it. Which means a trip to the grocery store, odd as it sounds, becomes a way to reclaim my identity.

We arrived at the store early to avoid the crowds of germ-laden shoppers. The winds were strong enough to wrench shopping carts from their stacked line and send them rolling across the parking lot. I was glad I decided not to wear my wig; I had visions of me chasing it down the street, probably accompanied by Yakety Sax.

Naturally, once inside the store, I wanted to buy everything, especially the things I'm not quite ready for. Anything crunchy (carrots, crusty French bread, nuts) or acidic (orange juice, tomato sauce) or potentially hazardous (smoked fish, molded cheese) suddenly looked reaaally good.

But thankfully reason, in the shape of The Boy, reigned me in and coaxed me away from loading the cart with Stilton and baguettes and grapefruit.

Instead we picked up stuff to make a few meals that would sate my need for normalcy while also keeping to the high-protein mandate: turkey and black-bean chili; meatloaf (to be served with loaded potatoes); fish (to be served with, ahem, spinach with bacon dressing).

Next week is my Good Week.

I warn you now: do not leave any pic-a-nic baskets unattended.

Protein, music, new hair

2011-02-14T16:11:00.005-05:00

Round Two of chemo was last week. This time it was outpatient, which meant one full day at the hospital being pumped with drugs, then a half-day of hydration (being pumped with saline), and then two more days at home, toting a fetching shoulder bag that held a battery-operated pump hooked to a smaller bag of drugs hooked into a vein in my chest.

The upside of home chemo is obvious: rather than spending days in a hospital environment, with its ongoing chorus of beeping machines and people monitoring your pee (how much and how often), you get to veg out in your own bed, eating your own food, watching whatever awful movies you feel like.

On the other hand, the nice thing about being in the hospital is the wealth of resource specialists that come to visit. (I admit that I've pretty much thrown open the doors and said I'd be happy to meet with anyone who's around. It's as much professional interest as personal need.)

So Tuesday was auricular acupuncture (that's needles in yer ears), which was interesting, though I don't know whether I was supposed to feel different; an insanely good massage from a guy with big, warm hands; and art therapy (we made Valentine's Day cards with stickers, which was delightfully like being in daycare).

On Wednesday I had a great chat with nutritionist Carol Sullivan. One of the most important things she pointed out was that I should be getting at least 75g of protein a day, or 130 percent of the RDA.

She broke it down into portions: an ounce of chicken; 2 ounces of feta; a cup of ice cream; a half-cup of black beans each count as about 8g of protein. But that still seemed like a tough task — I don't eat huge portions at the best of time, and certainly not when I'm under the weather. How was I going to get through four and a half cups of beans a day???

As it turned out, it was easy. A cheese omelette for breakfast, plus a fruit smoothie with Greek yogurt, took care of around 24g. Baked beans and cheese on toast for lunch (or an Anna's Taqueria chicken taco with beans and sour-cream-filled guacamole) knocked out a few more. With an afternoon nibble on cottage cheese, poached fish for dinner, and a late-nite ice cream snacky, I was doing well.

And once I realized that Odwalla does shakes with double-digit protein counts, that made things even easier.

Wednesday was also my second music therapy class, which I continue to love.

And today I had my remaining hair shaved off and got a kinda kicky '60s wig.

Those last two sentences come together in the following video, my first attempt in iMovie. Enjoy!

Raw fish candy time!

2011-02-10T17:04:00.003-05:00

One of the downsides of cancer treatment is that certain yummy things are off-limits, particularly those that could carry a risk of food-borne disease. These include raw veggies that aren't easy to wash well (raspberries, lettuce, etc), as well as lovely raw things like oysters and sushi.

Luckily, today I discovered a solution to the latter.

It's candy! From Japan! That magically turns water and chemicals into cutely realistic, teeny-tiny tamago, naguro and ikura!!

Did I mention it's from Japan?

Journeyman is a good place for a last meal

2011-02-03T07:26:00.008-05:00

Given last week's unexpected dance with mucositis that led to a liquid-only diet, and knowing that worse is to come, it's hardly surprising that I've started counting my chances to eat good food. Not that I'm on death row, of course, but I'm definitely aware that each dish could be my Last Meal — at least for a while.

Yesterday, my mouth was 90 percent back to full working order and cabin fever was setting in. So when I read a message on Journeyman's Facebook page noting that the night's special was cassoulet, I knew there was only one thing to do.

I've been wanting to visit Journeyman in Somerville since before it opened, following the progress of the chef-owners (a historian and an IT guy who just really enjoy cooking) as they got permits, struggled with utility companies, and solicited haiku to replace the mundane "Employees must wash hands" restroom signs.

So the early evening saw us bundled up in a cab, headed for Union Square.

Journeyman is in a high-ceilinged space that manages to be spare and industrial and yet warm and inviting. It's also tiny, with fewer than 30 seats. The boxes on shelves in the window are for growing herbs and edible flowers to use in the kitchen.

And best of all: no music. The room was quiet and peaceful.

How often does that happen? Maybe it was just last night, because so few people were in, but it was refreshing to be able to have a conversation without overhearing other people and without being subjected to whatever music is supposed to enhance the ambiance. The only noticeable sound was the fan in the open kitchen, and that acted more as white noise. Other restaurants should take note.

Because snowstorms have been making life hard (for all restaurants, let's face it), Journeyman wasn't doing the usual menu last night — though as the dishes change weekly, if not daily, there really is no "usual" menu. Instead, it was "chef's whim": a three-, five-, or seven-course menu, or the cassoulet.

We were able to compromise by asking for the five-courser with cassoulet as one dish.

I've been avoiding wine as directed by my medical crew, but the idea of not having a glass with this dinner was just wrong. And when I explained my dilemma to the hostess (who was delightful and attentive all evening), she suggested another compromise: "How about I bring you a half-glass of white and a half of red?"

Oh, you doll. (And those were really more than half-glasses, I think.)

So there was a crisp French Sauvignon Blanc and a dry, fruity Italian Dolcetta d'Alba.

And there was a fabulous brioche-like bread with good butter served on a stone.

And then an amuse-gueule of carrot-miso soup, finished with pickled carrot.

We eat a lot of carrot soup; it would never have occurred to me to blend it with miso. But the flavor was unexpected and lovely, subtle and sophisticated, with the pickled veggie providing a bright contrast.

Next, a salad of diced and mashed root veggies (Japanese sweet potato, turnip, sunchoke, beets) with spinach, each one a reminder that roots can be sweet and full of flavor.

The brown crumbs are onion crumble, which tasted like really good onion-ring batter reduced to powder. It melted in the mouth and would, I think, sell by the bagful.

Next up, a creamy roasted cauliflower soup with housemade mortadella, garnished with pickled cauliflower.

The mortadella made me realize I hadn't had a decent pork product since an Anna's carnitas burrito three weeks previously. This meat was a lovely thing.

And then some beautiful duck breast, the fat crispy on top and sweet and melty, served with Gilfeather turnip and pickled watermelon radish. Duck often comes with an overly sweet, fruity foil; the turnip was just sweet enough to balance the meat without overwhelming it.

The cassoulet came in a pan in a cloud of porky fragrance. There was coffee-rubbed pork, perfectly fatty confit, just-right cannelini beans, hints of coffee and — genius touch — Meyer lemon, which gave this often dense and heavy dish an unexpected ... I want to say youthfulness. Does that make sense?

Then came a palate-cleansing tiny bowl of lime jelly, rice granita and elderflower, light and refreshing — again, an unexpected combination that worked beautifully.

And then dessert: a dense coconut pound cake, coconut panna cotta (much like tembleque), a deeply flavorful coffee mousse, a bright lemon-rose sorbet, and some chewy, tasty tapioca balls.

But wait, there's more: a final snacky of very good walnut bread with cardamom, a light spice cake, and some cookie that sadly was too hard for me to eat.

We left happy. Very happy. And if that was indeed my last really good meal for a while (some sources say it can take up to a year for the mouth to fully recover from radiation), then it was absolutely the right way to go.

