Handle With Care

(cup cake, I meant I'll never bake another cup cake)
As I push ever-onward with dismantling furniture, packing boxes, and coming to terms with how much crap I actually own - clearly I packed this box prior to my morning cup of Joe - it dawned on me that, due the poor planning of me and the roommate, we will be without internet for at least a week. A WHOLE WEEK!

Now, I can't tell you what I find more disturbing, a week without internet, the fact that I am so distressed about a week without internet, or the fact that my kitchen looks like this. Without DSL and a place to cook, it is like living in some sort of a primitive state where you must read the paper to get the news and grab a slice of pizza to combat hunger. Do people live like this?

What I am trying to say is that I will be on vacation from blogging for the next week. Will I be sipping margaritas in a bikini near the shore? Ah No. More like pulling my hair out trying to figure out which box the coffee grinder is in. And I suppose you'd like to know whats up with the chickens, check back in a week and I just might tell you.

Meet me on the corner of...

Just one of the many reasons I love Red Hook Brooklyn.

Never Say Goodbye...

It's not easy, and it's never the right time, to tell a loved one - one that you have housed with for many many a year - that it is time to move on. Today I signed the lease on a new apartment and as I stood in my brand new beautiful open kitchen - unfortunately not the one with the sunken in wine fridge - I felt a momentary pang of guilt.

In the next week I would be packing up my old kitchen, stripping her of all her cookware, utensils, and glorious appliances before leaving her high and dry. Who knows how she will be treated by future tenants. Will she be neglected, or will she be loved as she was by me, its hard to say. All I know is that, as I push forward to newer and snazzier kitchens, I will never forget the time I spent in my modest little kitchen on Franklin, from which I have fed countless friends, family and acquaintances. It was in this kitchen that I began my chocolate merrymaking, that I suffered an indescribable obsession with cup cakes, and blissfully conducted forays in ice cream making and for that dear kitchen, you deserve a proper farewell...

I must be Dreaming

What can I say? It would be super if I had some wonderfully exciting reason for my AWOL status as of late, an impromptu trip to Tierra Del Fuego for example. Instead all I can do, is whine to you about complicated computer problems that, in the end, are not really all that complicated, and the pain, sorrow, and stress of finding a new apartment.

Yes I am moving, and hopefully it is into the AMAZING apartment I applied for today that just so happens to house my dream kitchen. How did the landlord know that I have always wanted a kitchen that opens into the living space, I'll never know. How did he ever guess that I love marble counter tops, stainless steal appliances, a stove with an air duct, and get this, a wine refrigerator that is sunken into the wall? Pinch me, I think I'm dreaming!

I am aware that I owe you an entry, or two, or three or four... and I promise you they are in the works. In the meantime, wish me luck with my application. I think I'm gonna need all the mojo I can muster.

Red Lips, Stained Teeth - The Skurnick Marathon

1:30 pm-
When I arrived, five minutes late, Robin was standing at the front door with a wine glass in hand, ready to get things started. "Well happy Birthday Madeline," he said with a cordial grin, "I hope you don't mind spending the day of your birth tasting wine with your boss." To be honest I was thrilled and simultaneously overwhelmed. It was my first wine tasting, and the Michael Skurnik portfolio tasting was more of a marathon than it was a tasting; over 700 wines from Australia to Austria, from South Africa to the South of France, all housed in a two room spread in The Puck Building - a humbling sight for a novice such as myself. Nevertheless, I gallantly clutched my glass and dove right in, beginning, quit appropriately due to the occasion, with the sparkling wines from Spain, New Mexico, and Champagne.

The first hour slipped by as we drank our way through Australia, South Africa, Argentina, and Chile with nothing too memorable other than a wonderfully rustic and attractively priced Bonarda from Huarpe/Lancatay, and a fairly interesting Chenin Blanc from Rudera Wines in South Africa.

2:30 pm-
It was not until I approached Italy that I realized how many tannin drenched miles lay ahead of us. There were nearly twenty-five Italy tables, each holding 4-20 bottles a table. Gangs of Chianti assaulted tasters, as fragrant flocks of Valpolicello romanced them, and the poised armies of Barolo rolled elegantly across their taste buds. By the time we reached Napa I felt as though I was breathing out mixed berries, violets, and hot tar. Ah, anyone have a breath mint?

