Carrot Top

The question still remains (at least in my mind) as to how financially successful most of these so desired "off-the-beaten-track-gems" could or would be, given the market economy of the areas that one wants to find them in. In each small town I've lived in, no matter what the geographic location within the US, unless there was a significant local population that was willing (philosophically and emotionally) and able (financially) to support such gems, they are only able to exist as labors of love and finally, empty bank accounts, for there are many small towns with populations that do not meet the criteria. And in each small town I've lived in, given the choice of going to a local small "gem" or to the local place that did, yes, serve a good breakfast (but with dishwater coffee natch) (and margarine pats for the biscuits, natch) but then would allow the day to disintegrate (obviously only in my mind for these places are packed with locals each day) into a hot and cold buffet for both lunch and dinner. The buffet would always be stocked with tons of canned and frozen foods, rewarmed. . .and perhaps an overdone roast and some fried chicken (again from a box, certainly not freshly-made). This is where people would be happy to go, again and again, to spend their money. . .while the small gems that did try to open would stare across the street in a sort of shocked amazement, till the end would come and their place would close. This is why, when you ask, "What can be done?" and you suggest a guide. . .well, other than trying to change the people of small towns (which of course is nobody's business but their own); yes, it would be a great idea to have a guide. Other than a "nose for the thing", which obviously one has to be born with and which must be in working order when it is required to be, this is the best idea yet.

I don't want to be a drag, but feel that yet another unfortunate fact regarding this phemonena of the unfortunate food that is found in the small/rural/off the beaten track towns (even such a town as Lexington, VA where there is a good amount of old money here and there, and there are colleges though those colleges are small and fairly conservative). The restaurants that do open, that are of the level that would make an experienced traveller or demanding eater pleased, generally have a very hard time going it. Particularly with the locals and particularly "off-season". Sourcing local products is not easy, for the people that grow mostly do so for themselves and their families, and do not want the bother of working/growing to a schedule. Sourcing local help is not easy, for in the college towns the labor force disappears during summer (which is likely to be the busiest time for these places due to visitors driving through) and even during the other seasons, unfortunately there do not seem to be the same amount of hungry young (or even old!) people desirous of a job waiting tables or learning to cook fine things as there seem to be in metropolitan areas. And finally, so many of the locals simply do not go to eat at these places. For the majority of people (aside from landed gentry (sic), as I mentioned before. . .which in one small town that I lived the local lawyer informed me was the equivalent of the local elementary school principal whose salary was about $40,000. per year) simply do not have the money to do this very often, or do not think that fine dining is where they should spend it if they do have it. They do not feel that they "belong" in these places. They just don't feel all that comfortable there. Anyone is free to argue my viewpoint on this, of course. My knowledge is only based on eight years of living in this sort of place and of speaking to the owners of such places as chef-to-chef. I like the idea of a off-road guide, Busboy. And I think that one could be well started just by going through the annals of eGullet and sourcing the good regional restaurants in the regional forums, if that is something that would be possible and desireable to anyone who was involved in such a project. It is a crying shame to live in this great country and to have to travel the byroads and be so often disappointed in even the desire for a simple meal. Edited to add: I seem to remember Holly Moore and someone having a discussion about an off-road guide some time back, a small niche guide I think it was. . .

Ah, yes, Lucy! How very smart of you! The smell of an onion sauteeing would definitely do that! Motivation by aroma. . .that could be turned into an entire artform. . .and probably could fill a cookbook with ideas, too. Along these lines, what comes to mind for me is basil. If there is a big fresh bunch of basil sitting in the kitchen, it calls and calls endlessly to be made into something good to eat (hopefully before it gets nibbled away into nothingness by hands going by plucking a leaf here and there for "just a bite"!)

For me when this happens a good solution is to visit a small exotic food store where nobody speaks any language I understand, and where they can not understand me either. That leaves the ingredients on the shelves up for analyses that are completley hopeful based on past experience and knowledge. The strangest items can then come home to enter the cupboards and fridge, and either be cooked with fingers crossed, or left to sit and be stared at in bemusement while the things that originally bored one sort of gain a grudging acceptance in the idea of cooking with them, just out of fear of the other stuff. The other solution is to go out to eat at the worst chain restaurant in town. After that, anything you have gains in favor just by comparison.

