Make More Ice Cream

I decided not to wear my snow boots and sure enough, three minutes after I left the hotel, it began to snow. It was still dark and as I turned the corner it became evident that I was the only one walking down the snow dusted street. Snowflakes clung to my hair, scarf, and sweater and I shoved my cold bitten hands into my pockets while asking myself the question, how did I get here? Of course I knew the answer, I was here (here being Penn State at College State PA) because of my one and only New Years resolution: to make more ice cream. It was an easy enough resolution, ice cream eating being one of my favorite occupations followed closely by ice cream making. When I read about Penn State's Ice cream 101 quick coarse, I knew it would be a wonderful opportunity to fulfill my resolution. I immediately signed on and three swift weeks later BAM, I was walking down Park Ave wondering what other kinds of folks fancy the idea of dedicating an entire weekend to their worship of frozen dairy products. Certainly not the type that considered it wise to walk twenty minute in the snow at 7am, I thought to myself as snow inched up between my sock and my swede shoe. I did not know it yet, but this peaceful walk was the calm before what was to be a fifteen hour whirlwind of dairy drenched lectures, demonstrations, and taste tests. All I can say is, La Vida Es Dura.

to be continued...

Can't Decide What To Have For Diner Spring Rolls

Do you ever have one of those days where it's almost impossible to drag yourself out of bed? Not so much because your lazy, but because you can't bear the knowledge that you will be required to make decisions from that point on. It's one of those days that, once you do manage to drag yourself from bed, it takes you twenty minutes to decide what you are going to eat for breakfast, what socks your going to wear, and the all-overwhelming decision, now what?

Don't get me wrong, its not that when I am faced with a day off I have a shortage of things to do, quit the opposite. Its almost as though I have too many things to do, things I want to do, things I have to do, things I should have already done but haven't... Yet somehow when I am blessed with the time to accomplish just a few of these things, I end up frittering away the hours deciding whether or not to go out for a run or go to the gym, to go out to the movies of stay home and clean, or even to buy crunchy or creamy peanut butter.

Nothing is more unbearable, once one has it, than freedom is what James Baldwin once wrote. Well today I had a day of total freedom and it took everything within me not to be consumed by it. Each decision I faced like a pouty little girl who has been forced to take her medicine: coffee or tea? Tea, I guess. Yogurt or oatmeal? fine, oatmeal! Laundry or grocery shopping? Oh I don't know!
By the end of the day I had exhausted my decision making capabilities, and so when it came time to decide how to prepare the ingredients I had purchased, I turned to my pantry for help and it came in the form of...
Spring Roll Skins allow you to dump all of your ingredients in the center, roll them up, and eat them. It is a great way to redesign leftovers, and an even better way to prevent having to work out too many culinary details. You can prepare the rolls ahead of time, store them in your fridge, and simply slice them into bit size pieces and serve with your favorite dipping sauce. Here is how I served mine.
1.I prepared a salad with fennel, cucumber, pickled onions, orange slices and a chili, pomegranate, and rice wine vinaigrette.
2.I fried up some wild boar sausage and sliced some avocado and,3.Heated the spring roll skins one at a time in a bowl of hot water, then filled them up with all the yummy ingredients and wallah

Can't Decide What to Have For Diner Spring Rolls Now if only I could decide what to have for dessert.

A Breif Meditaion on Chocolate Redux

I can’t say that I remember my first time. I was exposed at an inappropriately early age and have never fully recovered. It is as though that first fateful experience is housed deep within the musky caverns of my subconscious and with each new encounter is released, for but a moment, to thrust upon my senses the recollections of that all-enveloping rapture. The sensation is that of a sharp intimate blade cutting right through the center of the palette, leaving on one side a dry and tannic piquancy and on the other, a warm, sweet, and voluptuous earthiness. With each inhalation, the threading aroma blossoms sending out bouquets of nostalgic harmonies that erupt in the fingers and toes. It is then that it strikes, the final and singular thunderous clap of gratification. I open my eyes, my senses are clear, my mind is keen, and I am ready for another bite.

Thai Red Curry, Peasant Style

After My Free Will, Thai Food, And The Powers That Be - Part II entry, a reader (and friend) kindly asked for the recipe for the Thai Red Curry which was featured in the post. To be honest with you, when I make curry, I rarely work form a recipe, so it's sort of impossible for me to post detailed instructions. What I can do, is retrace my steps for you and give you a list of ingredients.

Thai Red Curry, Peasant Style

Ingredients
2 Boneless chicken Breasts, sliced into thin strips
1 large carrot, julienned
1 zucchini, julienned
1 red onion, sliced
1 cup of snow peas
1 stalk of lemongrass, sliced very thin
ginger, shredded
lime
basil
chicken or vegetable broth
1 small can of coconut milk (use a large one if you like it creamy)
fish sauce
shrimp paste
red curry paste
sea salt
honey
sesame oil
crushed peanuts for garnish

Basically I start by cooking the chicken a bit before adding the veggies, this it to ensure that they don't get over cooked. First I place a non stick pan over a med-high flame, let the pan heat before adding the oil, then let the oil heat before adding the chicken. The chicken cooks for 2-3 minutes before I add the onions, followed by the carrots a minute or two later.