3:30pm-
California, and Oregon were massive, and Robin and I speed threw making a few stops along the way to taste a Zinfandel here, a Cabernet there, and a few Chardonnays for good measure. The Dashe Cellars "Todd Brothers Ranch" Zinfandel stood out in my fledgling mind. It had presence with nicely balanced oak, and a long peppery finish. Minutes later the cherry and spice still lingered on my palette.

4:30pm-
Before I had time to contemplate all that I had encountered, I found myself on the precipice of of a new and distinct Land, the grand matriarch, France. A few highlights,

• The Domaine Mardon, 'Tres Vielles Vignes' Quincy had a powerfully flirtatious nose, crisp acidity, and more than a hint of mineral, and grapefruit.
• The Chateau Pibarnon, Bandol Rose had a nose that reached out of the glass and smacked you, really hard! A lovely and complex rose. I can still feel the sting.
• The Marc Portaz, 'Tete de cuvee' Vin de Savoie Apremont, was fruity, crisp, and 'easy like sunday morning...'
• and Domaine Cauhape, 'Symphonie de Novembre' Jurancon Moelleux had the undeniable flavor of candied bacon. Trust me I know my candied Bacon.

Of course there were many more wines accompanied by many more adjectives, some more flattering than others - I'm still trying to decide weather cat pee is something I want in the nose of a red wine from Provence. I'll get back to you on that one.

5:30pm-
Four hours after the initial sip of Champagne, it was time to buckle seat belts, and put trays in their upright position, we were coming in for a landing. My feet were soar, my cheeks a little rosy after the cognac tasting, my left index finger was dyed red from the little dribbles of wine the splashed on the outside of my glass, and I was dying for something to eat, other than cheese of coarse.
What they must have thought, the innocent pedestrians who were there to witness the hoards of winos, with their stained teeth and lips, pouring from the front doors of the Puck building, and flooding Lafayette ave. It certainly was a sight to behold.

" So what did you think of your first Skurnick tasting?" Robin asked me. My stomach growled adamantly and I stretched a crick in my back, " It was fun but man, this is hard work!"I exclaimed. "Well at last someone understands," he replied with the unmistakable air of an aristocrat.

La vida es dura.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to me!

Last night, after a slow drawn-out night at work, I did the books, indulged in a cab ride home to find a bottle of Gewurztraminer and a mini Brooklyn Blackout Cake from my favorite Bakery, Lady Bird (formerly known as Two Little Red Hens). Today I will start my day off with a bit of cake then rush to a wine tasting with my boss, followed by champagne and oysters at Pearl Oyster Bar with a dear friend and a colleague, two people I don't see nearly enough of.
It is gray and raining outside and accu-weather has predicted Thunder storms all day long, but as I sit here, chipping away at my chocolate cake, I have nothing but sunshine in my heart - as cheesy as it may sound.

Food, Wine, Coffee, and Robotics

There now exists a Robot that has the sensory capability to pinpoint the region of any tasted wine, as well as to detect the subtle differences in terrior within subregions of that wine(sometimes a matter of a few miles.)
There also exists a Health and Food Advice Robot that can distinguish between thirty different kinds of wine, cheeses, and breads in order to give advice that reinforces healthy choices. And finally, there exists the prototype of a Robot that will cook you dinner.
Now, I have no qualms about letting one Robot offer me wine suggestions while another gives me health advice, and another cooks dinner. Nevertheless, I must ask the question, if scientists can do all of these things, why the hell have they yet to invent a Coffee Robot? I just don't understand!

