After years of research, an animal scientist looking for ways to keep inflammation down in cattle came up with a novel approach: feed them flax. The flax in their food helps keep animals healthy and has an added benefit for those who later eat their meat: omega-3 enriched beef.
I am terribly fond of martinis, Edward Gorey, and sleeping with many pillows.
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If you think these fuyu persimmons seem to be looking wide-eyed off into space, you’re wrong. They’re looking into the future– namely, theirs.
Shortly after this photo was taken, they were mercilessly vivisected and consumed by me, the author of this post.
I shall be doing the same to their brethren soon on that greatest of all American days of sharing and feasting– Thanksgiving. I like to think of this as a small step in personal growth. For me, not for the persimmons.
I had forgotten my promise of teaching him how to make Tarte Tatin, since it was about two lifetimes ago. I do, however, like to think of myself as a man of my word. So, Ron, though it’s about six or seven years after the fact, and you now live on the other side of the continent, I will do my best to answer your questions. By opening this up from a simple email into a blog post, I encourage others with more Tarte Tatin expertise to weigh in, if you like.
A few days ago, I got an email from our editor here at Bay Area Bites asking me if I would incorporate “in my own very special way” a Halloween theme into this week’s post. Rather than over think it, I decided to do the first thing that popped into my head:
A Jackie O. Lantern.
It was Maggie Smith. Maggie Smith and her cocktail parties. I don’t think my father had any idea what he was getting me into when he took me to see that picture.
What do you do when your oldest friend in the world hits a milestone birthday? For that matter, what do you do when anyone you really care about has a birthday?
You bake them a cake, that’s what.
While chatting with a friend the other day over lunch, the conversation turned to travel– where we’ve been, where we’d like to go, etc.
“Have you ever been abroad?” I asked my friend in a tone not unlike a half-soused society matron at a garden party. He nodded. I was expecting him to mention one of the usual places one goes to expand one’s global horizons, like France, or Italy, or Japan.
“Well, I lived in Luxembourg for three years.”
This wasn’t the answer I had expected, which both threw me and delighted me at the same time.
“Luxembourg? Seriously?” I had to admit that, over the past forty years, I had never given that country the time of day, except perhaps in thinking that it’s name gave the Benelux countries a decidedly luxurious ring.
Can you tell what is in the foreground of this blurry little image, shining like a diamond? It’s not a real diamond, you know. It is a piece of ice. Not just some run-of-the-mill, made by a cold, inhuman machine kind of ice. It isn’t even technically an iced cube and don’t you dare to call it one. It is, to my eyes at least, the Hope Diamond of frozen liquids. Why? Because it has given me 20 glimmering karats of hope at the end of a rather traumatic afternoon, that’s why.
Skordalia. Skor-dahl-YA. Please say it with me, because it is a word one should know, use, and use often. It is from the Greek skordalia, in case you were wondering.
Made from potatoes, olive oil, garlic, and more garlic, skordalia is a puree that may be served as a dip for bread or, even better, as an accompaniment to fried fish or roasted beets.
Sometimes, things have a way of just happening to you. When I woke up one morning several weeks ago, I found myself looking forward to a lazy Sunday afternoon, followed by an evening of cocktails, theater, and dinner with a few friends. If I had any plans apart from those, they were small ones– like wandering down the street to get coffee or sending off a few emails. Not once did I think to myself, “I think I’ll go get horse whipped by a severe-looking woman in a vinyl bustier and a Betty Page haircut.”
Are you as tired of hearing about the End-of-Times as I am? If one is to believe all the hullabaloo, we humans have slightly more than 3 years to live until catastrophe strikes.
I don’t care what you say, this is not hummus. It is called favosalata. If you insist on calling it hummus, I will persist in telling you that you are wrong, however politely.
Where I work, we are very good at pretending the customer is always right, even when he isn’t. I hear our guests make ordering blunders on a nightly basis, which isn’t surprising, considering the fact that our dinner menu is in Anglicized Greek. It’s downright confusing to the uninitiated. And, of course, un-Greek.
I decided to make ketchup. Why I chose ketchup is rather hard to say. I may have thought a lot about it, but I never said that my thinking wasn’t fundamentally flawed.
While discussing the possibility of making this condiment that the Reagan administration legally defined as a vegetable with my friend Jay, I was wondering aloud about how it was made. “Well, Mikey, ketchup doesn’t just happen, you know,” implying that somebody has to make it. Well, sometimes it does just happen. I decided to become that somebody who happens to make ketchup.
A terrible song has been going through my head for the past few days. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. I have some theories, but nothing concrete. I’ve been humming it at work and singing it in the shower, but it won’t go away.
So I thought the best way to get rid of it would be to share it with everyone I know.
It’s called “The Tapioca,” from the 1967 film Thoroughly Modern Millie, starring Julie Andrews, Mary Tyler Moore, and Carol Channing.
Yes, Swish Steak.
Among my cookbooks, there is a recent acquisition I consider to be the jewel in my crown– a must-have for anyone who fancies herself (or, of course, himself) Queen of the Kitchen: The Gay Cookbook by Chef Lou Rand Hogan* (Sherbourne Press, 1965).
The Gay Cookbook: “the complete compendium of campy cuisine and menus for men… or what have you” was first brought to my attention by Celia Sacks of Omnivore Books on Food, who had a copy proudly displayed in her store window the last time I visited. She always seems to know what will pique my interest.
This Portuguese dish is the forefather of Brazilian Churrasco, which goes back to the days when Portugal was a major world player (read: a very, very long time ago.) Espetada is typically served with skewers of tomato, onion, and/or zucchini or other squashes. This preparation deals exclusively with the meat. I however, think that onion and tomato are important to the success of this dish. Especially the tomato. Rub a bit of the charred stuff on some bread which has been soaked in the meat juice. You will thank me for it, I promise.
The graham cracker was created in tandem with the Graham Diet, which advocated fresh fruits and vegetables, whole wheat, and lots of fiber, and denounced meats, alcohol, and spices. Dairy was to be used sparingly. A forefather of Dr. Kellogg and his cornflake-fueled sanitarium, Graham firmly believed that a bland diet would prevent people from having impure thoughts and such a reduction would prevent masturbation (which Graham believed lead to blindness and insanity).
Yes, that is correct. The graham cracker was originally invented to curb sexual desire. I think that is a lot to ask from a cracker, don’t you?