Once the onions and carrots have begun to sweat a bit I add the snow peas and toss. The zucchini goes in last because it is very sensitive and cooks very fast. Once I add the Zucchini I toss the ingredients once or twice before adding enough broth to cover the veggies.

Once the broth begins to boil, reduce the heat, add lemon grass and ginger, and begin seasoning. If you don't have lemongrass or ginger, don't worry about it, I'm not even sure if they are traditional ingredients. I just add then because I like them.

This is were it gets hard for me to instruct because I do everything by taste and rarely keep track of how much of what I am using. Start by adding 2 tablespoons of fish sauce, 3 of shrimp paste, 3-4 of curry paste, and 2 of honey. From here you can taste it an see for your self. Is it too bland, then add some salt. Still too bland, then add more fish sauce or shrimp paste. Not spicy enough, then add another tablespoon of curry paste.

A note on seasoning: Now I know what your thinking and, trust me, it won't work. I remember once I was in a Thai food restaurant, and I over heard the woman next to me order her curry 'with out fish sauce.' So many people love Thai Food, but they have a big aversion to fish sauce. Well I've got news for you, it simply isn't good Thai food if it does not have fish sauce in it. You may not like the idea (or the smell) but if you like Thai Red Curry, then you like fish sauce. It adds a richness and a depth to you sauce that is imperative, so get over it.

Another note on seasoning: This step is not going to be the final step. Remember that after this, you are going to add coconut milk (simmer 1-2 minutes) , then lime juice and zest and fresh basil leaves, so don't go too crazy when seasoning. If it does not have all the layers of flavor before, it certainly will after these last few ingredients.

One last note on seasoning: If you live in New York, you can get your fish sauce, shrimp paste, and curry paste at Kam Man at 200 Canal Street. If you don't live in NYC, then try looking at some local food blogs, or try ordering on line. Also, you can make you own curry paste (Prik- Kaeng) if you have a blender or food processor, here is my recipe:

Prik- Kaeng
9 dried chillies sliced (seeds removed)
1/2 cup shallots, sliced
1/4 cup of garlic, sliced
1/4 cup lemongrass sliced
1 lime, thinly slice the rind
2 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp fennel seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds (all three toasted )
1 tbsp black pepper corns
1 tbsp shrimp paste
1 tbsp tomato paste (optional)

Blend until it becomes a paste.

If there are any questions Kara, or anyone else, just let me know.

The Epiphany, and Why I Love The French

The Epiphany is a Catholic Holiday that signals the end of the Christmas celebration, and marks the day the three Kings of Orient finally decided to bring presents to the newly born Baby Jesus. Of course I had no idea about any of this until a few day ago when my friend and co-worker, Regine, after whom I named my truffle, told me I was to meet her at Patisserie Claude at 3:30 pm the next day. Though she did explain to me the reason for the meeting, due to her fragmented manner and fabulously thick French accent, I was still a little confused. As far as I understood I was to meet her, Jacque, and ‘the girls’ (whoever they were) at Claude’s and we were to eat cake while the youngest sat under the table. Hm? It was clear that I was missing something, but when Regine tells you to meet her somewhere, you meet her, and when she doesn’t make any sense, you don’t ask questions.

The next day, when I arrived at Claude’s, Regine was already in line picking up three cakes and Jacque was impatiently sitting at a table. “Hello Mado” he said leaning in and kissing me on both cheeks. It was clear from the cake boxes we would not be eating them on the premises. But where were we going and where were the girls. Regine came over to the table and started speaking to Jacque in French, they both seemed very anxious and were staring out the window. “ So,” I said reverting the attention back to our current circumstances, “ we are waiting for the girls, and then…” Regine turned her attention towards me while Jacque continued to look out the window, “ then we will go to the café” she told me, assuming that I knew the rest. “ And then what? “ I asked feeling like a simpleton. “Oh” Regine said putting her hand to her mouth, “ I thought you already knew. Oh, yes of course you don’t know…” she said looking at me with sympathy. Now realizing that I was a silly American who knew nothing of her French customs and mischief, Regine explained the whole thing to me in great detail.

Basically, the French have taken this highly religious holiday and used it as an excuse to eat cake, and that is why I love the French. Not just any cake however, Galette des Rois, which translates as, King’s Cake. Each Galette des Rois comes with its own paper crown, and inside each there is one fava bean – or now a days a figurine of some kind. According to tradition, the oldest is to cut the cake, and the youngest is to sit under the table and designate to whom each piece goes (this is to prevent cheating I suppose). Once distributed, everyone eats their slice of cake and whoever gets the bean is designated King for the day and gets to wear the paper crown.