What Hulk Hogan Has in Common With California Chardonnay

Here it is, Friday March 7th, more than a week since my last blog entry, and still I have nothing interesting to report back. Basically I have been working like a dog in order to pay for my upcoming WSET course. Because I work nights, I haven't had many opportunities for dining out, or staying in to cook for that matter. Sad, I know. Hopefully tonight my kitchen and I will be sharing a romantic evening together, after I give it a good scrub that is.
In the meantime I thought I would share my latest Internet find, Wine Library TV ,a video wine blog hosted by the wine guzzling, cork flinging, Jets loving Gary Vaynerchuck. Gary's playful and down to earth wine descriptions - he compared the hue of a California Chardonnay to the gold locks of WWF wrestler Hulk Hogan - are elaborate, witty, and extremely accessible. He records five shows a week, and has cover such topics such as training your palette, vintage Bordeaux, Kosher wines, and many many more.

The episode below is his 416th, and is a showdown - his words - between an Oregon Pinot Gris and an Italian Pinot Grigio. Will you walk away from his blog having learned more about wine or football, wrestling, and boxing, its hard to say. What is certain is that you are gonna laugh more about wine then you ever thought was possible, and your gonna want to drink more wine, but hell, we already knew that was possible.

Monday Heartbreak

Monday always seems like the perfect day to enjoy Brooklyn unadulterated by the weekend crowds. But, for those of us who have Mondays off, Brooklyn usually turns out to be a real heart breaker. This past Monday I woke up and decided to grab breakfast at a local restaurant, Cheryl's, only to find that it is closed on Mondays. Not a problem, I assured myself, I'll just grab some tasty coffee and a Ham & Cheese Croissant at Joyce Bakeshop. Wrong! Joyce is also closed on Monday. I don't know how many times I have to go threw this very process until I learn my lesson: almost half of Brooklyn is CLOSED ON MONDAYS. It appears that we may now add The Chocolate Room to the long list of my Monday heartbreaks.

Some Quality Time With a Neglected Love One

As of late, I have been finding every reason possible not to step into the kitchen. One reason is that I am actively searching for both, a good Thai Food restaurant in Brooklyn, and some good BYOB spots .Another reason is that, though I have never before had a problem cooking unaccompanied, in the last few months, cooking alone has become a terribly isolating experience. I have been having the urge to collaborate in the kitchen and have yet to find a remedy for this, seeing as most of my friends don't enjoy cooking. Another more concrete reason for not wanting to cook is that my apartment has recently been invaded by a gang of mice who have found their way into my grains, sugar, and anything else unprotected, then popped all over every inch of my kitchen.

Between the exterminator and our recent house guest,
the mice have decided to take their vandalous show on the road. Still, the entire thing has turned me off to the idea of cooking and my kitchen has been left unattended, aside from morning coffee and my roommate's version of cooking which includes boiling vegetables and heating up boxed soup.

It's sad, I know. I'm not at all proud of my behaviour and I feel like a neglectful mother. However, yesterday was the day it would all come to and end. The snow set the stage for a guilt free day at home, and while futzing around on the internet, I did something spontaneous and entirely beyond my budget; I signed up for the Advanced WSET wine certificate. For the next four months I would be paying off monthly installments towards my class beginning in May.
Considering I am already treading water financially, it was going to take some maneuvering to make this all work - in other words, less eating in restaurants. There would have to be a reconciliation between my Kitchen and myself. In order for this to work, I would need some food. I threw on my snow boots, braved the slippery snow, and made my way to the Park Slope Food Coop for some supplies. Eastern Parkway was oh so elegant with her snow capped trees, and her side walks dusted in powdery white. As I took this picture a woman passing behind me leaned in for a closer look. "Its very beautiful" she said with a thick Caribbean accent. "Yeah. But by tonight it will all be a slushy brown mess" I said looking back at her. "Ain't it the truth" she replied letting out a hearty laugh.
An hour later I arrived home with an overflowing bag of groceries, ready to get to work. I pulled everything down from the shelves and cabinets, wiped down every surface, and sanitized every inch of my neglected kitchen. These walls really need to be painted I thought to myself, and this pantry could really use a once over. There were so many things that need to be done and I found myself excited by the idea of giving my kitchen a face lift. Now of course, fixing up my kitchen would set me back a couple of dollars, but a coat of new paint and a little bit of reorganizing will encourage me to spend more time cooking, which in the end, will save me money. This is my theory at least, only time will tell.