Maggie. . .I am truly sorry if I've confused anything with my late entries and my ongoing entries. It is just that I am having so much fun with this cheese thing . . . Karen In the Name of Love Over the years, Michael had developed the habit of disappearing for a day or two here and there. It was not that he really disappeared, for he did keep in touch with his family and his place of work. . .but it was a fact that nobody really knew where he went. His boss and co-workers thought he was at home. His wife and children thought he was away on business. This had gone on for many years before the first hint of his secret life leaked out. It was discovered by his secretary, one day when his wife called work to get the phone number of the hotel where he was staying, for she had misplaced it. The secretary was stunned into silence by the request, but in a record-quick recovery time of one and a half seconds, she collected herself. She realized what was really going on, for some of her own weekends and evenings were spent with a certain married man in a nearby hotel, while her own husband believed her to be working. In an instant, she calmly spoke, following the code of those who dissemble, the code that says, “Bend truth for others as well as for oneself for one never knows when a backup falsehood will be needed in return.” “Oh! Didn’t you get his e-mail? It must have gotten lost in cyberspace. The hotel was booked up when he arrived, and he had to go find another one. It’s quite busy there right now. . . convention time, you know. I’m sure he will let us know as soon as he locates another room!” Janice smilingly said to his wife. And as soon as she hung up the phone, she hit the keys on the computer quickly, sending him an e-mail telling him that his wife was trying to get in touch with him. She hoped that he would check his e-mail. And that was all that was ever said of it between them. Time went on, years passed. Life was the usual routine with Michael and his family. He continued his disappearances, and nobody knew the better, for his secretary was uninterested and his wife had been lulled into the usual calm of accepting his word as good. She had received an e-mail from him shortly after that phone call several years ago, an e-mail that told her he had moved to a new hotel for the duration of the trip, and he gave her the phone number where he could be reached. The children grew, the family prospered in a quiet way, albeit sometimes in a lonely way for Emelie, his wife, for his business trips became more frequent and the house was often empty but for her and the children. It became so that the children did not even ask after their father anymore, for he was more of a figurehead than a real, live person to them. It was on a hot sunny Sunday afternoon that the phone call came, the phone call that tore this mundane, normal world apart into tiny shreds for them all. Emilie picked it up and heard the woman’s voice asking for Michael. “He is not here right now. May I take a message?” Emilie asked politely.“Yes, thank you” the voice replied over the line. “This is Hodges Real Estate. I wondered if he had found an apartment yet. If not, I have something to show him and his friend.” Emilie’s heart stopped for a brief second. The world did actually spin when this sort of surprise was sprung on one, she said to herself. But no, it could not be. It must be a mistake. Wrong phone number, mistaken identity. “Uh. . .you wanted to leave a message for Michael Upsyring? Michael J. Upsyring?” she breathed out into the receiver, hoping that the whole thing was a mistake. “Yes, I hope it is okay. He did not want to leave a phone number but I was just so sure that this apartment is right for those two that I searched the internet to find it from the rental application he filled out with our company. He and Miss Dabnurt were just here last week. May I leave a message?” asked the caller with hope, the neverending hope for a rental fee in her pocket that could pay off her credit card bills. “Miss Dabnurt? Oh. Yes. Okay. Yes, please leave your number. I will see that he gets the message” Emilie blurted out with her best attempt at control of her emotions. She jotted down the number and hung up. Now what? she thought as she paced the room trying to sort out what was happening, what on earth could be happening here. Her heart was pounding out of her chest as she reached again for the telephone to dial Michael’s cellphone number. “Hello!” Michael responded in his usual overbearingly charming way after picking up on the third ring. “Michael. . .uh. . .listen. Listen carefully” Emilie choked out into the receiver. “The cat is out of the bag. I know what is going on. I want to hear it from your ears, though. I know about your apartment hunting. And who you are doing it with. What is going on?” There was a dead silence on the other end of the phone. Emilie spoke again, trying not to cry, for to burst into tears would allow his power over her, and that was something she had no wish to do now, at this moment, and perhaps never again. “Michael! Tell me! I have never done anything to hurt you. I have always been by your side. But I need to know what is going on!” Michael spoke slowly but his voice was strained. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? Nothing is going on! You’re crazy! What makes you think something is going on?” “Tell me the truth. Or I will find it out myself,” said Emilie. Yet he continued in his protestations. Then he became aggressively verbal and loud, asking Emilie, “Who told you this?” And with that, she knew. She knew it was true. Now it was her turn to flatten the air with leaden, heavy, endless silence. The moments seemed like endless hours, like eternity, like she had floated into space somehow, a space where it was dark, cold, heartless, and empty of anything at all. Her voice left her body of its own accord to answer him. “I’ll tell you who told me. . .if you tell me the truth. And that is the only way you will find out. Now tell me”, she droned in deadened tones. “I’m going to kill myself!” Michael spoke suddenly in a panicked tone. “I’m just going to kill myself!” “Okay” she replied in the voice that spoke on its own, the voice that was low and flat and so unlike her usual tones. “But why don’t you tell me about it first”. And so he did. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………. “Aren’t you going to make me something to eat?” Michael asked boldly in a semblance of his usual charm, his winning smile now making his face look like it belonged to a crocodile. “Get real, Michael. Make it yourself.” Emile replied as she passed him on the stairs on his return home. “But Emilie! You always cook for me! You are the best cook in the world! And I just complimented you on your new hairstyle! What is wrong with you?” Michael asked beseechingly in his always-slightly-demanding way. Emilie could not believe her ears. He had admitted to the fact that he was sharing an apartment with another woman. . and here he was asking for dinner to be cooked for him upon his arrival home? Simply because he complimented her hair? Really, the man was living in another world. “Michael. Tell me that you will get rid of the apartment. Tonight. You should not be there, and neither should she. It is wrong. Then, there might be a chance I would cook you something, but really. Your attitude is outrageous!” she said levelly. “Otherwise, we will be looking at a divorce.” He stopped walking and turned around. “Please. No. I don’t want a divorce. Please. We have something together. But I can not get rid of the apartment or her. I just can’t. Please. Listen. There must be something wrong with me, for I’ve done this before. Three years ago, when we lived in North Carolina. I did the same thing, but then I did leave the woman. I left her without telling her I was leaving or where I was going. I just disappeared after having the same sort of relationship with her for two years. There is something wrong with me, I tell you! I need help!” Emilie felt she was going to be sick. Turning away from him, she walked to the bedroom that she would never again share with him, and there she drowned in tears, in gulps of desperate air, being shocked by a battering of comets of shock and pain and disbelief. Her world, her whole world of the past ten years, had been a lie. ……………………………………………………………………………………………… Months passed and still Michael could not bring himself to rid himself of the apartment and the woman. When he visited Emilie and the children, he slept in the basement den. . . and those visits became fewer and further apart. The children rarely asked about their father anymore, and when he appeared with a big crocodile smile and armloads of gifts from the toy store to gain their appreciation, they tore open the gifts and were made happy for the fifteen minutes it took to toss them around a bit. Then they walked away from him back to Emilie. He saw the slight look of disdain in their eyes. For his money did not hug them. It did not tuck them in at night or watch over them. It did not make them good things to eat nor did it fuss over them in all the moments of the day. His money and his gifts had no eyes to look into, no face to look up at in respect. It was cold, and it was selfish. And so they grew away from him. The divorce eventually was finalized and life went on. It was six months later that Emilie picked up the phone again to hear another shocking message. This time, it was the state police. Michael had been in an automobile accident. Michael and the woman. They were both declared dead upon arrival to the hospital. …………………………………………………………………………………………………… “Sorry, guys, but we have to do this”. Emile quietly said to the children as she unlocked the apartment door in the faraway city where their father had lived his secret life. “We’ve got to go through Daddy’s stuff and sort it out. There is nobody else to do it, and he was your father.” The door opened, and they all stood back, eyes blinking in disbelief. The apartment was filled with refrigerators, of all sorts. There were big stainless steel ones and smaller old white ones. There were clear pass-through boxes and it seemed that one wall had two walk-in boxes built into it. Emilie backed out of the door. “Uh. . .gee. . .maybe we should not do this right now. Not right now, anyway. Let’s go get something to eat instead, huh?” for she could not imagine this sight. What was in all those refrigerators? It was just too too weird. She would call the police for help. They could investigate while she took the children back to the hotel. ………………………………………………………………………………………………… The world was just as amazed as Emilie to find out what was in those refrigerators. It was cheese. Cheese of every sort imaginable, cheese from all over the world, cheese catalogued to perfection and in loving detail. Each whole cheese had two round holes in it where two round paring tools had been used to remove two small bites. One for him and one for her. All in the name of love. And when the will was probated and the sale of this fabulous collection completed at auction by Sotheby’s, Michael’s children and probably even their children were made wealthy by the sale. And why, how, did all this happen? It was all in the name of love. Cheesy love.