Choc porkolate

2011-02-02T12:23:00.006-05:00

This may have escaped your attention, but the weather isn't very nice right now. (*understatement*)

Yesterday I shoveled, and it was actually fun; the snow was light and fluffy, and it took no time to clear the path and sidewalk (as well as those of our 90-something neighbor). Today, however, we have rain, which has made the snow surprisingly heavy.

I went out and shoveled with The Boy, who is working from home. It took a lot longer, even with two people; by the time we'd finished we were out of breath and soaked to the skin.

When I started cancer treatment, my nurse practitioner explained the importance of loading up on calories.

"Baked potato," she suggested. "Butter? Yes. Sour cream? More. Cheese? Extra."

With that in mind, I realized it was my medical duty to restore my beshoveled energy. With hot chocolate.

We had three types of chocolate in the house:

Can you guess which one I used to make hot chocolate?

Ha! Trick question!

I chopped the two together:

And stirred them into warming milk.

The result was a seductive combination: the warming, peppery spice of the chili and the dark smokiness of the bacon, wrapped in a cloak of velvety chocolate.

Winter schminter.

Liquid lunch, but not the fun kind

2011-01-30T15:35:00.007-05:00

So far I've been extremely lucky as far as chemo side effects are concerned. Apart from a short dizzy spell early in the week (for which I have happy little brown pills), everything has been fine.

Well, more or less.

Every day brings a slight change: On Monday I felt great, and ravenous, eating everything I could get my hands on (especially good cheese; need I remind you of the orange Americana served for breakfast in the hospital?).

Tuesday started out okay, but late in the afternoon it felt as though someone had snuck into my mouth with steel wool and started scrubbing.

That night, The Boy made a delicious-smelling stir-fry, but I could hardly bear to have anything touching my tongue.

Yeah, this is a thing that happens. Mucositis.

See, chemotherapy works by killing cells that grow and divide quickly, which includes cancer cells — but also many other types of fast-growing cells (which explains why hair loss is often a side effect). Among the fastest-dividing cells in the body are those in the mouth and throat, which makes sense: they're constantly being scraped away by food, so have to bounce back quickly.

You know when you drink, say, really hot soup, and you take the roof off your mouth? It feels like that, but (as I'm learning) it takes more than a day or so for the cells to recover.

And one of the main challenges is dryness. I'm now carrying a water bottle everywhere, and waking several times a night, painfully parched, to chug from it.

So what's a girl to eat?

At the beginning of treatment, my nurse practitioner recommended stocking up on Ensure Plus. We dutifully picked up a six-pack of Creamy Milk Chocolate flavor; my intention was that it would be for emergencies only. Because, really, have you seen the ingredients?

Here's what Wikipedia says about some of those ingredients:

Choline chloride "is mass produced and is an important additive in feed especially for chicken where it accelerates growth."

Sodium molybdate "is used in industry for corrosion inhibition ... It will explode on contact with molten magnesium. It will violently react with interhalogens (e.g., bromine pentafluoride; chlorine trifluoride). Its reaction with hot sodium, potassium or lithium is incandescent."

Potassium iodide "is a precursor to silver iodide (AgI) an important chemical in photography. KI is a component in some disinfectants and hair treatment chemicals."

Mmm. Something my body needs anyway.

But at this point, attempting to eat pretty much anything else was an ordeal. The leftover bean-and-kale soup that had been delicious on Monday night now felt like gravel, even after I whizzed it in the blender. Yogurt was better (especially frozen), but required some amount of tonguework, which I was not up to.

Okay, Ensure. You win.

But even in my debilitated state, I couldn't just chug it from the bottle. That is not how I roll. So I stepped it up.

Okay, it's not terrible. Sweeter than I would prefer, with an odd, chalky aftertaste; it's not something I would seek out for its taste sensation, but if you have to keep calories up somehow, there are worse things. Apparently it comes in other flavors, Strawberries & Cream and Butter Pecan (eww!) among them; I don't have an urge to experiment. Yet.

The worst of the discomfort lasted about two days; by Friday I was here:

(That's white and sweet pureed potato topped with Heinz baked beans and cheese)

And by Saturday lunch I was here:

(That's strawberry shortcake and tiramisu from Modern Pastry, thanks to Lovely Co-Worker Sarah).

Hospital food: the good, the bad, and the cheesy

2011-01-20T13:42:00.007-05:00

Wow - first of all, thanks for the fabulous, supportive comments on my previous post! It means so much to know you're out there rootin' for me.

So: hospital food. Is it really so bad?

Well, I've now had seven meals on which to base an opinion. Among the best:

A perfectly acceptable salade Niçoise with everything but the capers. (I'm not sure that tomato is authentic, but we'll let that slide.)

Very juicy baked chicken (though the gravy, which claimed to be "the best!", was not).

Chocolate pudding!

Tapioca pudding!

Lime Jell-O!

The overall theme, if there is one, is New England diner: comforting, under-seasoned dishes. Which makes perfect sense for a Boston hospital — when you're sick, you don't want challenging dishes; you want something homely and recognizable.

But when you're feeling pretty much okay, even after two full days of induction chemo (thanks to powerful anti-nausea drugs), it's hard not to lose your appetite when faced with:

A dry, congealed turkey pot pie, in which only the peas are salvageable:

Turkey dinner with sad cauliflower au gratin and more of that ~~the best~~ turkey gravy:

This morning's Cheesy Scrambled Eggs (American cheese, of course, two corners of the square still resplendently unmelted):

The golden glow on its pasteurized surface came courtesy of the much more natural, glorious, sunrise:

I know I'm coming across as a food snob here (well, that is my role). So I also need to say that I completely understand the scale of the undertaking.

The hospital has one central kitchen, from which meals are shipped to various buildings and reheated at serving time. It's much more cost-effective to use frozen or canned vegetables, and soft, over-cooked food is easier to digest (though of course it loses nutritional value along the way). And the cost for The Boy to have an in-room, three-course meal with me is around $8, which, let's face it, is amazingly cheap for Boston dining.

My awesome nurse has been helpful at pointing out things to straight-up avoid: the burger, and anything fish, are two of her tips.

But I'm now at the point where I can read an item on the menu — Kung Pao Pork, say, or Spaghetti with Meat Sauce — and have a pretty good idea of what I'm going to get.

Which is why The Boy is bringing me something from Anna's Taqueria tonight.

Oh, and in case you're wondering whether sick people are fed the same way everywhere, here's a lovely gallery of international examples of hospital food. Japan looks to be a winner here.

A temporary new direction for LimeyG

2011-01-16T10:58:00.007-05:00

Got some interesting news this week: I have squamous cell carcinoma in my mouth. It's very treatable and has a high cure rate, which is good. The bad, of course, is that treatment is aggressive and sucky: two or three rounds of intense chemo, followed by seven weeks of radiation.

So what do I have to look forward to? Loss of appetite, changes in my palate, zapped tastebuds, zapped salivary glands, a raw tongue and throat.

Yes, there are a ton of other side effects, but whatever. These are the ones that bug me the most; what will life be like if I can't enjoy food?

Well, let's find out. I'm going to keep writing throughout the experience, as much as I can. I want to try and apply the same approach to this period of eating adventures as I do to any other.

If you're willing to stick around and come with me, I'd love the company. If you've been through something similar and have food-related suggestions and tips, please share.

And if you want to take a break, that's also cool. I hope you come back for the post where I describe being able to taste things again (I'm looking forward to that one!).

I start treatment on Tuesday, so we'll begin with a dissection (!) of hospital food.

Good food pops up with Eat Boston

2011-01-16T09:36:00.006-05:00

Last night we ate at a restaurant that didn't exist on Thursday and won't exist tomorrow. The event was Eat at Bloc 11, a three-day pop-up, with Will Gilson of Garden at the Cellar at the helm.

(Here's co-founder Aaron Cohen talking about the Eat Boston mission.)

The previous Eat Boston dinner took place at a furniture store, with Will cooking in a food truck; this one was probably a little easier from a kitchen-logistics perspective, as Bloc 11 is a cafe with a lot of prep space.

We arrived a little early, and so got to see the busy team putting the final touches to the table settings.