Once 'the Girls' arrived, Anjel, her daughter Gala, and surprise guest Carlito, we were on our way to the cafe to kick some epiphany ass. Thanks to Global warming, the weather was pleasant enough for us to cut the cake outside. Jacque, being the oldest cut the cake and Gala, the youngest, sat under the table and designated the recipient of each slice. Once distributed, we all eat our cakes looking around curiously, each of us wondering who got the bean.
Once the cake was finished everyone looked at each other dumbfounded. "Who got the bean?" someone demanded. " Did we not get one?" another asked anxiously. At that moment Jacque began to smirk and we all knew we had found our King.
I must admit, I was more than heart broken when I finished my slice and no fava bean did I find. How I would have loved to wear the crown for a day and to boss everyone around.
Now I know what your thinking, and its not that way. The King was not dethroned, and I did not steal his crown. As it turns out, Jacque was a much more gracious King than I would have ever been and he decided to shared his crown with those of us less fortunate than he.

Free Will, Thai Food, and The Powers That Be - Part II

Alright. So your probably wondering why it is that you are staring at a picture of fast food nachos when last I told you I was standing in front of the Mermaid Inn getting ready to wash down half a dozen oysters with a couple of glasses of Sancerre. I have to admit that I too found myself wondering, how did this happen?

So how did it happen?
We walked through the front door of the Mermaid Inn and were greeted by an overly cheery host. “Did you guys want to sit down and eat?” she asked us bursting with glee. I shook my head yes, “ well you can’t, because the kitchen is closed.” Her unapologetically dopey smile threw me and I could not for the life of me figure out if she was being malicious or was slightly brain affected. I looked over at Andrew, his face was now twisted into a disgruntled knot and his eyes were glowing red with anger. “ Yes I know, we had a table a Thai Son” I replied, placing my hands in the air in defensive fury. It was overtime alright.

Now at this point, it was clear that we had only two options. The first was to throw in the cards and go home with empty stomachs. Because I've never been much of a , go home with an empty stomach kind of girl, so we opted for the second, Veselka, the funky Ukranian diner on 9th st and second ave. Veselka has really been there for me over the years. There Challah French Toast was a breakfast staple when I was living down town. It has also served as a late eating spot after a night of drinking. Their chicken soup has been a great comfort on may a cold night and, most importantly, Veselka has always, always been there for me when other dinning plans get shot to hell. It is part of the collective unconscious of this City that, when all else fails, there is always Veselka.

And so, like a couple of refugees seeking asylum from our own bad luck, Andrew and I walked threw the front door of Velselka only to find the counter full, and a huge line up for tables. " I can't believe this!" shouted Andrew, finally losing his temper. "It's pretty unbelievable" I replied lacking the sustenance for an energetic answer. This is when Andrew kicked it into high gear. He leaned over and began clapping his hands together like a football coach, "So here is what we are going to do." he shouted like a drill sargent, "We are going to go down the block to San Loco, get an order of nachos and some beers and wait it out. This will clear up in a half hour or so." And that is how I went from oysters to melted cheese sauce and a card board carton of chips.

Eventually, around midnight, the powers that be must have put down their ping pong paddles and called truce because Andrew and I finally made it to Veselka and enjoyed a fabulous second course of Chicken Soup and Perogies accompanied by Obolon beer.
That night I went home with a full stomach and a humbled ego. From then on, when sitting down to a meal that I decided to eat, at the restaurant I decided to eat it at, I would remember that it was not only my will that got me there, but the graciousness of the Gods who allowed my wishes to be fulfilled. Going to sleep that night, I couldn't help but feel a little nostalgic, a little sad. It was as if somewhere within the remodeling of my faith from my will to a higher power, I had lost something important, something genuine.

That night I dreamed of lemongrass , chilies, and the sweet smell of basil, and when I woke up I had made an important desicion. This ping pong game was far from over! I raced down to Canal street to Kam Man (and Asian food market that carries everything from shrimp paste and pig ears all the way to glazed ceramics) to pick up a few essential ingredients, then I swung by a the Park Slope Food Coop to pick up the fresh produce I would need to finally take my dining fate back into my own hands. How did I finally do it? How else, I made my own Thai Red Curry.
The Curry was great, but what was even better was having my faith restored to its original residence, my will. Oh the sweet smell of success bears a striking resemblance to aroma of the sweet basil in my Thai Red Curry.

Free Will, Thai Food, and The Powers That Be - Part I

I like to think that I'm rather talented at exercising my free will in the province of eating. When I was a young girl, I decided that I could not bear to eat anything brown because it looked like dirt, and you better believe that not one piece of pumpernickel passed my lips, not one meat ball shared the plate with my spaghetti, and not one brown M&M did I consume - the latter clearly benefiting my closest friends. Once I had come to the conclusion that my childhood phobia was not only silly, but also restricting, I simply began eating brown food as though I had been eating them all along.