Roast chicken with butter and herbs. If you don't want to wait for the whole chicken to roast, flatten and butterfly it, roast on high heat. Start a tomato sauce simmering while the chicken is cooking. Onions, herbs, something the kids will like on pasta beside the chicken. Cucumber salad, simple, with a dash of cider vinegar, salt and pepper. Dill if you have it. Cover the raspberries with cream for dessert. Just pour it right over. Add sugar to top if they are not naturally sweet. Easy. Save the sausage for breakfast.

There is one quite nice restaurant in Lexington called "The Southern Inn" (or the Southern-something-like-that...it is early in the morning and my brain is not functioning too well!). It is run by someone with training and experience. White tablecloth/casual, if that makes sense. Certainly you can go there in jeans, and certainly children are welcome. The food is moderately "sophisticated" which means to me that you will find some creatively designed items but also some well-crafted simple foods. Nothing from cans or boxes. There is another place called (again, sorry, name forgetfullness but it is the only one like it) Tequeteria something-or-other which is good and also fun for the kids. Again, fresh food, nicely prepared. Southern Inn won't kill you financially, but the Taqueteria is of course much less expensive. I have a friend who lives outside Lexington who knows food well, who is quite particular, and who "keeps up with" the food-goings-on in town. These are the only two places he will eat there. I've been to both restaurants and have been happy both times (and I, also, am not made happy unless there is some sort of charm and freshness to both the food and service besides demanding that the place be clean...which is something sadly lacking in so many places). Anyway. Two more choices if you need them. And yes, Holly is right about The Pink Cadillac. It is an odd and amusing place and if you order right, the food will be fine.