The space is gorgeous — high and open, with lots of exposed brick and cozy corners. Bloc 11 used to be a bank, and still has the safe (which has been transformed into a dining area):

This was a one-seating-only night; to keep us going until everyone arrived, the staff passed around thick slices of a garlicky pork terrine topped with mustard.

(There were other passed hors d'oeuvres — which, by the way, is the correct spelling, people! — but somehow we weren't in the right place to flag them down. Looked nice, though.)

And then we began: a delicate, whiskey-cured smoked salmon with dense squares of sunchoke rösti, tiny, lightly pickled mushrooms and a balancing swirl of crème fraiche.

Next, sweet roasted pumpkin with a bright, citrus note that harmonized with nutty pumpkin seeds and fried sage leaves, finished with a rich dressing of brown butter.

Here's Will, plating the pumpkin:

The next dish was listed as "Parsnip and potato 'latte' with chestnuts, thyme and cocoa nib powder."

This worried me slightly, as the last time I had food pretending to be a coffee drink, it was a terrible, terrible bacon cappuccino at Gargoyles (what's with the crappy test website?) that was essentially a cup of oil with meat at the bottom. Yeah, I'm not a big Gargoyles fan.

I needn't have worried. This dish was a creamy, foamy, fragrant mug of root-vegetable comfort.

And then the main: coffee-rubbed pork tenderloin, served with fresh edamame and a complex, warming beet mole. The beans were unexpected, but worked well, giving some freshness to a dish more traditionally accompanied by a dried bean.

And finally, dessert: a delicately flavored espresso pot de crème, served with a chunk of vanilla cake, a scatter of crunchy cashew crumble and a schmear of creamy coconut.

As I'll explain in my next post, this was likely my last really special meal for a while. I'd hoped for something memorable. And that's what we got.

Eating everything in York

2011-01-09T19:15:00.009-05:00

While we were in England over the Christmas holiday, we took the train to York to meet up with Julie, who I've known since we were 4 years old. She lives in London, so I get to see her only rarely. Though York isn't exactly halfway between us, it's the most attractive option for hanging out (sorry, Peterborough and Doncaster). And it was a good opportunity to eat.

First stop, while we were still in the railway station: the West Cornwall Pasty Co (warning: website is an impenetrable Flash nightmare). We were drawn in by the enormous pastries, but ended up ordering a lovely, warm Cumberland sausage bun.

And then Julie's train arrived, and we all set out into the cold, damp day to find Bettys.

One of the greatest misapprehensions about the English is that we spend a significant part of every day drinking tea and eating tiny, crustless sandwiches.

While it's true that My People do put away a fair amount of tea — in preparation for visiting my parents, The Boy and I have to increase our caffeine tolerance — the whole china-tea-service-and-dainty-cakes concept is a special event, not a daily occurrence.

But though English people have more important things to do than eat petits fours and sip Earl Grey every day, that's not to say they don't enjoy it, given the chance. Bettys, a 100-year-old chain of teashops local to Yorkshire, fulfills the need.

The York branch is the flagship, allegedly designed to resemble the Queen Mary. It's a good mix of solid brass and delicate stained glass, with huge wraparound windows, which are great when you're inside, staring at the long line of people waiting outside for a table.

Bettys menu is pretty extensive — everything from toasted teacakes to steak pie, with a wide variety of teas and coffees. We thought about doing the full-on afternoon tea (sandwiches, scones and clotted cream), but then Julie and I decided on the Yorkshire Rarebit (strong Cheddar and Yorkshire ale):

The Boy went for the bacon, Gruyère and Raclette rösti, creamy and sweet with a touch of smoky saltiness:

And then, because it's a Bettys thing: Fat Rascals.

They're scone-like, with raisins and candied fruit, and a face made of almonds and cherries. They're fabulous warm with butter. Here's a Fat Rascals recipe.

Finally, stuffed with cheese and Rascals, we stumbled back out into the gray, damp day, and strolled around York Minster. You want history? This version of the building was begun in 1080. The first church on the site was thrown together in 627. Old enough?

Oh look, more pasties.

Back in my day, pasties came in two styles: meat and potato or cheese and onion. Now you can get everything: pork and apple, balti chicken, something with feta (!?). The world has changed.

One last stop on the way back to York train station: Demijohn, which sells artisanal oils, spirits, vinegars and preserves siphoned out of ... well ...

We got to sample the sloe gin, which was berry-bitter, refreshing and warming.

And then back to the station for hugs goodbye and a train heading north and the realization that there was so much more food to discover.

Thanks for a fab day, Joolz!

Eating Christmas in England

2011-01-01T14:26:00.005-05:00

We spent Christmas with my parents in England while the country was wearily digging out from the tail end of a two-month snow emergency.

Though things were more or less back to normal, we were happy to embrace snowboundness and stay home, where there was a cozy fire and copious quantities of Christmas foodstuffs.

On Christmas Eve, The Boy and I made the traditional Puerto Rican dinner, more or less: roast pork (pernil), here in its "before" state:

and the coconut custard tembleque for dessert. We used this easy tembleque recipe, which was made more entertaining by the use of my mom's magic stirring gadget:

Christmas lunch, of course: roast beef, roast potatoes done in goose fat, Yorkshire puddings ditto, roast parsnips and carrots, Brussels sprouts and lovely cauliflower cheese.

And the very necessary Christmas pudding with custard:

Christmas pudding is one of my favorite things, possibly because I know there's only one serving a year. I love the sticky-sweetness of the fruit and the extra-hot custard. Actually, I'd still love it if I could eat it all year round.

The family came over on Boxing Day. We made sandwiches and chocolate cake, benne wafers and key lime pie. And there were quiches and cheeses and prosciutto and dates. And people brought more chocolate cake, and carrot cake, and my aunt's famous corned beef pie:

My dad did a ham, which means not pre-brined, pre-flavored meat, but raw fresh pork leg. This is also one of my favorite Christmas things.

So are mince pies, here served warm with Greek yogurt (okay, not traditional Christmas fare, but it works):

And not particularly related to Christmas, but certainly connected to fabulous pork products, black pudding.

Also, my mom makes an amazing fruited tea loaf.

And none of this includes our trip to York. Mayhap we found pork and pastries and cheese there too, hmmm?

Grilled pizza? That's Crazy (Dough)!

2010-12-19T12:28:00.006-05:00

Nothing brightens up a workday like a surprise pizza taste-test.

Our office was lucky enough to get a visit from Doug Ferriman of Crazy Dough's Pizza, who turned up with three warm boxes of pie: buffalo chicken, margarita, and tuscan tomato basil. Lots of fresh flavors: carmelized onion, garlic, fresh herbs, and a fantastic crust.

The big deal? Crazy Dough's throws their pizza on the grill. The grill, Liz Lemon!

Why? Doug explains:

(The olive oil he refers to is infused with herbs and black Hawaiian sea salt. Me likey.)

So what was the verdict? Well, all three pizza boxes were empty within minutes. Bill liked the cornmeal under the dough. Michael said he'd happily eat the toasty dough with no toppings.

Here's the underside:

Katie noted that the buffalo chicken wasn't macho-spicy; while it came with blue cheese (usually needed to bring down the heat), it would have been fine without.

Even the Guitar Hero guy liked it, and he hates everything.

KO'd by Australian pie

2010-12-11T07:28:00.007-05:00

When you move to another country, it's with the understanding that you're leaving a lot of things behind: family and friends, of course; customs and traditions; and — and in many ways tied up with the first two — foods you love.

I don't get nostalgic cravings often, but when I do, they're for very specific dishes: real fish and chips, Battenburg cake, proper bacon, steak pie, pork pie, cheese and onion crisps ("Greeat fleeavas, Chudah!").

Often, I can distract these cravings with more accessible imports: Bird's Custard, Branston Pickle, and HobNobs are available (at a price) in the grocery store.

But sometimes, the call is too strong.

And sometimes, the call is answered.

Australian? Eh, close enough.

This is KO Catering and Pies, a short walk from the Broadway T stop (in the former St. Alphonzo's Kitchen space). It's not much to look at from the outside:

But inside it's fragrant with the aroma of warm pastry and decorated with ceramic budgies and a clock displaying the only important time zone:

The menu is expansive:

But we were there for one reason: pie.

