Carrot Top

Saganaki is most excellently philosophic and delightfully delicious at the same time.

Let me develop my clues a bit, too. 13. Thomas Edison meets half of a "Surf and Turf". and 23. A way to drink a tisane never dared look so unladylike. Except in the eyes of this one lady's rendering.

No, but it should be. Allegorically, not categorically, of course.

Here's another: 23. "Have a sip, it'll put hair on your chest."

I read somewhere recently that Theibaud had illustrated a somewhat recent edition of Brillat Savarin's book. That would be interesting to see. This is terrible, because I can vividly see both those pictures before me yet can not for the life of me remember the artist. This game has the potential of being more dangerous even, than trying to write limericks.

Not a Maine potato? Well at least I got the first letter right: M. Your refrigerator is not messy, yunnermeier. That is called "controlled chaos". It must be nice to be home. Yesterday here was Mother's Day, so please wish your mother a happy one (although just having you there makes for a Happy Mother's Day, I bet). Looking forward to learning more about the endless variety of food that is Malaysian.

Just What Is It That Makes Today's Homes So Different, So Appealing? U-Bet-Cha. Richard Hamilton was on to something. Fer Shue-Er.

Totally missed Shaya's post on #4. Will just add another one to the same category, though. The Rubens' version titled the same.

Here is a clue for a work of art that can be #13 : Call me from the Maine shore.

Oh, no. Please. Find some more easy ones for I really can *not* do the more difficult ones.

Bumping this topic up again. Am hoping that someone has had a chance to peruse this volume and share their thoughts and feelings on the authors and pieces included . . .

Really, cake has not been the same for me since Wayne decided to have a go at it. The essence of cake is so, well, *cake-y* in his work that no real cake could ever taste as good. But who knows. You might be talking about a birthday hat. Or a birthday suit.

I didn't think of that! His last name even suited him, didn't it. It would be, judiu. It would be, and in any good story probably *should* be. But I know schlepping. I've done it, believe me, and there is a sense of melodrama attached to it. When you schlep you make sure people know about it. Eh. Abe just did it. He just took the stuff and carried it. But who knows, his companion may have been schlepping with *his* part of the stuff. I didn't think of that.

Apparently released on April 19, 2007. Here's the link to the book on Amazon. Recipes, too. I ran into the book at B&N today, or it ran into me. One way or the other, it came home with me. I am thrilled.

So I just noticed that there is a Second Avenue Deli Cookbook due to those bizarre double pink lines. I'm going to have to order it. I met Abe Lebewohl one year when I was executive chef for Goldman Sachs. Somehow I'd gotten snagged into planning and organizing the menu for this large corporate/Congress mixer in DC that was titled "The New York State Festival". Featuring all the foods of New York, and my job was to decide which foods would represent the state at the party for 1200 people which was to be held in Washington, DC. The cast of characters soon turned this charming extravaganza into something that resembled an Oscar Wilde drawing room comedy.There were the vendors of foods from New York who seemed to be like scavenging crows diving endlessly upon me, their prey, in their telephone calls, letters, and presentations of products that they wished to sell to the function to represent the state (and themselves, bien sur). There were the representatives of the representatives of Congress, each seriously intent upon making sure that their District was represented in its foods *as much* if not more than the votes it held in the larger scheme of NY. All I can say about that scene is that it reminds me of the line that one should never see how either laws or sausages are made. Never a corporate meeting had I seen (and I'd seen many) where the claws and nails of determination to *win* came out with unending vigor, regardless of any sense of the thing. All proportion went right out the window with nary a whimper within that group. I did what I do when I want to run fast, I smiled. A lot. I smiled because *we* (me, as representative of GS) supposedly liked doing this for some reason. "We" had the role of treasurer for the function, in the form of a very nice fellow who handled all the corporate dollars that were put up for this thing, who was head of the DC office at the time. His name, strangely enough, was Judah. Though we called him Judd. So I smiled and smiled. And planned the menu so that finally, everyone was happy. I presented it to the chef of the hotel, an old-school German guy who was at least twice the size of me, who spoke in barks. I introduced myself and told him my name, told him I was exec chef of GS, told him my role in this thing. He glanced at me up and down as we stood in the large kitchen of the hotel and he smiled a long slow smile as the minions (a chef like he was always has minions) scurried around us. He smacked his cleaver down upon a slice of veal to flatten it. "So are you staying the night?" he growled out, looking at me as if I were a schokolade-kirschenroulade which he could not decide which part to take a bite out of first. Talking to him about the menu was close to impossible. He might as well have just been sitting there batting his eyes nonsensically for all the effort he put into having a conversation about the food. But then, in the midst of this cast of characters, comes Abe Lebewohl. Nobody had given too much of an argument over including Jewish Deli food as part of the menu, and nobody had given too much of an argument that Second Avenue Deli would be a great place to source that food, rather than undertaking the idea of having Chef Attilla try to corn some beef. I telephoned Abe at the deli to talk about what would best be included for this part of the menu, and to discuss cost. Ah. He was the voice of sanity and reason within the comedy. He made wonderful suggestions, including suggestions of quantities, which otherwise I would have had to struggle with. What a nice menu he planned. He was warm, he was helpful, he made it so easy. He made me smile for real. We got to the part where I needed to know what he would charge. "No" he said. "This is on me. I'm happy to do this so that people can know this food." I was floored. I argued a bit but of course finally gave in. Then there was more. I brought up the subject of delivery to DC. Naturally, we wanted the food to be fresh and good, so the logistics would take some planning. "I'll bring it myself" he said. And so he did. And he did not want compensation for plane or cab fare for either himself or for the guy he brought along to help carry the stuff, which was of course heavy, lots of food. I'm happy to say that Abe Lebewohl's Second Avenue Deli food was one of the most-enjoyed parts of the festival that night, from people's comments as I walked through the crowd. He made a lot of people very happy, regardless of whatever agendas they were there for, fighting strong. And it might be that not all deli owners are like Abe Lebewohl. But if they are not, please don't tell me. I don't want to know. Abe Lebewohl. He was a mensch. ....................................................... And now I am all out of deli stories.