Not Your Average Joe Walking into the house that was set in the working class section of Bridgeport, Connecticut it might seem as if you were entering a maze. An amusement park perhaps, the back part where the tricky things were kept that were used to amuse the crowds, the things that were made of bits of strong cloth and even stronger bits of metal, the clutter of odd shaped paraphernalia that just made one feel as if the Wizard of Oz must be around somewhere, if not a midget or a dwarf or the Snake Lady…some sort of person that would induce amazed wonder. Follow through to the end of this somewhat claustrophobic hall and you would enter directly into the kitchen. And there she was. She did not induce any sort of wonder in the way she looked. Standing about four feet eight inches tall, Josephine had grey hair pulled back, always pulled back but for when she would retire at night. Then the hair would cascade down her back in a total surprise of rebellion, the image reminding one that the old were once young and that the young will become old as sure as any thing can be on this earth. Her hair that was daily rolled into its bun suited her, though, for she was a direct no-nonsense woman that had lived well and with full health into her seventies. The kitchen was where Jo existed. You could find her other places…once in a while in the garden outside in the lot that was set to the side of this house that had raised a family of six children, four boys and two girls all somehow surviving and growing in three bedrooms. You might find her once a year or so at church. But the rest of the time, all the time, you would find her in her kitchen. There, this tiny, uneducated, unpretensious woman was Queen. Jo cooked every day of her life. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Seven days a week, no respite. Nobody else would dream of approaching the kitchen to cook, not only because she was Queen but because nobody wished to go even one meal without tasting the food she and she alone could make. Her daughters had been taught to cook, and her sons a bit too…but never was the savor the same. It was not the ingredients, for they were the same. It was not the methods, for the methods she used were nothing if not basic. It was not the equipment nor the weather nor the mood of the person nor anything, anything at all that could be found to answer the question “Why?” It was just Josephine. Josephine was not an artist with the food, no. Not unless you believe that what an artist does is to somehow transport love into their works. For that is what Josephine did, and that was the taste that filled the mouths of those who were lucky enough to partake of it. Jo’s food was love, made real enough to eat. “Hey, hey!” her small high-pitched Italian-accented voice would warm one as they entered the kitchen, her kitchen, her kingdom. “What’re you doing? Sit down, sit down, here, eat!” And you would not have a choice. It did not matter if you were hungry or not, for the food would appear before you on the table that was cluttered with a zillion things as she bustled busily in the six foot space between sink and stove and refrigerator. You would have to perch on the kitchen chair and then enter into the world of busy conversation, half in Italian and half shouted in laughing English… and bowls and plates and pots of food, food that said love, food that would send you into a place of deep contentment and childlike passivity. What did she cook? Nothing new….nothing too expensive or finessed, that is for sure. This food was prepared on a shoestring, but that shoestring could tie the world together, and do it beautifully. There were roasts seasoned with garlic and fresh herbs, endless platters of strange bitter vegetables of all shades of green, some from the garden, some from the market and some picked at the side of the road. There were small glasses of strong homemade wine with larger glasses of tepid water served in a cacophony of different designs of glassware to wash it down. There was polenta and rice and pasta, always with some sort of “ururu” or ragu, the tomato sauce that filled the house with the aromas that only a long-simmering, meat-and-herb seasoned tomato sauce can give, the aromas that hint of bright sunshine and laughter, the ease, simplicity and suppleness of the Latin way of life. But there was one thing that Jo used in her cooking in almost every dish. One “magic ingredient” beyond and besides the love that proved inimitable. Cheese. Cheese of all sorts and varieties was pinched or shaken or grated onto almost everything. Never was it slathered or piled or used to add the cloying overpowering richness that could deceive one into believing the dish was good, simply based on the pure cheese-y richness of it. It was always a counterpoint, an accent. It was the feather in her cap. Homemade ricotta was whipped into a soft puff then poured over macaroni with a ragu sauce, the creamy cool whiteness of the cheese seeming like a gathering of angels hovering over and protecting, aiding and abetting the spicy sauce and heavy pasta lowering below it waiting for its touch. Grana padano fell like golden tears into the rich chicken broths that were filled with whatever happened to appear that day…bitter greens, double-yolked eggs, fresh peas, rice…it melted just enough to allow that the tears that it was were now gone, that all was right with the world, all in this bowl of golden soup. Slices of grainy Provolone were layered into potato gratins, the earthiness of the potatoes somehow being made to seem more real, more solid, more powerful, with the addition of the cheese. The book has not been written yet of Josephine’s recipes. Would it be possible? Would the recipes, even so closely written and carefully detailed, even filled with memories, would these recipes ever be able to do what they claimed…to bring Jo’s love into reality again, in the form of a bite taken of a fine dish of food? It is not possible to know the answer to that question. But there is one thing that any cook who wishes to dish up a plate of love to eat can be sure of. Add a bit of cheese to your recipe, gracefully and carefully, as if it were a kiss on the top of a child’s nose. The love will be tasted.

Cheese, Please History has shown us many examples of the ways in which cheese has been a strategic part of society and culture. How often have we looked back in time with awe at the way Hannibal was able to lead an army of elephants into Ancient Rome over mountainous terrain, wondering at the marvelous fact that we now have finally realized…that the elephants were moving solely to escape the aromatic breaths of the soldiers behind them, breaths that were perfumed with the odiferous combination of aged goat cheeses, raw garlic, and garum. The legendary beauty of Cleopatra can also be traced to the power of cheese, as we have recently discovered the secret recipe that she used for her daily facials…camel’s milk cream cheese whipped by hand with lemon and olive oil, applied and allowed to work its magic for at least the time that it would take for one or two slave dances every evening. The magic of Leonardo da Vinci was touched by cheese also, as scholarly investigation has found that each of his personal paint recipes included a tiny grating of Parmesan cheese to add texture and a certain golden hue to the colors…and of course many important pianists around the world will admit to the fact that a quick rub down of the piano keys with a fresh slice of mozzarella di bufalo does wonders where fast fingering is required in the score. There are so many more ways in which cheese can enhance our daily existence on earth besides the usual, commonplace one of placing it in our mouths, moving it around between our teeth and tongue, moaning a bit in pleasure (or, in the case of some goat cheeses, choking in bitter shock) and swallowing it for caloric sustenance. According to the type of cheese, one can accomplish so many daily acts of life with so much more pleasure within the simple acts and an even greater sense of accomplishment. Each type of cheese has its own abilities and offerings. Some of these are listed below for those who would wish to further their education in fromagerie scholararie to experience a more fruitful and pleasant way of life. Brie: A large round of Brie is a better bed pillow than one can imagine, unless you have already tried it. The velvety texture of the rind is smoother and softer than brushed silk, and has the additional benefit of reducing lines and wrinkles on the face by constant application of vitamins and phosphates which are inherent in the cheese. One’s head is cradled gently, almost hugged by the soft diaphanous cheese, and the nights dreams are accompanied by the gentle scent of warmed Brie (with walnuts or olives, depending on your personal food philosophy) which is not a bad thing at all, at all. Cheddar: Aged cheddar has been proven to be an excellent material out of which to make children’s toys. The younger the child, the better, for when they have finished playing with the toy and are bored, they can simply eat it with no complaints. Some of the toys which cheddar is good for are: small building blocks; dolls (use raisins for the eyes and celery for the arms and legs); and any sort of building system such as Lego or Erector sets. Cheddar can also be used to replace computer keys which children have broken off. Swiss: What can not be made of a slice of Swiss cheese?! Lay it out and dry it a bit, then use a hole-punch along the edges. It can then be sewn into any fashion one can desire, from leggings to hats. The clothing never needs laundering, simply a wipe with a damp cloth or an occasional rub-down with a bit of mayonnaise for a pleasing shine. St. Andre: St. Andre is the best massage cream one can imagine. Skin is left glowing and fragrant, particularly after the bite and tongue marks go away from the removal process. These are only a few of the ideas that cheese offers us today. Many more can be found by simply opening up the box, breathing in deeply of the cow-and-vinegar smell, and allowing your imagination to flow. Remember what Brillat-Savarin said: “A meal without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye”. Carry that thought through your day, and enjoy!