The only other time we've found proper meat pie in this country was at an Australian pie place in Austin, Texas. I'm not sure why it's left to our antipodean brethren to demonstrate the magic that happens when you combine meat and pastry, but there you go.

We ordered a meat, a meat-and-cheese, and a sausage roll. There were paper napkins but no forks; when The Boy went to ask for some, he was handed a postcard that explained the correct way to eat a pie was by picking it up and shoving it in your face.

Oh, this was some good pie.

The bottom was a shortcrust and the lid was a light, buttery, flaky puff pastry. The meat, simmered into a slightly sweet ragu, had just enough gravy to season the pastry without turning it to an unmanageable handful. The addition of cheese to the second pie gave a little touch of salt that balanced out the sweetness of the meat.

I'm not sure I could ever make a pie like it. But sausage rolls I do bake now and then. So ordering one was more of a "because it's there" decision than a need to sate a craving.

Here's the thing: this was no ordinary sausage roll. The meat inside was less like sausage meat and more like pork pie: densely packed, almost pressed.

So this is perfect: I have a place to satisfy my need for meat pie and pork pie, and also to pick up much better sausage rolls. And with KO Pie's food truck launching soon, I might not even have to go to Southie to get some.

Home is coming closer to me!

The vermouth project

2010-12-04T08:10:00.004-05:00

At the beginning of this year, we celebrated our anniversary with an Eastern Standard cocktail class hosted by the lovely Bob McCoy.

As parting gifts, we got bottles of ES's housemade ambré and rosé vermouths, as well as recipes to make them at home.

So finally, last weekend, we did.

Actually, the process started earlier, as we had to find wormwood and gentian, bitter orange and dried ginger. Thanks to Christina's (and Rico), Penzey's and the Modern Homebrew Emporium, we gathered everything.

The rest of the herbs came from our garden.

But back up a few days; before we were artfully arranging dried herbs on a plate, we were slicing 24 strawberries (I know, I know, they're out of season) and soaking them in brandy.

The herbs went into a pan with rosé wine and the whole mess was brought to a boil and left to cool.

Well, this was easy. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh.

The recipe called for 600g of sugar to be heated to a "soft ball stage." Did we know what that was? Could we figure it out? Did it have anything to do with using a keg for second base? Uh, no.

So we heated the sugar, stirring constantly and watching for some sign of chemical reaction that would signal its readiness. And then ... we basically guessed.

The recipe said to remove the sugar from the heat and add the brandy immediately, so we did.

There was a lot of loud hissing and cracking. And the sugar turned into an impenetrable igneous carapace.

I know; those of you who work with sugar are rolling your eyes and sighing. What can I say?

We knew that the sugar would start to dissolve over time. So we left it alone.

After about an hour, I went back to check on its progress and found that enough had dissolved to make the strawberry-brandy quite syrupy. We didn't want the end result to be too sweet, so we decided to use what was there and add more sweetness later if necessary.

Back to business: adding ruby port, the strawberry-brandy syrup, and two more bottles of rosé to the wine-herb concoction.

A little zest:

And we're done!

We strained the herbs out, bottled the liquid, and let it sit for a couple of days.

And then the taste test.

Verdict: It's a little less complex that I would have liked, but I don't know whether that's because it's still young or because (once again) we eyeballed the herb measurements. I might add more wormwood next time — but again, my taste runs to more bitter notes.

There's a definite strawberry nose, and the color is lovely.

Next time, we'll try making the ambré vermouth. Anyone know where we can find orris root?

Giving thanks at/for Eastern Standard

2010-11-28T16:18:00.004-05:00

This year, we ate out for Thanksgiving, continuing a tradition that in previous years has seen Thanksgiving dinner at Sandrine's and two years of turkey at Rialto.

This year we wanted somewhere new, and after considering the options for about two minutes decided on Eastern Standard for our Thanksgiving feast. (The promise of pheasant galantine may have factored in this decision.)

So that's where we began. The galantine for me, with lightly pickled and curried veggies:

And for The Boy, a fabulous duck confit tart with local mushrooms.

Though the galantine was good — somehow both sophisticated and rustic at the same time — the tart was amazing. The Boy accurately identified the reason:

"Fat," he said. "The confit? It's fat. The pastry? Made with fat. It's all fat, baby."

The mushrooms balanced the duck and gave it depth. And the cranberries cut through the fat (the lovely, lovely fat) and added a brightness. And it wasn't dense or heavy; it was a perfect lead-in to the main event.

Which was, of course:

Beautifully juicy turkey, creamy mashed potato, cornbread dressing, a smooth, almost pureed cranberry sauce, candied yams, and a generous pour of gravy.

No greens, though, so we also asked for a side of brussels sprouts, which came with sweet shallots.

And then on to dessert. For The Boy, the traditional (loaded) pecan pie.

For me, the punkin pie, which came with a buttery shortbread cookie sparkling with sugar.

Looking back at last year's write-up of Thanksgiving at Rialto, I realized we'd planned on staying home for turkey this year. Oops! But given how fabulous the meal was, and how lovely (as always) the staff of Eastern Standard were, I'm glad we have such short memories.

Ten reasons I love Island Creek Oyster Bar

2010-11-20T07:34:00.006-05:00

1) Two of the people I most trust to look after me in a restaurant — Tom S-G and the lovely Bobby — are there.

2) The room is light and open, with tall windows and weathered wood and a whole wall of oysters. It makes me think of winter on Cape Cod, but in a good way.

3) The warming, spicy Spanish Caravan cocktail is finished with a slice of dried, salted apple:

4) The creamy oyster stew with smoky ham sits on a bed of dense brown bread to soak it all up.

5) The burger, which LC Sarah has pronounced better than Eastern Standard's (!). This may have something to do with the brioche bun topped with caramelized onions.

6) The smelts, while they're here.

7) The oysters Gregory, with leeks, bacon and parmesan.

8) Someone's nice penmanship.

9) The fried cod cheeks with a bright green-tomato relish.

10) The! Cider! Donuts! With! Hot cider! And! Caramel! For dipping!

A Puddingstone Kitchen feast

2010-11-14T08:01:00.007-05:00

Last month (I know, I have a lot of catching up to do) our lovely friends Melinda and Christine invited us (and Cindy G and ScurvyAnn) over for a dinner created by MaryCat Chaikin of Puddingstone Kitchen.

This was my first experience of seeing how a catered in-home dinner came together; I was excited to take a bunch of photos. But of course I FAILED to realize that my camera was on a manual low-light setting, so nothing looks nearly as flattering or delicious as it actually was.

If you squint slightly while you look at the photos, it helps. But not too much or you'll get a headache.

Puddingstone Kitchen sources locally; much of the evening's ingredients came from the Central Square farmer's market.

MaryCat started us out with an antipasti platter: hand-foraged hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, roasted veggies, cloumage from Shy Brothers, and handmade burrata.

MaryCat made the burrata herself, and explained the exacting creation process, which involves precise temperatures and a lot of kneading. It's easy to mess up, apparently, but when it all comes together, the result is creamy and soft and divine.

Here's MaryCat explaining her cheesemaking strategy. You can tell this was a long exposure because I managed to get Christine looking in two different directions.

Back in the kitchen, MaryCat and her assistant (whose name I've forgotten — sorry!) finished the salads.

The heirloom tomato was hyperlocal (from M and C's garden). The accompanying galette was rich and full of fall flavors: roasted delicata squash, carmelized onions, sage.

Next was hangar steak, tender and juicy, with mashed potatoes.

And dessert ... ohhh, dessert. Cranberry upside-down cake with brown sugar, served with honeyed yogurt. More than a month ago, and my mouth still waters when I think about it.

I owe extremely belated gratitude to Melinda and Christine for their hospitality (and for the ginormous extra tomato we came away with. Size of a baby's head, completely fabulous).

And to Puddingstone Kitchen: Wow. That was amazing. Thank you.

Back to Hell ONCE more

2010-11-06T06:07:00.011-04:00

If you had descended into the underworld, and come face to face with demons writhing in lust, shaking with wrath, howling in violence, would you go back?