Stained Teeth and My #3 Reason to Love The French

I have been hitting you awfully hard this month with entries centering around wacky French customs and observances. Does this make me dangerously close to being called a Francophile? Probably. Is that going to stop me from giving you my number three reason for why I love the French? Hell no.
I stumbled across my #3 reason when I was bartending at the cafe and a customer of mine (French) spilled red wine on her white silk blouse. "Oh dear" she said looking down wryly at the red blotch as though it had said or done something wildly inappropriate. " Would you like some club soda?" I offered trying to be helpful. "Oh no" she said waving her hand, " bring me a glass of white wine." "But the club soda may help remove the stain," I replied, thinking that she may not have understood me. " Oh, I understood you," she said, her pride brimming " but the best way to remove a red wine stain is with white wine, not with club soda." She ran her index finger down the list of wines by the glass, passing the house white (a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc), the Pinot Blanc (a moderately priced Alsacian), and then pausing at the Sancerre (our most expensive white by the glass)." I'll take this one, " she requested. It seemed a bit extravagent to use such an expensive glass of wine for the purpose of removing a stain, but then again, she was French and in the end, it did remove the red wine from her blouse.

I must say, I was amazed. I priased the French for their infinite wisdom and when two days later a friend of mine, Andrew, found himself with wine stained lips after a Malbec rampage, I suggested that he might clean his lips and whiten his teeth with a nice crisp glass of Sancerre.
" What do you think about a glass of Prosecco?" he asked, kicking it up a notch. Now clearly Andrew was in no need of more vino. Still, I could not fight my curiousity, " I bet the bubbles would create a kind of scrubbing effect" I responded with glee. Andrew ordered a glass of bubbly and the Rioja totting Spaniard sitting beside him at the bar leaned in, " I don't mean to listen to your conversation but, did you say you were going to remove the red wine stain on your mouth with Prosecco? I am Spanish (pause) and we know a bit about wine, (pause) and I have never heard of such a thing." He looked perplexed, and almost anxious at the idea that his wine knowledge was lacking such unessentials . I fought the urge to feed his pompus anxiouty with insinuations that our hair-brained scheme was common knowledge among those in the know, and I explained everything to him.
When the Prosecco arrived, The Spaniard and I watch intently as Andrew sipped then scrubbed, sipped then scrubbed his lips and tongue.
Whether the French remedy worked, or fail in the end is rather obvious from Andrew's purple tinted tongue. Perhaps we should have splurged and gotten a glass of Champagne.

A Case of The Februaries?

Usually I read on my way to work to help speed the wasted hours of commuting. This morning however, no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to concentrate so I reached for my I-pod. I swiveled down my list of artists, and for the life of me could not decide what listen to because truthfully, I did not feel like listening to anything. After a few more idle minutes, I traded in the I-pod for brooding like a hormonal teenager. What the hell was going on with me? Why have I been feeling so apathetic, so anti-social, so, lukewarm about everything? Could I be suffering from a case of what Horvendile of A Likely Story, calls The Februaries? Here are my other symptoms that corroborate my creeping suspicion that i am indeed suffering from this seasonal malady.

Symptom #1 "Self-indulgence masquerading as self-reflection"

This morning the larger of my skinny jeans did not fit me as comfortably as I would have liked. Translation: I could only just get the zipper up while standing, but would risk serious embarrassment by sitting down in them. I can’t believe this! How did this happen? I shouted at my bulging reflection in the mirror. The truth of the matter was that I knew oh too well how this happened. It’s called eating ice cream once and sometimes even twice a day for two weeks! Not too much of a mystery there.
Why the abuse? I have been telling myself that it is all in the name of research. How am I to break into the ice cream business, if I don’t eat lots and lots of ice cream? All I have to say is that if I don’t get rid of this case of the Februaries, the only thing I will be breaking into is a pair of plus size jeans.

Symptom #2 ‘Why Bother?’

The, what the hell am I doing with my life panic, that seems to set in this time of year has only been met head on with the, why even bother doing anything with my life indifference that is doing a pretty good job of unraveling me. You are right Matt; it’s not despair that I’m feeling. Despair would be a welcomed improvement from my disgruntled, yet unjustifiably phlegmatic state. Despair would signal the coming of spring, the season of giving a shit, the season of sucking it up and doing something about it.