As an adult I have taken my powerful resolve and used it to overcome other food aversions such as squid, sushi, and tomatoes (yes I used to hate tomatoes). All of these foods I now like and partake in on a regular basis. It brings me great joy to know that it was my iron will that was responsible for my current culinary liberty. This is exactly why I found my experience the other night so completely disturbing.

It all began Sunday afternoon when I was suddenly struck with a craving for Thai Red Curry. Not knowing of any good Thai Food Restaurants in my neck of the woods, I called a fellow dining companion of mine Andrew Anderson and made plans to meet him at Pongsri on Baxter Street. " Don't be late" I told him. Of course I was 15 minutes late myself and when I got off the train was not at all surprised to see that he had left me a message - this is were it all heads south - In his message he informed me that Pongsri had a line-up out the door and that he would be waiting for me at Thai Son, a Vietnamese Restaurant down the block. Now, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I had my heart set on Thai Curry. My craving was so strong that it drew me from the comforts of my Brooklyn apartment into the rainy, windy, and cold Manhattan night. I was not ready to give up just like that so, after some deliberation, I convinced Andrew to give up our table and take a cab the other Pongsri on 18th street and 2ave.

As the cab slowed to a stop in front of the restaurant, there was no mistaking it, it was closed. My heart began to sink when Andrew interjected, “Wait! I have an idea. Don’t stop the meter.” He had the cab driver take us to East Village Thai on 7th street, a hole in the wall place that happens to make some of the best Thai Food in NYC. The cab let us out on the corner and I was scared to glance down the block to see if it was opened. Andrew wasn't. “All I’m gonna say is that we had a table at Thai Son,” I looked at Andrew now drenched and shivering in the rain, “were it was warm. And dry!” I understood why he was upset, but how could I have ever known what was in store? How was I to guess that some higher power, some outer force would be governing the events of my evening and cutting off my efforts at every turn? It was hard to understand. “Alright then, screw Thai Food. What about Oysters?” as I said this Andrews eyes began to glimmer and the corners of his mouth turned up as if attempting a smile.

Hungry and cold, we walked the three blocks to The Mermaid Inn, each of us swimming in our own thoughts. When we arrived, we glanced inside at all the people eating, and drinking in the soft glowing lights. Through the rain streaked window, the dinning room appeared to radiate with laughter and warmth which only further corroborated the bitterness of our current circumstances. Andrew and I looked at one another and nodded, it may have been a long journey, but we were now standing at the threshold of a comforting meal.

It was 10pm, two hours after our original meeting time, and I felt as though I had learned an important lesson: your will, no matter how strong, can only take you so far when you happen to be the ping pong ball in a table tennis match between the powers that be. Little did I know, this table tennis match was about to go into overtime...

To be continued.

Celebrating The Post Holiday

According to my blog, The Gourmet Peasant hasn't done much in the way of celebrating the holiday. And though it is true I worked both Christmas Eve and day, I did manage to cling to the tail end of Christmas - known across the pond as Boxing Day. To celebrate the day after Christmas, I invited fellow employees and friends to a Boxing Day brunch complete with Mimosas, Quiche, Crepes, and Gingerbread. To make the event as casual as possible I imposed a Pajamas only dress code. Did everyone follow the dress code? No, a few very lame people showed up in regular garb using the, in some cases valid, excuse that they sleep in the nude. As it turns out there is no better way to enjoy a Mimosa than in the very clothes you woke up in, and no I don't sleep in the nude. To document the event, I planned on shooting a video much in the same vein as my Thanksgiving Jive Turkey video, requiring all my guest to preform embarrassing acts in front of the camera. In the end, having way too much fun and drinking way too many Mimosas to bother with such a challenging task, I dropped the ball. No pictures were taken nor video shot of the occasion. All I can say is, thank goodness there was someone who managed to complete their holiday documentation. Check out A Likely Story's Christmas With the Welles for a jolly post Christmas laugh.

Stand Clear of The Closing Doors Please

I am very sorry to inform you that, at approximately 1:30am Wednesday morning , the rat of whom I wrote the entry entitled, Sidewalk Food Chain (for the sake of this story let us call the rat Harvey), was sadly crushed between the car doors of a Manhattan bound L train. Authorities are still trying to asses whether Harvey's mysterious death is the result of foul play, a successful attempt at suicide, or simply a tragic accident. Regardless, let us all take this as a lesson that those train conductors really do mean business when they shout out over the crappy loud speaker, "Stand clear of the closing doors please!"

Think About it, Angelina

A few weeks ago I wrote about how I would like to spend my last supper alive only to, two days later, receive this disgruntled e-mail from an old friend.