How about if the food was really good?

And thus we found ourselves once again traveling through Dante's nine circles at a re-staging of last year's ONCE in Hell, with players from the A.R.T. providing the theatrics and — more importantly — JJ Gonson and the Cuisine En Locale pirates in the kitchen.

Many of the elements, both food and performance-wise, were close to last year's production, with a few small tweaks and, in some cases, major redesigns.

The space used the same layout, with one big improvement: where last year the food prep happened in a separate space away from the action, this time the kitchen was tucked along the back wall.

It seems like a cramped area from which to feed more than 100 people, but JJ does amazing things from the teeny kitchen at the regular ONCE dining space. It was nice to be able to watch her crew work.

Meanwhile, Virgil moved from table to table, warning us to prepare for the journey ahead.

Last year's limbo was bread and water and zombie-like waiters; this year, the servers were stuck in an endless repeating loop of fake cheer, while a singer gave us "The Girl from Ipanema" over and over and over ...

And then we started our descent. First floor: Lust, again an oyster shooter in a sharp apple mignonette. Lucifer stopped by to get us in the mood.

Next up, Gluttony. As with last year, it was beans (scented with allspice, perhaps?) plus juicy two-hander ribs, and also chicken feet.

This was all served in paper bowls, which at first seemed wasteful. But after encouraging us to take second helpings of everything, the server-demons brought out a trash cart and started throwing plates, beans, ribs and anything else into it.

Meanwhile, Lucifer was introducing Cerberus. But where was the beast?

Oh. Inside the trash cart. Joyously smearing itself in beans and glitter.

Once the last of the beans had been cleaned up, we continued the descent to Avarice. As with last year's ONCE in Hell, the game show was Squander or Hoard?

This year's dish was simple and perfect.

Fresh corn polenta, full of end-of-summer flavor, and apple sauce, rich pink in color, sweet and refreshing. It's the dish that stands out most, and the one I keep thinking back to.

Next up: Wrath. The angry salad was this year enhanced with freshly sprouted mung beans:

And this was one of the few places where the theatrical component didn't quite work.

Last year's Wrath saw the demons whipped up in an unrestrained fury; this year, we listened to The Smiths' "Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me" while Lucifer slouched and sighed and complained about being misunderstood.

This wasn't Wrath. It was Mope.

Though maybe that's more frightening.

And then we reached Heresy. Last year that meant raunchy nuns; this year, Lucifer, as the leader of a religious cult, decided it was time for us to shuffle off this mortal coil and handed out poison.

(Okay, it was actually a light lobster salad with puff pastry coffins. Though as The Boy has a seafood allergy, it was pretty realistic for him.)

Lucifer kept encouraging us to eat. "There are no convulsions with this one." And then the waitstaff all died.

Most of them recovered quickly, except for one girl who stayed down for a long time, unmoving.

But somehow, more disturbing was the behavior of some diners who started taking photos with her: Hey, look! I'm with a dead body!

Yeah, I know it wasn't real. But it still felt inappropriate and, well, rude.

It got my gander up just in time for Violence. Hooray! I was hoping for a repeat of last year: the lovely Jen's refreshing and pure beet soup and the eerie, terrifying demon's song.

The soup we got, and it was just what I'd wished for.

And the performance was good — a haunting acoustic rendition of Sufjan Stevens' "John Wayne Gacy, Jr" while a shackled demon in clown make-up juggled beets, dripping red juice on the floor.

It should have been a beautiful moment. But for me, it was marred by the fact that half the audience believed it was a comedy piece. Whether they weren't listening to the lyrics, or weren't making the connection, I can't say. But they laughed. They thought it was funny.

Maybe theirs are the houses to stay away from.

Next was Fraud, which began with a TV chat show-style interview that graphically described how foie gras is made (somewhat lecture-y, I thought) and ended with faux gras, whose provenance we could not guess. Potato? Cream cheese?

JJ, a little help here?

And then we reached Treachery. As with last year's ONCE in Hell, this course centered on the evils of corporate junk food. Which meant — oh yay! — we got the most annoying song in the world again.

The menu listed the dish for Treachery as "chicken hand pie." Chicken-hand pie? Hardly likely. Chicken hand-pie? Well, almost:

CHICKEN-HAND-PIE!

The small but perfectly formed pasty (as my people call it) came in a bag with a disturbing Mad Libs game; you can see that, and the entire menu, over at the Lovely Locavore Ladies blog.

And then an angel appeared.

And we all went to heaven.

And lo, there was pumpkin cheesecake.

Brunch at 5 Corners Kitchen

2010-09-30T08:34:00.000-04:00

After our amazing wolf experience, we were ravenous. And all the talk of meat (and discovery of various bones cleaned dry of marrow) had left us wanting to indulge, carnivore-style.

So we went to Marblehead for brunch.

Okay, more specifically, we headed to 5 Corners Kitchen, where Trevor does genius things with sausage and bacon (and, frankly, everything else he touches).

We'd had dinner at 5 Corners Kitchen when it first opened, and had been looking for a reason to return.

When we arrived, Trevor was handing out samples of housemade sausage with lentils and mustard to passers-by. It was only a taste, but it was enough to remind me how good this place is.

First, brunchy drinks: mimosa for me, bloody Mary for The Boy. His celery garnish was noticeably fresher and crunchier than the supermarket variety.

And then, before we could order, Trevor appeared with plates of smoked salmon topped with boiled egg, capers, crème fraiche and red onion.

I was going to order something good and meaty — and then I noticed the brioche french toast. So that was me sorted.

The toast was like bread pudding, rich and eggy. The blueberries were warm and fragrant and summery.

The Boy stayed true to meat, and ordered the classic breakfast: sausage, eggs, homefries, toast.

Oh, the sausage. Like nothing else.

And an unexpected side of crisp, delicate bacon. Homemade, of course.

And then, another surprise. A densely fruited tarte tatin with crème fraiche and caramel, flecked with fresh thyme.

"I know you want to hold on to summer," said Trevor, "but here's something to lead you into fall."

If there was ever a way to make the transition, this was it.

A face full of wolf drool: Wolf Hollow, Ipswich

2010-09-26T17:30:00.003-04:00

"Don't make any sudden motions," the man with the tattoos is saying. "Don't sit down on the ground. You can take a knee, or squat, but you have to be able to get up again quickly.

"And if I tell you to get out or move away, don't question me — just do it. Okay?"

We nod uncertainly. And then we sign a waiver. And then we walk into the wolf enclosure.

We were at Wolf Hollow in Ipswich; The Boy had bought me a Wolf Experience as a birthday gift. We'd get a two-hour personal tour with the wolves and with Zee Soffron, who runs the sanctuary with his mom. There's a nice profile of the family here.

Zee explained to us that he'd go into the enclosure first so the wolves could greet him, and then we could follow behind.

And suddenly I was nervousnervousnervous. Which is crazy; I've always been around animals. But this time, I realized, I was not in control of the relationship. The wolves were bigger, and faster, and decidedly stronger.

So when we went into the first pen, I held back. Stood around. Took some photos.

(That's Bear. He's part dog. He used to live in an apartment in Everett.)

And then we went to see Jelly.

Jelly, apparently, can be a bit of a handful. Sometimes she's a sweetheart; sometimes, as Zee said, "You don't even want to get in the cage with her." Once she almost took his face off because she was hoping for treats. Zee's mom Joni calls her schizo.

Today she was having a good day.

And then things got redonkulous.

We spent a long time with Jelly, and Zee told us about wolf culture, diet (they get a special food mix, as well as occasional roadkill deer, plus watermelon for a summer treat), and benefits to humans (the decline in wolf populations has meant an increase in deer, which has led to more ticks and so more Lyme disease).

And then we went to visit Jelly's brother Weeble and his friend Nina.

Weeble is about 150 pounds. When he put his front paws on my shoulders, I almost fell over backwards.

One thing to note: wolves have really good breath. It's not dog-breathy. And their fur is thick and soft.

All the wolves like Milk Bones. And so I found myself thinking, "Awww! They're just big doggies!"