Excerpts from “The Chronicle of Higher Chalk and Cheese” Reprinted with permission August 2005: The market for cheese has dropped rapidly in the past two months, and is still falling, raising fears among cheese producers that their businesses will no longer be viable. “I just can’t cut the cheese anymore” stated one artisan cheese maker in an interview with the Chronicle. “It all started with the “Literary Smackdown Contest” on that important food and wine website. So very few people bothered to respond to the challenge to write about the subject of cheese that the national media took notice and quickly posted their own stories about the Fall of Cheese…how it was no longer “in” with the Foodie Incrowd. Sales have been dropping ever since. I’ve had to let fourteen of my goats go, I can’t use their milk, they are now the neighbor’s bratty children’s pets…what is the world coming to?!” Other cheese producers are in agreement with these thoughts expressed, and the cheese world is in a tizzy. January 2009: As bio-engineered foodstuffs increase in popularity in the world-wide market, fine cheese continues to fall in sales. Since the discovery of how to grow filet of beef and chicken breasts in the laboratory from one existing cell into thousands of pounds of yield, live animal breeding has decreased. The factors influencing the consumer preference for bio-engineered foods are a) Money…lower price of product; b) Health…better disease and sanitation controls of product; c) Cultural…less inhumane treatment of livestock. The majority of the general public have now come to the point where the slaughter of an animal for food is a crime against nature in their personal value systems; and d) Real Estate…farmland freed from farming has been the source of the latest real-estate boom, making millionaires of everyday folk. May 2015: Fine Artisan cheese has disappeared almost entirely from the world-wide marketplace. American cheese slices and Cheeze-Wiz are still to be found almost everywhere, and fast food emporiums are the major buyers of these products, incorporating them into almost every one of the recipe items they offer, including desserts and beverages. The “Hot Pepper and Cheese” smoothie is the new hit of the season at America’s largest fast-food restaurant chain. It is said that artisan cheeses can still be found on-line by joining the latest fashionable clubs, which claim to offer their converts the ancient knowledge that will allow one to prophesize the future through reading cracks and pockmarks in the various cheese varieties they still create. This ancient art is called “Tyromancy” and has existed since Classical Civilizations flourished on the earth, but had dropped into a neglected phase in the years since. March 2038: In this year of a frozen winter, a disaster of unimagined proportions has occurred. A new and unknown virus has found its way into the world’s food sources, all of which are currently bio-engineered and created in laboratories. Meat, chicken, fish, vegetables and fruits have all been infected. Malnutrition is approaching the top levels ever known. People are killing each other for their neighbors’ pet cats, dogs, and birds in an effort to find something to eat. The zoos are being emptied as they were long ago in wartime, in the long-ago time when people had few scruples over sacrificing an animal for food, but now, picket lines and protesters are attacking each other with weapons over whether or not the animals should be eaten. Scientists are working day and night to try to contain and destroy the virus which has attacked the food source, and are being kept alive themselves to do this task with numerous cans of Cheeze-Wiz. April 2038: The virus has still not been contained but there is hope on the horizon. The art of cheese making has not been completely lost to civilization as was previously thought. A sect of Orthodox Jews has come forth from the veiled privacy of their culture to offer the world a chance to learn this lost art. They have been saving the knowledge of how to make artisan cheese in the ways that Christian Monks saved knowledge during the previous Dark Ages. It was vitally important to their culture to do so, as it would have been impossible for them to follow their religious edicts without the daily act of keeping dairy and meat separate. If dairy did not exist (as it has not, in the recent past number of years) they would not be able to act in the manner which they believed was right. The loss of sacred ritual in day to day life was not to be lost to them, so they quietly raised cattle and maintained the art of cheese-making for their own use, and have now come forth to offer this knowledge to the world. Teams of scientists from every part of the earth are racing to these small farms to learn the ways of producing cheese, so that the world will no longer suffer. A cultural renaissance is underway, and all because of cheese! June 2040: Black Market cheese continues to demand a high price as artisan cheese-makers continue to develop new products. Most of the populace is happily re-growing their lives on the generic Swiss Cheese that is being manufactured by the ton while the virus that decimated the world’s food source is still being contained. It is said that Black Market chickens are available in some areas of West Virginia. What is next? The ancient food called “The Hamburger”…made from a freshly slaughtered steer? Time will tell…