Maddy,
After getting to know some very nice cows in Switzerland and eating every dairy product ever conceived by man for a month, I have returned home to check your website.... Only to find that I wasn't mentioned as a crucial attendee at your last supper! What the hell, Maddy? Is it because I would only eat yogurt with cottage cheese? But I would eat a lot of it, for you, if you were passing away! Maybe I'd even bring a goat. Is AARON gonna bring a goat? Think about it, Madeline.
I can't believe this,
Angelina

After rereading my entry, I was surprised to find that I had neglected to mention my beloved friend Angelina. No ‘last supper’ dinner party would be complete without her and so I am writing this entry as a kind of public apology for my appalling oversight. Angelina, you have to know that if I were to have one last meal here on earth, I would oblige you to sit morbidly by my side and stuff your face until you were ready to burst like a big balloon. But, since I failed to mention this detail in my entry, it is I who is obliged to prove just how crucial you are. How am I going to do that? Lets just say that I have never eaten cottage cheese before because the sight of it turns my stomach, but, just to prove to you how sorry I am, I am going to eat this entire container for dinner, even if it makes me vomit. Now, is Aaron going to do that for you? Think about it, Angelina.

Rustic Charm

I grew up in the city and many aspects of life in the mountains remain a novelty to me. Why just last night, as my mother and I soaked in her hot tub and studied the night sky, I could not help but become a tad bit anxious every time I heard the rustling of leaves or the snapping of branches. Is it a bear? I wondered looking over my shoulder then at my mother for a sign of anxiety or alarm. She seemed cool as a cucumber though, so I did all that I could to extinguish my worries and enjoy the evening. “ I used to be worried about having a run in with a bear out here, but this time of year there’s no reason to worry” she said having read my mind. “ Why don’t you have to worry anymore?” I asked, my previous concerns reawakened. “Well by this time of the year all the bears are in hibernation.” I leaned back in the hot tub and giggled a bit at my own urban foolishness. The frosty December wind grazed the top of the scalding water and created a steamy fog through which we observed the sky so full of stars.

I have been visiting my mother upstate for about ten years now, and still my visits up here always turn into mini adventures. Going for a jog in Prospect Park I may have a run in with a pesky squirrel, but up here its wild turkeys and deer - yes, I am afraid of deer. They may seem like docile creatures, but when faced with the threat of a NYC jogger I wonder if any of them would have any qualms with skewering me with their antlers.
To me, stacking firewood is a pleasurable task that holds an almost rustic charm. To my mother it is just one more dreadful chore and so every fall I try and make it a habit to help her complete the job. This year we stacked together, vigorously attacking the messy pile of gnarly wood all the while Alma, my mother’s husky, howled for attention. We were not to play with her until the job was complete and so, feeling wrongfully neglected, Alma hopped up on her chair and put her back to the both of us.
As we worked I listened to the mellow symphony of winter, naked trees clanked up against one another, the barn let out a sad moan with every gust of frosty wind. It was then that I heard the noise. It was some sort of a guttural cry off in the distance that grew increasingly louder. There was a pack of animals headed in our direction, what kind, I had no idea. “Mom do you hear that?” I asked. “What? Hear what? I don’t hear anything.” She said slightly annoyed that I woke her from her task driven meditation. It was a freakish sound and hard for me to identify, not being accustomed to such noises. “You don’t have wolves up here, do you?” I asked growing more nervous as the cries seemed closer than ever. I looked around in all directions half expecting to see some kind of awkward beast – I was now certain that we were goners - but all I found were forest trees brittle with frost. I looked up to the heavens hoping for an answer and an answer I received. Geese. The crying noises were a flock of geese headed south for the winter and as I listened closer their cries took on new meaning, “fxxking cold” it sounded like ‘fxxking cold, fxxking cold” they squawked as they passed over head. I could not help but agree with them, it was awfully cold. Again, I laughed at my cluelessness and thought, if I had to choose one way to go, it would be being eaten by a bear in a hot tub as opposed to being attacked by a flock of geese while stacking wood, or charged by a killer deer while jogging.

Having finished the firewood, my mother and I took a rest before getting to work on yet another scrumptious vegetarian dinner, Everything But The Kitchen Sink Pasta, with roasted carrots, parsnip, tomatoes, kale, yellow peppers , walnuts, and Parmesan cheese.

Super Duper Yummy Vegeterianism

As you all know I am no vegetarian however, my mother and her boyfriend are. So whenever I plan on visiting, I bulk up on my meat intake in preparation for a weekend of splendid vegetarian cuisine. The general protocol goes as follows, I eat chicken, beef, or pork at least once, maybe twice a day for three or four days, then I board a bus headed for the Catskill Mountains ready for some serious veggie, legume, cheese and grain consumption. Oh, and lets not forget the chocolate. Upon arrival, my mother swoops up with her jeep and whisks me off to Adam's were we shop for our ingredients and come up with a dining game plan for the rest of my stay. This Saturday in particular was a special day because it happened to be her sixty second birthday and so we decided to make her Supper Duper Yummy Veggie Burgers. It doesn't need to be your birthday for you to make these simple and satisfying patties, neither do you need be a vegetarian to enjoy them for even the most devout meat eaters come back begging for seconds.