And then I noticed how many picked-clean bones were scattered around.

There were times when they looked like big, goofy dogs.

There were also times when they were completely lupine.

And man, the teeth:

As we left, we could hear them all howling, a beautiful, mournful chorus.

Wolf Hollow does hour-long presentations on weekends. You should go.

More photos from our visit to Wolf Hollow.

Tasty Burger is tasty

2010-09-26T06:06:00.003-04:00

Over the summer, my colleagues and I have been monitoring two developments close to our office: a careful stack of fire-engine-red cans that promises to become a ~~Cougar~~ Puma City; and the transformation of an overlooked gas station into Tasty Burger.

One of them has finally opened.

And because some of us have friends in high places, our office got a delivery of Free Burger coupons.

Note that Eric is particularly excited by this.

It's strange how you can walk past a building a million times, but only become aware of its existence once its purpose changes. How could you miss this now?

The Pulp Fiction theme is carried indoors (and to the menu, which includes a Big Kahuna burger.)

For once, I wasn't the only one shooting the food.

I can't tell, but from the timing this might have been for the Boston Phoenix review of Tasty Burger.

We sat outside and ordered: shakes, onion rings, fries, plus cheeseburgers all round.

Would the burger look anything like the one on the coupon?

Um, no. But still:

Sometimes a burger means a dry bun, obtrusive salad, and overwhelming meat. This was not that; this was meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato and bread forming a single entity of soft, warm, salty, comforting juiciness.

Sure, it's not pretty. But where would we be if we only paid attention to pretty things?

The onion rings were a delicate tangle of sweet batter. The fries were thick and soft inside. Next time, I'm getting them with sausage gravy.

Meanwhile, there's still no opening date for Puma City; the friendly security guards have said late summer/September/October.

And Tasty Burger's big sister across the street, Citizen Pub and Oyster Bar, is finally due to debut in a couple of weeks.

So there'll be more chances to pick up something tasty.

Foundry on Elm: More decent food in Davis!

2010-09-12T08:03:00.010-04:00

At the start of the 2000s, I worked for a custom publishing company in Davis Square, temptingly close to secondhand booksellers McIntyre & Moore. Their collection was broad and deep, and I spent many lunch hours browsing the shelves, which held everything from ethnomusicology to science fiction.

And then the store closed and moved to Porter Square, and apart from a brief stint as a store selling wooden salad bowls, their cavernous former location was empty.

Until this week, when Foundry on Elm opened. We went to check it out last night.

It certainly doesn't look like a bookstore any more. Though the bar does seem strangely familiar.

No, despite the marble counter, the red leather bar stools, the staff in black vests and the stacked arrangement of bottles in front of oversized mirrors, this is not Eastern Standard.

Behind the bar, however, is Andy Kilgore, formerly of No.9 Park (and Stoddard's; perhaps his departure explains why now Stoddard's cocktails are crap).

The cocktail menu at Foundry on Elm is short but thoughtful: a few new creations plus a handful of classics. I went for the Seelbock, which here was made with Buffalo Trace and came in a coupe.

The Boy chose the Sazerac — always a good test — in which the glass was rinsed with absinthe; the rye was Old Overholt.

So far, so good.

We were surprised at how busy the place was; we arrived just before 7, and Foundry on Elm was hopping. I'm glad we made a reservation, as there were a lot of walk-ins waiting.

Our table was a red-leather booth toward the back (somewhere around the fiction section, IIRC). The place was just louder than I like, in a lean-across-the-table-to-be-heard way. But the food made up for it.

A charcuterie plate of flaky duck terrine, pâté de campagne, tissue-thin and perfectly salted prosciutto and a deep, almost chocolatey duck liver mousse. I wiped the mousse dish clean with their (also fabulous, and reminiscent of my grandmother's) brown bread.

Also present: a selection of delicately pickled seasonal veggies.

And then the mains. For me, beef carbonnade, slow-cooked in beer and served with root veggies. Apologies that the photo does not to it justice; the meat was tender, the juices both sweet and savory, the carrot and parsnip just-crunchy.

The Boy had steak frites (again, sorry about not-great photo):

The fries were not the best — though tasty, they were a little dry, as though they'd been sitting around a while — but the steak.

Oh, the steak.

No special silverware needed; it hardly even required a knife.

The condiments here are garlic butter (fore) and a kind of shallot jam (aft). The Boy thought the shallots would have been better warm, but the flavor was sweet and lovely.

We were too full for dessert, but that just gives us a reason to return. Possibly not on a Saturday night, though; by the time we left, at around 8:30, Foundry on Elm was packed and a little too scene-y for my taste (hey, I'm old, I admit it).

But given the proximity to our house, the creativity of the bar staff and the skill of the kitchen, I could see Foundry on Elm becoming a regular destination. We're already planning a visit some Tuesday night in the depths of winter for the weekly coq au vin special ...

L'Espalier: Restaurant Week lunch time again

2010-08-21T12:39:00.007-04:00

For the third consecutive Restaurant Week, LC Sarah and I became ladies who lunch at L'Espalier.

As always, it was delightful, not least for the fact that lunch involving white tablecloths and smartly be-suited waitstaff is eminently more civilized than a sandwich at one's desk and an afternoon spent dislodging cheese from one's keyboard.

And extra points for good record-keeping; without prompting, our waiter acknowledged Sarah's food allergies, information gained from previous visits. I wish more restaurants were this diligent.

L'Espalier's Restaurant Week lunch menu this time was not too different from our previous visits — soup or salad; pork or salmon; dessert of chocolate or fruit — but that isn't a bad thing. There are still seasonal elements, and new flavor combinations, that make each meal new.

Sarah's on a gazpacho kick, so she had to get that. It came with a saffron-infused crème fraiche and airy cucumber foam.

I ordered the salad, and ... I just realized something. The menu described it as:

And while it definitely had perfectly ripe melon, and fresh greens in a light yet creamy dressing that nicely complemented the shrimp, the dish was squidless. Last-minute change of plan or plating oversight?

As she has at the previous two L'Espalier lunches, Sarah ordered the burger, which came topped with pulled pork and Roaring 40s cheese (not oozingly melted this time, but rather in a satisfying chunk):

As I have at the previous two lunches, I went for the pork. This time it was belly, nicely varied in texture — crispy, meaty, fatty — which paired well with sharp pickled turnip and slightly bitter greens.

Oh, and with insanely lovely creamed corn, buttery and sweet, cooked only lightly so it still had a just-off-the-cob color and crunch.

And then dessert. Sarah chose the napoleon, which came deconstructed: chocolate and espresso mousse skewered with a wedge of puff pastry and finished with a swirl of intense blueberry.

My dessert looked almost exactly like Sarah's dessert from our last Restaurant Week lunch at L'Espalier.

That was then:

This is now:

Last time, it was blood orange, guava, lychee; this time, coconut, peach, lychee. Apparently their lychee supplier is persuasive.

So the question is: What happens next Restaurant Week? Back to L'Espalier for salad and pork, soup and burger, chocolate and lychee?

All signs point to well, duh.

Boston's food trucks: not ready to roll?

2010-08-08T15:58:00.002-04:00

I don't want to be one of those people who insists everything is better in California. In-N-Out is not as good as UBurger (there, I said it!) and Boston can certainly hold its own when it comes to cocktails (see Eastern Standard, Drink, Craigie, Green Street).

However, there is one area where Los Angeles trumps Boston: food trucks.

There aren't many food trucks in Boston yet. Okay, apart from around MIT, where students have been eating falafel, pizza and Thai chicken (and Frito pie) from mobile kitchens for years.

From the recent crop of upstarts, Clover is leading the field, but their trucks tend to stay in one place; FillBelly's wanders around but their Twitter feed isn't updated enough to be helpful. There are others, but they're similarly scattered across the city.

Today was Boston's first Food Truck Festival, held at the South End's SoWa Sunday market. It seemed like a great idea to bring all the food trucks of Boston to one place.

The Boy and I arrived about an hour after the festival opened, and wandered over to the first truck, which wasn't selling anything; Nantucket Wild Gourmet was using it to hand out samples of a velvety curried carrot soup and a vibrant salmon pate.