The Moon is made of Green Cheese The cat climbed up my leg with her claws just barely scraping through my jeans. She lunged up towards my hands. They held a fat square of Velveeta cheese I’d just cut from a loaf that was shaped like nothing so much as a 24 K gold boullion cube straight from the Federal Reserve Bank. To this cat, it was as precious as any gold would be to man. She was pregnant, hugely so…and she had not eaten in a very long time. I didn’t know that, when I walked into the room with the cheese. It was my first day in the apartment and I hadn’t even known there was a cat in the place. The cheese fell from my hands, and I shrieked with mild terror and surprise. The cat grabbed the odd-shaped bit of Velveeta and almost swallowed it whole. She ran towards my legs again, desperate to find more of the manna that had appeared; the manna that would save her and her soon-to-be-born kittens lives. We stared at each other in a sort of mesmerized shock. She began to mew and demand. Naturally I murmured okay, okay. She ran to the eyedropper-sized kitchen just ahead of me and started to climb my leg yet once again as I began to cut the cheese. It hurt. Quickly, I placed the cheese on a paper bag, for there were no plates to be seen, and practically dropped it on the floor. She inhaled it. An old cracked turquoise plastic bowl in the cupboard was filled with some cool water and she fell upon it, slurping in a little cat-dainty way as if she were a gourmand stranded on a desert isle for many years, and it a fine vintage bottle of wine found in a corner of some far flung cave. I ate a bit of the cheese myself, along with several pieces of Wonder Bread that I had just bought at Key Food. This was all that I could afford to buy with the money that I’d panhandled in the place with the infamous name of Needle Park (though I didn’t know that then), all three dollars and forty cents of it. I was fourteen years old. It was my first day in New York as a runaway. Why would anyone choose to buy Velveeta cheese and Wonder Bread if they only had money for several small food items to buy? I don’t know, really. It was not the usual thing that I would have chosen to eat before leaving home, but in the time that had passed since then, and in comparison to some of the other fare I’d eaten, it seemed just right. It actually seemed a luxury. It was soft. One could imagine it warm. It was rich and giving. It was wrapped in lovely shiny silver paper that had a sensual feel of heft and assurance inside the bold yellow cardboard box. It seemed so American, so self-assured, so right, so very settled. Those were the promises that Velveeta held for me that day at Key Food in the narrow scuffed aisles. The Wonder Bread, too, was the cheese’s friendly partner in its own right, with its wrapper of bright ballooning shapes, printed boldly with the solid promise that it would “Build Strong Bodies Twelve Ways”. Out in the big world acting as I thought a grownup should, but still yet a child, I longed for that stolid sense of promised security and health; goodwill and sunshine; the American Way. We shared the bread and cheese, the cat and I…and over the next several months became friends and allies against the noisy late night tirades of the other tenant in the apartment, Warren the heroin addict. Warren had been the other surprise, besides the starving cat. I’d not been told about either of these inhabitants of the place when an acquaintance had said I could stay there and “apartment-sit” for her. My friend the tabby cat continued to share the food I’d bring home for several weeks, and the kittens were born healthy, four of them, quietly in a corner of the closet in due course. One day soon after that, the cat’s owner whisked into town and carried them all away. I moved out of the apartment as quickly as I could afterwards. It was not the same without the cat, the bread, and the cheese. Though all these things were on the far side of elegance…a cardboard box of processed cheese spread, a sponge of a wad of tasteless bread, a rangy-looking old cat, none of that mattered the tiniest whit. There was great comfort to be found then… and there always will be in a cat, some bread and some cheese.