Super Duper Yummy Veggie Burgers
2 cups sweet onion, diced
2 cups, red pepper, diced
2 cups mushrooms, diced
1 cup of Parmesan cheese, shredded
1/2 cup of cheddar cheese, shredded
1 cup of bread crumbs
1 can of beans (whatever kind, I like white)
1/2 cup of chopped Parsley
1 Tbsp corn starch
1 egg
1 Tbsp Mustard
1 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce
salt
pepper

1.) Preheat oven to 425 F.
2.) Over a medium-high flame saute onions, mushrooms, and peppers until soft but not too browned. Let mixture cool.
3.) Once mixture is cooled add all the other ingredients and mix well. Do not add before the sauteed mixture is cooled!
4.) Take half the mixture and run it through the food processor then mix it back with chopped veggies.
5.) The mixture is not the easiest to work with because it tends to fall apart. What seems to work best is to construct the patties directly on a heavily oiled baking tray, brushing the tops with oil as well. Then place the tray in the freezer for an hour or so before placing them in the oven. If you don't have time for this it is okay, just place them directly into the oven.
6.) Bake in the oven for twenty minutes, then turn the veggies burgers over and bake for another ten minutes.

Now if you are as lucky as my mother then you don't have to worry about accidentaly dropping crumbs on the floor because, like her, you would have your very own canine vacuum/garbage disposal. Look at Alma hard at work waiting diligently to clean the floor of any food we happen to drop.

Regine Ain't No Jive Turkey!

You may see for yourself that this years Thanksgiving Turkey Jive was a great success. There were of course a few guests that managed to sneak out of there whirling, twirling, gyrating and beboppin' obligations. And then their were those who did participate, but in such a negligible fashion that we mustn't speak further about them (you all know who you are). What made the Thanksgiving Jive such a triumph were the participants that threw caution to the wind, got into the ring, and with great vigor, cut a rug Turkey style. There was one woman however, that did not have a chance to participate because she happened to be working that day, and when she found out about the Turkey Jive she simply had to indulge. Many of you are already familiar with chocolate enthusiast, Regine but for those of you who don't, her talents range from magical mixologist, expert chocolate eater, talented photographer to yes that right, Turkey Dancer extraordinaire.

Thanksgiving Postpartum and its Amazing Cure

Thanksgiving 2007 was a hit. After days and days of planning and prep the food came out without any hitches and Abraham and I not only managed to feed close to thirty people, we successfully over- fed them.
The space was just amazing, and Margeaux's handsome looking piñata had a political slant that help people let loose with out guilt.



Guests helped out in the kitchen,
they talked,
they ate and they sang, and even made out. But most importantly they danced.

What am I talking about, you ask. You see every year, after planning, prepping, and putting out dinner, my spirits swell, and then almost immediately shrink as I come to terms with the fact that one more Thanksgiving day celebration has passed me by (much of my time spent in the kitchen and not with my guests). As I look around the room at everyone drunk, merry, and fat, I always wonder, is it worth it? It is always the dancing footage that answers that question, Yes! It is worth it when you have a slew of friends that are willing to humiliate themselves in front of a camera in order to show their love, appreciation, or in order to demonstrate their uninhibited nature and swanky dance moves. Regardless of their motives it is the process of going over this footage in the days following Thanksgiving that helps pull me out of my postpartum lull. And so without further ado I present to you my number one reason for being Thankful,

An Impossible Decision

For those of us who work in the restaurant business, the week before Thanksgiving can be awfully bleak. While may people are fasting in preparations for massive amounts of gorging, others are drowning there sorrows over having to go home to deal with their dysfunctional families. Then there are the ones who are entirely consumed with planning, ah um! Either way none of them are thinking very much about splurging on extravagant dinners out and that is why my fellow employees and I got to playing a little game to pass the time.

It was slow and the night that dragged on in such a way that it actually seemed as though the clock was moving backwards, that was, until Guy, the restaurant host, asked the question that would torment me for the rest of the evening. "If you could only have two seasonings for the rest of your life, which two would you choose?" It seemed a simple question, and at first many of my favorite seasonings came easily to mind: Cardamom, Cinnamon, Vanilla, etc. It goes with out saying that one of the two would have to be salt, where would we be without salt for heavens sake..."don't forget that onions and garlic fall into the category of seasoning," Guy said interrupting my train of thought. Instantly my blood ran cold. "You mean I have to choose between onions and garlic?" I called out in dismay, "But, How? It's so cruel." Guy smirked, "Yeah I know, its like Sofie's Choice..." It was a disturbing analogy, and though it was not altogether appropriate (choosing hypothetically between onions and garlic can hardly be compared to choosing between ones children), it was, none the less, a horrific choice to consider making. After many a hour of internal bickering and torment I came to my decision, "Salt and onions" I boldly announced. "Are you sure?" Guy asked sniffing out my feigned confidence. " No, okay! I'm not sure... salt and garlic then.... no... oh never mind."
I never did choose between the two, and every day since I thank God or whoever that I haven't had to make the tough decision between these two 'unbearable options ".