There were tented stalls selling everything from tea to peanuts to granola to cookies for dogs; there was lemonade, avocado tea bread, and gluten-free vegan lunches.

But I hadn't come for stalls. I wanted trucks. Problem was, there were only six actual trucks. I'm not counting the Taza Chococycle or the "Equal Exchange coffee trike."

As a result, the hundreds of people who, like us, had turned up to get food from a veee-hicle had only a few choices: ribs from M&M, chicken and waffles from FillBelly's, or a (some would say the) hot dog from Speed's.

The latter is a Roxbury legend. The line for a fabulous dog was 50+ people long.

We decided to brave the line for FillBelly's.

After a half-hour, we hadn't progressed an inch (apart from when people ahead of us gave up and left the line).

So we cut our losses and headed to Gaslight. And over Matin Martinis (made with marmalade), we remembered our Los Angeles food truck experiences, which included:

Garam masala chicken meatballs with coconut curry sauce and saffron rice from Great Balls on Tires:

Korean beef taco from KoManna:

And a spicy Jamacian beef patty in light, flaky pastry from Granny's Hot Peppa Steppa.

So how can Boston be more like LA? Do City regulations make it hard for trucks to roll? Is the audience for mobile kitchens here limited to students? Will trucks (or diners) be less likely to venture out in the depths of winter?

Or do we just have to give the concept a little more time, and allow an idea that's fully formed in other parts of the country to develop at a gentle New England pace?

I hope that's what it is, and that Boston's second annual Food Truck Festival will be a bigger success.

New pre-game ritual: Basho

2010-08-06T17:03:00.006-04:00

It's hard to get a table anywhere around Fenway on a game night, and harder still to find a non-sports-bar option.

I should rephrase that. Past tense. It used to be hard, but now there's Basho.

We walked in early on a Saturday night before a game. The weather was sticky and oppressive; Basho was cool and fresh, green and bamboo-y.

It was also empty, and at first we thought it wasn't open. But no; it's just that most people either don't know it's there or actually prefer a 20-minute wait for clam chowder and chili dogs at Remy's on an 80-degree day. Hey, it's a free country.

We had Japanese yam tempura, and — because I'd just read about a similar, doubtless more heavy-handed version cropping up at state fairs — avocado tempura.

There were deep-fried balls of crispy sushi rice topped with spicy tuna:

There were tiger rolls: eel and cucumber with salmon and squid, topped off with salmon roe, a lovely balance of textures and flavors:

And. There was. The. Steamed. Pork. Bun.

Not the usual filled nikuman, these were more like sliders: hand-sized and stuffed with sweet, fatty Korobuta pork and lightly pickled cucumber. It was good.

So good that when I went to lunch at Basho with work friends last week, I ordered the same thing. And they were still awesome.

The bento lunch boxes looked pretty good, too:

The one downside at lunch was slow, slow service. A 20-minute wait for food is not good when you only get a half-hour break. And when they messed up an order, it took another 15 for them to bring the right thing (which they at least comped, with many apologies).

I hope they work out the lunchtime glitches, because it would be a very civilized alternative to the desk-sandwich.

Last Basho bit: we were back there this week to celebrate a much-loved co-worker who is leaving for Denver (sob!).

The sadness at her departure was leavened by Basho's insanely good chicken balls, which are light, studded with vegetables, and coated with teriyaki sauce. I know I wasn't the only one wondering how many I could eat without drawing attention to myself, and whether more would be forthcoming once the plate was empty.

Basho is a huge space; for each of the visits mentioned here, we were in a different part of the restaurant. As well as the bar, dining room, and semi-private area with a 17-seater table, there's a sushi bar and a more private room.

It's big enough that the chances of not getting a table, even on a Saturday night in August, are highly unlikely.

In other words, there's no reason to stand outside anymore.

Pork for a good cause

2010-08-06T16:39:00.004-04:00

Monday was Redbones' Annual Pig Pickin’ and Benefit to support the Somerville Homeless Coalition. There was meat and cornbread and music; what's not to love?

Each of four porkers was cooked for 20 hours in a smoker like this:

These guys were pulling all the good stuff off the bones:

The menu:

From top left, clockwise: Pork belly; collards; pork skin; pork loin.

The meat, not surprisingly, was fantastic: tender and fatty and falling apart. The skin was blackened but not burnt; it was sweet and smoky, by turns chewy and crisp.

This kid was walking round with his souvenir for most of the night. You could tell he was fascinated by it. I assume his mom found it under his pillow the next day.

We missed the bluegrass band, which was just finishing up as we arrived, but we did get to see the Second Line Social Aid and Pleasure Society Brass Band play some good New Orleans sounds.

(I have to remember not to dance if I'm recording; it makes everything look as though I'm on a boat.)

And the event raised $9,000. A good night all round.

Two takes on Hollywood movie tours

2010-08-01T07:00:00.004-04:00

Just a couple more posts about our trip to LA, and then I'll stop. Promise.

We took two guided movie tours while we were there. The first was at the Warner Bros studios; a peppy young guide drove ten of us around in an electric cart and reminded us repeatedly to watch Two and a Half Men, Pretty Little Liars, and Chuck.

But he also showed us the backlots that are dressed up to represent a variety of locations — note New York subway station in foreground and Chicago "L" in background:

And he took us to a prop room that had the (or at least a) Maltese Falcon (which everyone else ignored):

And the coffee shop set from Friends (over which some in our group became visibly verklempt):

It was fun to see what goes on behind the scenes, and how sets are built, but it was also clearly one big ad for Warner's products. I guess I shouldn't have expected otherwise.

And then we did a movie location tour, courtesy of Dearly Departed.

They offer a few different options: you can take the Celebrity Scandal tour (Hugh Grant's embarrassing pick-up! George Michael's restroom!); the Nasty Nellie tour (Nellie Oleson from Little House on the Prairie shares her Hollywood secrets!) and our choice, the Hollywood Movie Tour.

Amazingly, we were the only people booked for this particular day, so we had tour guide Brian to ourselves. He was the antithesis of our by-the-book Warners' guide: irreverent, sardonic, and a wealth of information about Hollywood movie history.

Yeah, we liked him.

The bus had a built-in video screen, and Brian had a DVD of movie clips that put each real-life location in context.

He showed us where scenes from Glen or Glenda, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and Ed Wood were shot (and also where Ed Wood worked). He pointed out that Joe Gillis's apartment in Sunset Boulevard looks exactly the same today as it did in the movie.

He drove us past the fabulous John Sowden House, used in The Aviator and possibly where the Black Dahlia's killer lived.

He took us to the last-of-its-kind Gilmore Gasoline service station, which he and a group of Hollywood preservation enthusiasts are trying to save.

And he shared movie star gossip (Mae West! Bette Davis! Angelyne!).

It was great to get a movie tour from someone so passionate about Hollywood, and the realization that so many scenes are shot in real places (I know, duh) has made me more observant of backgrounds and locations when I watch films.

(Is that a real restaurant? Let's check Google Maps. Hey, it is! They're in Venice Beach! Wait, what just happened? I wasn't paying attention ...)

Animal: Would you like some meat with your meat?

2010-07-25T08:45:00.008-04:00

Back in April, the New Yorker published a piece about two longtime friends ("the Bill and Ted of the Los Angeles culinary scene") and their restaurant, Animal.

By the time I'd finished the article (" ... maple-sausage gravy and foie gras ..." "... lamb-tongue ravioli ..." "... experimenting with veal testicles ...") I knew: I wanted to go to there.

So when we were planning our California trip, much like with San Francisco and Chez Panisse, reserving a table at Animal was the next step after booking the hotel.

This is one of those times when I'll just let the food do the talking.

Here's the room: sparse, clean, well-lit.

(The guy in the white jacket standing at the bar is Daily Show correspondent Josh Gadd, who had recently filed a rather relevant story. He was the 0.5 of our 1.5 celeb sightings in LA.)

To begin, a plate of head cheese, mixed with vinegary ramps and topped with three nuggets of sweet cornbread:

And rich, deep chicken liver pâté on toast.