His bushy eyebrows drew closer together. It seemed as if E.G. Peskyfirther’s brows were trying to form the “V” of Victory on the mounded hill of his face. It made one wonder, where else but in the magnificent metropolis of New York City, where else but in the hallowed halls that rose grimly proud over the cobbled lanes of Wall Street, where else could you find a man like this, so intent on greatness and perfection! “What is this?!” he bellowed towards me, stretching his neck out to the full extent of its four inch length. “I wanted exactly, precisely, one ounce of cheese!” I turned from the open door of the refrigerator and saw him in the full display of his rage. His short, pudgy hand arched out with venom. His mouth, jaw, eyes, and infamous eyebrows all worked in unison now, each displaying a quality of dance-like movement…all full of anger, distress, and extreme disappointment. “My diet " (as he intoned the holy word, his eyes closed with religious rapture) "requires one ounce of cheese. At this time of day. Each day. Not more, not less! And I must tell you…the last time that I broke this rule, the disaster that was Black Monday occurred. What do you think of that?” I saw him wince briefly as he pounded his hand onto the hard wooden butcher-block table with a rubbery smack before continuing his narrative. “It must be one ounce of cheese. It must be a sharp Cheddar. It must hail from Wisconsin or New York State. Ideally, it will come from Liverhat, Wisconsin or Slapsings Folly, New York, These geographic locations are the ultimate prime meridians for perfect cheese. Never listen to those who say that Fofum Valley in Minnesota or Wompummfat, Oregon has the equal grace in cheesemaking. It is not so!” I raised the five pound block of cheddar from its swaddling of three thicknesses of cellophane wrap, benignly assessing its major charms: a superb orange greasiness; a stench half of skunk and half of wet basement (or maybe more like a dead skunk laying in a wet basement); and a grating finish of aftertaste that stuck your tongue to the roof of your mouth like a bloodsucker to a bare leg in a weed-filled northern lake. It was my second day on the job as Sous-Chef in the Executive Dining Rooms, and so far I had learned a great deal: Do not arrive for work early, least you be greeted by twelve VIP wanna-be’s who suddenly required personalized breakfast cooked for them (ASAP, natch); do not smile at people, for they would then arrive at the kitchen door with winsome doglike little smiles, simpering about how good those cookies were they’d had last week…were there any more “just laying around?”; and finally, never, ever get caught in a conversation with E.G. Peskyfirther, for to do so was to risk your job at the drop of a hat if not at the very least the loss of your sanity. At 6:40 A.M., it seemed to me to be too early for an angry rampage about a dairy product’s “perfect weight”, but again, this was E.G. and he had his ways. I swung the mountain of cheese out of the chill of its refrigerated home and smacked it down onto the chopping block, just missing E.G.’s perfectly manicured little round pink fingers that were gripping the grain of the wood just a mere three inches away. E.G. had nothing to fear from me, though, but for a growing willingness to enter into an argument over a bunch of nonsense. “I didn’t get any instructions from the Chef about your cheese requirements, Squire. . .uh, I mean Sir” I simpered with a tight little smile in his direction as I pulled an eight inch Chinese cleaver from the drawer. “She knows what I need! Where is she? Why were you not told?!” he barked and whinnied with all three of his chins quivering. I began to cut a piece of cheese. “Now, Mr. Peskyfirther, I will get you a new piece of cheese, but don’t expect it to be “cookie-cutter” perfect, for I do not have the exact dimensions you require nor do we have a working scale in the kitchen. I will just follow the directions for cheese-paring, I mean cutting, that were printed in this month’s issue of Tootin’ Foodies magazine. The article was quite extensive, an entire twelve pages. Surely you read it?” I asked, as the knife moved towards the cheese. I looked over at him and grinned with an overbearing solicitous manner. Personally I thought the man needed professional help. His thirty-six million dollars a year in annual compensation (not counting bonuses or profit shares) would seem to argue against this, though. Maybe there was something to this cheese thing. “Hie!” he snorted at me, and started to shout out his orders as a small drop of snot started dripping from his nose from the strength of his exclamation. “It must be one exact ounce! It must be the shape I always get it in, and don’t think you can fool me, young lady!” “We’ll have you all set in just a snap, Master. . .uh, I mean Mr. Peskyfirther. . .for I have one idea in mind here. . .to do my job as best I can. . .to make you happy. . .and to get this cheese back into the refrigerator so that I no longer have to smell it” I smoothly replied. “I will cut you an ounce of cheese, an amazing and perfect ounce of cheese. Do not doubt me now, for neither I nor the cheese will disappoint you.” His bright red face was glazed with sweat now, he stared with beady eyes as my knife moved. “Now I said I would cut an exact ounce of cheese.” I admit that I almost began to giggle as I unwrapped the foil that surrounded the quarter pound of butter, four ounces it said on the package, that I held in my hand. . .but it was a giggle of impending madness. “There is no scale here” I continued, while hacking at the huge block of greasy orange congealed milkfat that he called cheese, “and the Chef said to just guess, if something needed weighing. Could be that I can do better than that. . .let’s just see. . .” Placing a chunk of cheese onto the butter wrapper, I sliced it into a chunk along the printed line that said “one oz.” then took the knife and slid the cheese towards him across the worktable. “Here is your cheese. One exact ounce cut by volume. Please check the reference on your diet. Was it really one ounce of cheese by weight that they required?” His face and eyebrows did not know what to do now. They gnashed and wriggled and shook and started, but no victory sign was attempted with the eyebrows, for he could not decide. What was this that had happened? “Open thine eyes and thou shalt be satisfied with bread!” I snapped at him as I swung the refrigerator door closed on the foul beastie of curds called New York Cheddar. A huge gasping laugh broke from his gaping face as he tottered sideways then grabbed the chunk of cheese and ran for safety away from the kitchen down towards the elegant corner office on the trading floor. “Cheese weighed by volume! Ha, ha! Black Monday will never cross my mind again!” “Yeah” I muttered under my breath as I pulled out the production sheets to begin lunch. “An ounce of prevention sure would have been worth a pound of cure in this case. Wouldn’t it have been better if your diet had required Reblochon? Then I could have at least respected you.”

It floors me that sometimes people don't seem to read the original questions that are posed in the start of the threads on eG. In threads about 'What will you make that is different for Thanksgiving than turkey' there are answers that argue for the original turkey. Then there are answers that discuss turkey gravy. The actual posts that encourage or support something that is actually 'different'...as the person that started the thread requested...are very few compared to those arguing for not doing what he wanted in the first place. In a thread about a restaurant murder when the question is asked 'Is there anything that might seem like a pattern that could be found' when answers are given to this question, one is reprimanded for being unsuitably coarse in not sitting down on the floor and crying, instead, for the murdered fellow. (Seems a better idea to me to try to find a way to avoid the same thing happening next time, but no...let's sit and cry instead. It is more appropriate.) In a thread that asks for new ways to do Xmas pudding, as in 'deconstruction'...or creative ideas....again....posts are made to argue against the idea of other people who might actually post a creative idea or two. Or more. It floors me that it seems this medium of communication falls more into the category of making posts to support one's own personal doings rather than actually reading and answering the requests that are specifically made. And it floors me that people seem to consistently argue for the mediocre. Wandering off-topic into areas that actually say something or offer some real, important information do not floor me. But this other stuff, does.

Perhaps this comment of mine really should be placed under the 'things that floor me' thread...but the original question that jackal posed was 'How could you present Xmas pudding in a new way?' So guess what. I made an attempt to answer that question, Betts.

Thank you for sharing the beautiful photos during Ramadan, Yetti...and of course at other times, too. And the greetings of the season to you and your family, also. Good thoughts for your mother's recovery. It is good that you are there with her.

I think the answer is lobbyists. All lobbyists who work for the fast food industry should be required by law to eat one of these things before they go to work each day. I bet their sinking productivity levels could be measured on a daily basis.... and of course a daily nap after lunch would be a required part of their days, too....

Actually that is probably the best idea. Keeps the authenticity, adds to the Dickensian factor (just imagine how the little tykes would love a sparkler!) and god knows it would save time effort and expense! At my home, sparklers it will be. But you know jackal....he is made to emblazon the road of fine cuisine with adventures that the rest of us can gasp at and admire while languidly reaching for the nearest pop-tart and bottled water....