On The Subject of Swine

Saturday morning Abraham and I found ourselves frying up nearly two pounds of bacon. Why we were tackling such a large sum of bacon for the moment must remain a secret . What I can tell you is that after about ten minutes of frying, the wafting smell of smoky pork fat drew my roommate from the comforts of her bad and deposited her on a chair in the kitchen where, like a cat, she waited patiently for us to throw her a scrap. In the meantime, Abraham and I learned a great many things about her own theories on Pork. After I laid down a large brick of hickory smoked bacon on the counter before her, she told me that, "You can tell by looking at that slab of bacon that was a very happy pig." She said this with great certainty and I gazed down at the alternating ripples of meat and fat and wondered what made her so sure. Regardless, it was a comforting idea and make my bacon frying all the more merrier.
Eventually my roommate's diligence paid off when we came across a slice of bacon too thick for our secret bacon project.
As she examined the hunk of meat she enlightened us further on the subject of swine, " You know that pigs are incredibly inelegant animals." Now I'm not trying to say that my roommate is not a morally conscious person however, a speech on animal rights seemed way out of character and I could not help wonder where the discussion was headed. "Its true" she said obviously sensing my hesitation. "They are smarter than dogs," she continued " and that means that when you consume pork you imbibe a sum of that inelegance." Wow! This Saturday morning bacon fry turned out to be way much more illuminating than I anticipated and after putting away three slices of bacon I must say I do feel a little bit more clever.

Thanksgiving Evolved

With friends visiting every week for out of town my life has been one grand carnival of eating out and partying late into the night. Needles to say, I have had precious little time to spend in my tiny yet beloved kitchen and when yesterday I began the process of making chicken stock in preparation for Thanksgiving I felt like I had been reunited with an old childhood friend- a friend with whom I will be spending plenty of time with over the next week.

Thanksgiving has always been something of a challenge, yet this year that challenge has evolved into something even greater. This year Charlotta, the owner of Chez Oskar and Chez Lola has agreed to let us have our annual shindig at Lola. There is a plus and minus side to this arrangement. The plus side being that I will be able to cook in a properly equipt kitchen and that Charlotta's guests will add some spice to the already peppery guest list. The minus side is that the guest list is much larger than years previous and still has the capacity to grow. Also, there happens to be three Restaurant owners on the list, two of whom have never celebrated this hedonistic American holiday. Does this make me nervous? Lets just say I have given up coffee this week for the benefit of my roommates and boyfriend. Mostly I am excited to see the evolution of Thanksgiving in action. We have come a fare way from the original Thanksgiving - a dinner party of six thrown in 1998.

The Beloved Side Dish Redux

The days before Thanksgiving are grow fewer and fewer, and the number of guests rises and falls, as does my confidence. Not only is this holiday a heap of work the day of, but the entire week leading up to the festivities is crammed with back-breaking preparations: grocery shopping, decorations, soups need to be made, sauces concocted… Another thing to consider is time, not only is it a lot of work, but its an outrageous amount of hours, hours that I simply don’t have!*!@?!

You see, what these ‘festivities’ do to me? In order to alleviate some of the Thanksgiving stress I decided something had to be done! I reviewed the menu and came to the conclusion that I must scale down on some of the higher maintenance side dishes. Number one on the list, Brussels sprouts sautéed in a port Dijon reduction and garnished with rustic shards of Parmesan. They are a beloved dish and have been a Thanksgiving staple for years, but replacing them with a simpler dish would lighten my load and also free up valuable space on the stove top. Most everyone took the news well, all except for Aaron that is.

Aaron has been one of my oldest Thanksgiving devotees; he is also one of my favorite people to cook for on account of his spirited responses to each and every bite he takes. “Diggidy-Dog!” he says shaking his head after a mouthful of soup. After a nibble of salad, he jumps from his seat gyrating and shrieking “Eurika!” like an epileptic Elvis. It would be inpossible for me to describe how he responds to freshly baked biscuits, or Turkey and Gravy. Lets just say that foods of all sorts have a profound impact on Aaron, but it is the Brussel sprout that that has inspired the most heartfelt response.

Many Thanksgivings ago, when I first mentioned to Aaron that I was thinking about making sprouts he was more than a little skeptical. You see Brussels sprouts have never been his favorite vegetable. In fact, I’d go as fare as saying that during his childhood, he had a damaging encounter with the unsuspecting sprout and was now, years later, still experiencing post-traumatic stress. Aaron has an adventurous spirit however, and is a good sport, “I’ll give them a try,” he told me as if he had agreed to eat an insect.

It is Aaron’s original response to this innocent side dish that makes his later response so astonishing. After his first bite, he became quite, tilted his head down as if in prayer, and sat that way for almost a minute. Then, out of nowhere, possessed by some external force - good or evil it was hard to decipher - he popped out of his seat and began to twist around as if experiencing both pleasure and pain. Everyone at the table sat quietly half expecting a miniature alien to burst from his stomach and dance across the table but no such entertainment was on the agenda. When he had completed the unscheduled performance, he sat back down and continued eating, hepping and hollering with every spoonful.