Symptom #3 “Massive Social Hibernation”

Lets just say that, my apartment is clean, all my bills are paid, and I’m doing a good job of catching up on this years reading.

Symptom #4 “Mister Roboto”

That’s Miss Roboto to you. I have unconsciously developed the worst fake smile and, like those aging TV actresses who are over zealous about Botox, I seem to have no control over it. Just look at me for longer than five seconds and that goofy smile will magically display its self. March better get here fast, or people are gonna begin to think I’m the Prozac Queen.

Symptom #5 “I just called to say I love you…”

Now I’ve skipped over a few important symptoms in order to get to the granddaddy of them all, Valentine’s Day. Somehow, I seem never to have a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day, not that I would relish the holiday if I had. Romance is a spontaneous thing. You can’t plan it, you certainly can’t buy it, and you’re lost if you think your gonna find it in a quaint little restaurant, seated side by side with other couples all trying to have a romantic meal of their own, all the while, listening to cheesy love songs, and sharing a heart shaped cherry cobbler. That’s the curse of St. Valentine if you are paired off.

Now if you’re single, Valentine’s Day is just as much of a trap. Stay home and read a book or watch Sex and The City like your February Social Hibernations is telling you to do, and you’re a loser. Go out with your chick friends for some, we’re single and okay with that drinks, and you’re an even bigger loser.

The restaurant where I work is offering their annual Valentine’s Day pre fix, and all this week the reservation have been rolling in, table for two 6pm, table for two 7:30, and could we have that romantic table by the fire place… blah, blah, blah. There is one reservation however that brought a smile, a genuine smile, to my face. It’s a reservation for one. That’s right, one. And, it’s not an error, for example not remembering it would be Valentines Day and therefore, full of couples. The reservation was informed of the special pre fix and chose to take part in the Valentine’s meal, all by themselves. I won’t reveal the name of the reservation, but what I will say is that you, Reservation For One, are my one and only Valentine’s Day hero, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

Symptom #6 My Very Own

Now this symptom is one of my very own. It’s not a common one, but if you find yourself suffering from it, just consider it an added bonus.

This morning I left for work much earlier than I am used to. I did this, not because I was overzealous about working a day shift, but in order to take a TB test that the health department was requiring of all employees. That’s right people, TUBERCULOSIS! When hearing the words, have a good day and, good luck with the TB test! from my roommate this morning, I strangely felt like a character out of a freakin’ Charlotte Bronte novel. And get this, when do we have to come back in to get our results? Valentine’s Day! I do have a dark sense humor and, if I weren’t suffering from a wicked case of The Februaries, I might actually find that funny.

La Chandeleur - Another French Holiday

The first time I heard of La Chandeleur was when I invited Regine to my Boxing Day Brunch where I was planning on serving crepes. She just laughed at me because, sort of like wearing white after Labor Day is considered uncouth in the United States, making crepes this side of La Chandeleur is apparently unheard of in France.

La Chandeleur is celebrated the second day of February and marks the day that the baby Jesus was taken before Simeon and declared " the light of the world." Here is the part of the story where I declare, yet again, that I love the French and their ability to take any boring religious holiday and turn it into a celebration that artfully intertwines slapstick ritual and pastry.

You see, the French don't celebrate this religious milestone by spending the entire day in church. No way! Instead they make crepes because La Chandeleur also marks the kick-off of the crepe making season and is sort of a French equivalent of Ground Hogs Day. How exactly is it done? Just follow these easy steps and you'll soon be partying it up and stuffing down crepes like a wild Frenchman.

1.) Find a gold coin, a franc, a Euro (which is what I used), or even a quarter.
2.) Light lots of candles because, how could it be a hokey holiday without candles...
3.) Be careful not to burn your place down with all those dangerous candles.
4.)Make crepe batter.