M. Lucia, it sounds like Onion Heaven at your house. Behemoth...I am rather casual about cippoline agrodolce. Often I omit the blanching part (for easier peeling) and just peel with a very sharp little knife. Then they are popped into a saute pan with a knob of sweet butter, a sprinkling of salt, a generous grind of black pepper and some fresh minced thyme if it is available...otherwise a small pinch of dried thyme. Pour beef stock over to barely cover, add sugar and balsamic vinegar (about 2 tsp. sugar and 2 T vinegar per cup of stock) and simmer away on medium heat till the stock boils off, then lower the heat and let the onions caramelize nicely. Sometimes a bay leaf is a nice addition for a stronger flavor, and sometimes raisins...but I like them best, 'straight up'. These things are truly addictive. That lentil and goat cheese thing sounds dangerous, too...

Well then...here are some 'starter' ideas. They may all be too far removed from the original to suit, but I'll list them just for the fact that they may lead you to other ideas possibly. *Take the usual Xmas pudding, a small one, and enclose it in a filo dough shaped 'Beggar's Purse'. Possibly a recipe could be developed that would include a brandy-flavored pastry cream or custard to top the pudding that would hold up to the brief time in the oven that browning a Beggar's Purse takes, so that when the purse was broken into with fork, the sauce would spill out. This could take on the aspect of Santa's sack that is thrown over his back, filled with gifts...and could have added garnishes of various sorts during plating. *Bake French Meringue into small circles that vary in size from 3" in diameter down to 1" in diameter. It could be regular or cocoa/chocolate flavored, as you wish. Cut the (already made) Xmas pudding into circles also, of the same sizes. Stack up into a Christmas tree shape...first meringue, then pudding, meringue, then pudding, till done. Top with a flutter of edible gold leaf...attached to the top of the 'tree' with a small dab of icing. Could be that this could be flamed with brandy at service time, though I am unsure how the gold leaf would react, it would have to be tested. *I like the idea of the tastes of Xmas pudding and Macarpone together. One could make either a layered torte to be served with....an intensely flavored orange sabayon perhaps? Candied tangerine segments might be nice with this combination. Another way of putting it together would be to see if you could drain the mascarpone to get a firmer cheese then shape the cheese into small balls with your hands and the already-made plum pudding into balls with a melon baller then stack them up into a tree shape...I don't know if the cheese will be able to attain that measure of holding texture, though...but if you really wanted to play with it, you could blend it with a gelatin mix then attempt it. *The flavor of pear also seems to go with Xmas pudding, to me. You might hide a center of pudding inside a poached pear so that it would not be seen till cut into...candied violets might make for a rather rococo addition to the plate. *Top, or use as a background...the Xmas pudding with a large, imposing fluted caramel wedge. *Make the puddings in pyramid or cone shaped molds, or cut into these shapes from a larger molded pudding. Individually plate then enclose each with spun sugar. Okay. That has been my Xmas pudding thinking for tonight. Now it's off to find a tot of brandy for either the pudding or me.

My question would be...what is the intent of the new presentation....is it simply the visuals you are (for the most part) looking for, or do you want to take it further into the creative realm of building something slightly new, in taste or texture components? As a side issue I am curious to know if the intended guests will be more happy or more taken aback with the messing about with a standard? And also am curious, as you state that this is a restaurant dinner...are you making the dessert then carrying it into the restaurant or do you have such a thing as a compliant chef at this particular restaurant who would actually be willing to....try what you request? I have some slight ideas but want to know more what your intent is, please.

Once you have had Cippoline Agrodolce you will never go back to creamed onions.

Nostalgia? Hmmm. My daughter informed me...over a bowl of morning cereal recently....that it would be 'healthier' if she could have pizza for breakfast, based on the sugar-laden calories in most breakfast cereals. Cereal is an immensely popular all-purpose fast convenience food, isn't it? It can be eaten morning, noon and night. It is something that even the youngest hungry child can prepare for themselves without an adult's help (let's forget for the moment images of spilled milk slopping from the heavy gallon jugs... and the cereal boxes that don't ever get closed right). It comes in all sorts of flavors, is easily digestable, and in a pinch one can pretend to being eating something healthy because of the 'grains' and the milk. It is also inexpensive which matters to lots of people who have children to grow. It seems to be the ultimate 'modern' food to me, in that it fits in so well and usefully with the way life is for a huge segment of society. Ah. For nostalgia, it is fun to visit Cereal City in Battle Creek, Michigan. A fun walking sort of museum dedicated to everything about cereal, with lots of interactive displays for the children. That 'cereologist' image is sort of fun, though. Uh...but I am not sure whether the actuality of seeing unknown people in their pajamas would really be a fascinating experience.... What do you think? Prefer pajamas or something else...worn....by your server?

Yeah...well my crankiness makes me feel even more cranky about being cranky. As a side issue to my comments on commentators and their audiences it perhaps should be expressed that in a previous profession it was my personal experience on several occasions to see write-ups in both newspapers and magazines, both of good repute...by writers that in one case did not decide that the full story would be as interesting as half the story...thereby shading a reality into something not quite as real...and in another case, having my words actually re-shaped and re-formed into meanings that they never initially held. There were other occasions where this did not happen. But have it happen to you...in print...in public...and it is likely there will always be questions in your mind as to what 'journalism' is and what 'criticism' or 'reviews' are, as practiced. I say they can slip quite quickly into the genre of creative nonfiction. And what is one to make of that?

Ah...so kind of you, Michaei. Tally-ho, chop-chop and all that. Yours in times of war and peace, Karen-San

Absolutely. Would this not hold true for reviews also?