At first I was surprised with how well Aaron coped with the elimination of the notorious sprouts, “I understand,” he told me, “but only because I know you’re going to make them.” The certainty in his voice was chilling. “ They‘re just too much work, I don’t have the time,” I reiterated. But, with a sparkle in his eye, and with the grin of a car salesman, he grabbed my hand gently and in a comforting tone repeated, “ I get it, I do.” He took a deep breath, “But I know you're going to make them.” His certainty must have been less creepy this time because I instantly began reviewing the menu in my head one more time, trying as hard as I could to figure out how I could squeeze in the adored sprouts.

Rules of Das Boot

With my friend Kadie visiting from LA, I have been burning the candle at both ends trying to show her a good time while she is here - and selfishly aiming to convince her to move back to Brooklyn. There has been plenty of food, some good music, shopping, and a profuse amount of drinking. We have had Micheladas, tequila, and Tacos at Bonita in Fort Green, sampled various sangrias while listening to an incredible Puerto Rican Folk Jam session at Camaradas El Barrio in East Harlem, and have knocked back beers in many a New York Bar. But one of the highlights was German food and drink at Heidelberg Restaurant, introduced to us by Andrew.
Here is Andrew posing with Kadie,
The beer was good and the smoked Bratwurst was clearly the winner of the evening. The only thing that was missing was a list of house rules regarding Das Boot, an 80oz. glass boot of beer. Here are the list of rules Kadie and I came up with based on our experience with Das Boot.

Rules of Das Boot


1. When receiving Das Boot, please pay proper reverence.
2. Never lick Das Boot.
3. Always, and I mean always, hold on to Das Boot.
4. When drinking Das Boot, please remember to maintain proper, official, established, orthodox, and acceptable table manners.
5. Again, don't forget to hold on to Das Boot.
6. When you are finished with Das Boot please abstain from further drinking.
7. Never mix Das Boot.
( Thanks Abraham for giving us the example of what not to do when drinking Das Boot.)

Today is Kadie's last day here, and though I am very sad she has not decided to move back to New York, I am looking forward to a rest from all the partying. Adios Kadie, que nos vemos muy pronto!

My Super Last Supper

Because I am not always in the know about the goings-on in the world of publishing, I pretty much depend on my roommate, who is in the business, to keep me up to date with the latest foodie publications to hit the shelves. This week in particular happen to be a juicy one for I came home to find this book silently waiting for me on the dining room table. My Last Super, Melanie Dunea latest project, is a fascinating book that shares the way in which 50 great chefs would like to spend their “Last Super.” It is a morbid little game and each interview is complete with a revealing photo of the willing participants. Who is it that would prefer to spend their ultimate meal at home with only their wife drinking Hoegaarden beer and who would like to spend it conversing with an array of rock stars and film directors, Iggy Pop, and Martin Scorsese to name a few? If you want the answers you will have to swing by the book store yourself to find out. The photographs - Anthony Bourdain’s almost naked one being my favorite - are cleverly composed and the formatted questions - what would your last meal be? What would be the setting? What would you drink? Music? Accompaniment? - certainly had me pondering the details of my ultimate meal on earth. Here are the answers I have come up with thus fare, of course keep in mind that just about every hour my answers to these questions change entirely. It is not an easy game to play and I dare chanllange you to try it for yourself.

What would be your last meal on earth?
I would like to have a meal that consisted of all my favorite dishes from all of my
favorite types of cuisines; Biscuits and Gravy, Laab Gai, Mole Poblano, Pulpo
Verecruzano, Chicken tikka Masala, Duck Confit, Tapas, buttermilk Pancakes
Lots and lots of cheese (St Andre, Cambolozola, Mozzarella), fresh tangelos with
Homemade vanilla ice cream etc. Basically the meal would last from sunrise to sun
Set.

What would be the setting for the meal?
I like the idea of having a meal on the beach in Mexico, under a shady palapa, with an outdoor kitchen and a bonfire blasting on the beach.

What would you drink with your meal?
I would start with coffee in the morning, Micheladas during the day and, since I wouldn't have to worry about the hangover, a Hendrix Gin on the rocks or two before breaking into some wine red or white, would it matter? As the final meal came to a close, I would have to knock back an espresso and calvados or things would not be quit right.

Would there be music?
There would be a kick-ass band that could play salsa, guaracha, soul, funk, blues, jazz...Also my friends would be playing music, and when I had had enough Micheladas, I’d even join in myself.

Who would be your dining companions?
All of my favorite dining companions previously mentioned on this blog: My mother, Kara, Margeaux, Bernie, Abraham, Glynnis, Kadie, Aaron and many more who have not been previously mentioned.

Who would prepare the meal?
I would have a hand in making the food along with all my other friends and family who like to cook, my mother, Abraham to name a few. The more the merrier of course.