Crepe Batter Recipe
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups of whole milk
1/2 cup of water
dash of sugar/salt/orange blossom water

Blend all ingredients in blender until the suction whole
in the center of the mixture is roughly the size of a quarter

5.) Pour batter into a properly greased crepe pan and spread batter evenly across pan. If the batter is too thick, add more water. When the crepe is ready to flip, hold your chosen coin in your left hand while attempting to flip the crepe with your right. If you manage to flip the crepe perfectly you will be blessed with good luck and an early Spring. If the crepe lands badly hold on, its gonna be a long and luckless winter.


As you can see, after a bit of practice my crepe flipping skills have earned me good luck and an early Spring. Hopefully my tardiness in celebrating - its already February 11th- won't get me expelled from the program. Even though the winter has only just now decided to show her icy face at the party, I would not be at all upset to see her duck out early.

Make More Ice Cream - A Long Commute

“Your re-board pass?” He was looking down at me with an air of composed disgust. It wasn’t a unique detestation held for me especially, rather a universal one he felt for all of us who happened to be ridding his bus that particular evening. I was midway threw Nina Simone’s live version of The Rising Sun Blues and had not heard his request. His irritation however, clearly displayed with his creased forehead and pursed eyebrows, was evident and so I removed my headphones and looked up at him with a fatigued smile waiting for him to repeat himself.
It had been an awfully full weekend; jam packed with an exhausting schedule of lactose-laced lectures, demonstrations, and networking. I hadn’t eaten solid foods in three days, only ice cream. If you have ever wonder if it were possible to survive on ice cream alone, the answer is yes, it’s possible, though I don’t advise it.
Here I am tasting samples of vanilla and chocolate that display subtle and not so subtle variation in processing, composition, and flavoring. I was beginning to exhibit some pretty severe signs of sugar withdrawal, brought on by an equally cruel ice cream hangover. Wow, I ate way too much ice cream, I thought to myself as I took in the cheerlessness of my current circumstances.

“ YOUR-RE-BOAR-DING--PASS, THE-ONE-I-GAVE-YOU-IN-HARR-IS-BURG, DO-YOU-HAVE-IT?” He repeated this in a tone and manner that seemed to imply a mental inadequacy on my part. “If you remember giving me a re-boarding pass, then why do I need to show it to you to stay on the bus?” I was asking with sincere curiosity. He didn’t care at all for my response and, flaring his nostrils just as disturbingly as he bulged his eyes, he stomped off to the front of the bus cursing as he went.

It’s probably not such a hot idea to piss of the bus driver. As he jerked the bus violently out of the Philadelphia station, I wondered if we would make it back to New York in one piece. It would be a shame if my last supper came out of a vending machine. Then again, if it were my time to go, at least I had the chance to spend the weekend immersed in the subject of ice cream and surrounded by like-minded people.

Curious what kinds of people decide to take a two-day intensive course dedicated entirely to ice cream? I certainly was. The first lecturer gave me the opportunity to find out when he asked each of us to stand up and introduce ourselves and explain why it was we were there.
“ Hi, my name is Tom. I was a school teacher for twenty five years and am looking to retire and though an ice cream store might be a fun business to get into.” “My name is David. I manage a bank, I love ice cream, and am thinking of making a carrier change and thought, why not an ice cream shop?” etc. Half of the people there were looking to ice cream for retirement or a career change. Five of them were bankers, which amused me to no end. Just think about it, the guy who talks to you about high interest saving and IRAs sitting there in his office dreaming up new and exciting ice cream flavors. I’ll never look at my banker the same way again.

Two women wanted to make ice cream from their own milk, one from her flock of Nigerian Dwarf Goats, and another from her six-legged cow, now if that isn’t a great gimmick I don’t know what is. Many of the students already owned ice cream shops, while others had no intention of going into business; they were there simply on the merits of their deep affection for ice cream.

Then, of course, there was me, “Hi, my name is Madeline. I live in New York and write a food blog that chronicles my adventures in food, and yes you guessed it, Ice Cream.” I didn’t mention that I it was my dream to open an ice cream shop because, even in this crowd of ice cream fanatics, I felt a bit foolish and unsure of myself. As the weekend drew on however, I found myself becoming more and more encouraged as I learned about the ins and outs of the ice cream business. Perhaps this foolish food adventure is not so foolish after all. Now all I have to do is get back to New York, and off this bus, in one piece.

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.