Next, pig's ear, sliced thin, fried crispy with chiles, finished with lime, topped with a fried egg.

This was perfectly balanced: just as the heat threatened to become overwhelming, the citrus kicked in and took over. And mixed with warm egg yolk? Crispy heaven.

We'd only ordered one more dish — the oxtail poutine — but figured we could always get something else.

And then it came.

Big soft fries, soaking up rich, complex gravy and tender meat, with cheddar cheese pulling the whole thing together. It was awesome, over the top, decadent, potentially fatal.

So rather than ordering more meat, we skipped to dessert. Something nice and light. Pound cake with strawberries? Dulce de leche, perhaps, or panna cotta with nectarines?

Nope.

Bacon-chocolate crunch bar. Dark and sweet, salty and smoky. Sweeter than the Vosges bar, and better balanced, perhaps because there were other flavors to even out the contrast (nuts, plus a salt-and-pepper crème anglaise).

In the same way dinner at Au Pied de Cochon is a necessary part of our trips to Montreal, I suspect all future visits to Los Angeles will automatically include a meal at Animal.

Sooo ... when can we go back??

Stoddard's Pub, Boston: pros and cons

2010-07-25T07:15:00.006-04:00

Let's start with the good stuff.

Pros
Fantastic charcuterie plate.

(Not a great shot; had to use the flash because the place is extra-dark.)

Delicately seasoned sausage studded with sliced, soft-boiled quail egg; thinly sliced fresh pastrami; an earthy rabbit liver pâté; a solid pâté de campagne; and various other terrines, rilletes, and cured meats.

Mabe I'm going out on a limb, but this was one of the best charcuterie plates I've had in a long while (aside from Eastern Standard's, whose selection, at least this week, included a rabbit liver pâté that looked like glossy chocolate mousse and was thick enough to stand a spoon in):

Cons
Wait — are there any other upsides to Stoddard's? They do have an extensive beer list that includes local brews (from Cape Ann Brewing, Pretty Things, Cisco) as well as a range of European pilsners, ales and stouts.

That it? Okay then:

Cons
Guess what this is:

Water? Nope. Sprite? No, but close; it's a French 75. Note the plastic straw.

(This was how it looked at the end our dinner, so most of the ice has melted.)

Now, I don't pretend to be a master mixologist, so I checked a few recipes on my bookshelf and online. And some do call for ice. But this was way too much, overwhelming the flavors of the ingredients; it tasted like chilled lemon water. (And none of the recipes suggested serving in a hurricane glass.)

I think I was most disappointed because the cocktail menu implied an awareness of the current revival (Moscow Mule, Jack Rose, Pegu Club). But our drinks — The Boy had some kind of Sour that was similarly dressed — suggested someone was cutting corners Archimedes-style to save a few bucks.

Interestingly, the Stoddard's list on MenuPages features dozens more cocktails than currently appear on the menu, so at some point they decided to scale back their more ambitious approach.

The rest of the food was good, not great. I had a spicy, juicy merguez in a toasted hot dog roll, served with dry, hardening fries; The Boy went for pork loin, which was tasty but overcooked, served with grilled asparagus and sad, gluey grits.

So what have we learned? Stoddard's is probably great if you just go to pair the charcuterie plate with some interesting beers. Also if you're with a crowd and you want to be able to get loud.

But otherwise? Many better places to choose from.

Carolyn Tillie makes tasty jewelry

2010-07-19T21:35:00.007-04:00

We met a lot of cool people in San Francisco. One of my favorites was Carolyn Tillie.

Why? Two words: Food jewelry.

She had a stall at the Fillmore Jazz Festival (where we also discovered BBQ oysters and Spam musubi). I saw the teeny cupcakes and tiny sushi sets from a distance, and had to stop.

Carolyn has a background in metal work and food — how perfect is that? — and she sources her ingredients from doll-house suppliers and Japanese gumball machines (I imagine her stalking video arcades in Tokyo with fistfuls of coins).

I couldn't decide: the pendant of frosted macarons?

Or the tiny vegetables?

The jewelry Carolyn makes influences what she eats. "When I was working with sushi, I ate a lot of sushi," she said. "When I did the cakes, I ate a lot of cakes."

She held up a Ziplock bag packed with doughnuts, frosted, sprinkled, each tinier than a fingernail. "Now I'm working with doughnuts." She pointed to another Ziplock, this one filled with fresh snow peas. "I have to pace myself."

Every piece was perfect, delicate, delicious. While I browsed, we chatted. Carolyn has a number of blogs; her current project is Fried Dough Ho, a love letter to the ways various cultures translate, create, and celebrate deep-fried yeasty goodness.

And then I saw it: not the tiny cupcake pendant or the chopsticks with maki, but the beans.

The necklace of real beans, heirloom beans, Rancho Gordo beans, laquered and threaded onto silver posts, strung on black stainless steel.

I had to have the bean necklace.

Mine is slightly different to the version on Carolyn's website; it has a big jewel of a Christmas lima bean as the showcase.

The necklace makes me think of slowly braised stews, of thick, rich cassoulets, of buttery bean purée.

I'm just waiting for the accompanying salt pork bracelet and garlic earrings.

Lunch at Chez Panisse, finally

2010-07-18T06:55:00.006-04:00

I don't know quite when I first became aware of the existence of Chez Panisse — I'm guessing it was some time in the past 15 years or so — but it seems as though I've been quizzing Bay Area residents and visitors about the place for as long as I can remember.

So when we were planning our San Francisco trip, the sequence of events was: book flight, book hotel, book Chez Panisse. Everything else was secondary.

As it was, the only available reservation was an early Monday lunch. That worked out fine, as we were due to head out for Monterey that day.

So on Monday morning we checked out of the hotel, picked up the rental car and drove straight to Berkeley.

Chez Panisse is on one of Berkeley's main streets, in a stretch heavy with bakeries, restaurants and boutiques. It's set back from the street behind a leafy patio entrance.

The Cafe is Mission style: simple and elegant.

The lunch menu was similarly simple: celery soup with lemon and black pepper; halibut tartare with fennel and Meyer lemon vinaigrette; pizza with wild nettles and ricotta salata.

We started with salads. For The Boy, local rocket (oh, let's just assume local everything, shall we?) with prosciutto and egg and a zingy mustardy dressing.

For me, baked Andante Dairy goat cheese, warm and creamy and rich.

(How I know I've been spoiled by JJ's educational ONCE dinners: when I asked the waitress whether the cheese was local, I expected, "Yes, the goats are called Snowy and Sprinkles, and they love to eat clover and watch Jeopardy." Instead, she just said, "Yes.")

Next, The Boy went for a firm, flavorful sea bass with fresh corn and a bright tomatillo sauce:

And I. Had. Spaghetti.

Here's the thing: I never order pasta. It fills me up too fast, and I end up leaving half the plate. But the promise of housemade spaghetti with fresh pesto and cherry tomatoes seemed the most perfect combination. It wasn't supposed to be clever or creative or pretentious, but simple, with each flavor complementing the rest.

The spaghetti was light and delicate; the pesto was balanced and vibrant; the tomatoes were tiny bombs of sweet juice; the cheese gave depth and pulled everything together.

I almost finished the whole dish.

And we had to have dessert. It was a toss-up between the plum tart and the ice cream/fruit combo. We shared the latter: insanely flavorful raspberry ice cream and summery nectarine sherbert with fresh nectarines and berries.

I hadn't been quite sure what to expect from Chez Panisse. Was it going to be the Best Meal Ever? Was it going to revolutionize the way I thought about lunch?

As it turned out, the answers were No and No, but I don't think that was the goal.

Alice Waters has been thinking/growing/cooking local for as long as I've been alive; that so many others do the same today is in great part a testament to her passion. So when I eat at Craigie or Henrietta's or Hungry Mother (or listen to JJ talk about the importance of knowing where your food comes from), I'm benefiting from Waters's sustained influence.

Lunch at Chez Panisse was not about discovering something new; it was about understanding the link between that restaurant's heritage and the way some of my favorite chefs think about food.

A lot of people owe a debt to the Chez Panisse philosophy, myself included.