Looks like I've got to grab my tent and pack it in the back of the SUV with the kids and start travelling. I can use the time to practice my new-found vocabulary words you've taught me in your post above. Thanks. ........................................... I have a nice Abe Lebewohl story to tell you, but have to go do some other things rather than sit here in front of the computer, strangely enough. Will post it later.

They sort of remind me of those red-apple slices from the southern American cooking canon - you don't see them too much anymore, but they are round cored apple slices (gosh, are they pickled? maybe, or maybe just poached) which are then set in a marinade that includes red-hots cinnamon candies (or so I seem to remember, but all this is just vague memory so I do hope someone jumps in here to add some intelligence ) that makes them bright red when finished. Served as a side, sort of like a pickle. What does all this have to do with Kool-Aid pickles? Hmmm. I'm just thinking that in addition to the Kool-Aid in the recipe, maybe some sorts of candies like red-hots could be added too, for extra savor. The only one I can think of at the moment is lemon drops, but then I don't hang around the candy counter too much so I have a lack of candy ideas to choose from in my mind.

A more honorable task would be hard to find. My personal deli-less hell is Blacksburg, Virginia. And given some of the experiences our town has been through lately, to know that there was a good deli "close enough" would be a boon to all. I'll keep my fingers crossed and my ears perked in case you do come up with something. Very nice website you've got there, by the way. I liked the photo of your Mom and her remaining half-sandwich.

You have a fantastic and truly unique eye and visual sense, Harlan. And obviously the technique to back it all up with. Kudos on these photos! I think I would recognize your work anywhere. And that's saying a lot considering the amount of photos we all see each day. Thanks for posting.

There are no Jewish delis where I live. There are no Jewish delis often where I travel. I've looked, and longed, and hungered. I went to my first Jewish deli when I was barely fourteen years old, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. My boyfriend was Jewish, and older than me, and he ate the usual deli things plus those things that might be considered arcana for the casual lightweight diner dabbling in Jewish deli food. My God, the smell of those pickles set in the center of the table in their practical utilitarian silver bowl. I can honestly say that even thinking about those pickles, my mouth will still literally water sometimes, of its own doing. Yes, those pickles were nocturnal-salivation worthy, even ah . . . too many years to want to add up and list, later. The first thing we ate was matzoh-ball soup. It was okay. Very different than anything I'd ever eaten before, as the daughter of a single-mother-non-cook-WASP. Then we had some sandwiches. WASPs do not know how to make a sandwich, I realized, when I saw these sandwiches. What I had thought was a sandwich while growing up (a slice of bologna on white bread with yellow mustard, hey hey) was a parody. It was a parody of how life should be. Roast beef on rye. Good, good, very very good. We shared. And another. A combo. Corned beef, tongue, and turkey I think. With coleslaw and Russian dressing. On rye, of course. The bread was soft and warm and yielding to its fillings, as if it loved them itself. The bread curled round the meats like a mother's arms round a new baby, coddling them, offering them up, saying "Look, how beautiful!" Yes, they were beautiful and if the nature of Divinity has a taste, it exists in a well-made Jewish Deli corned beef, tongue, and turkey sandwich with coleslaw and Russian, pickles, of course, on the side unending in the bowl before us. We had stuffed peppers. Sigh. Comforting. We had stuffed derma. To this shiksa, interesting. Not only the taste, you know, but the idea, too. We had Dr. Brown's celery soda, of course, and cream soda too. We waddled off into the night after that meal and I felt warmed and good, with the food, the smells, and the banter of the place. You are right, so very right, to say the delis must be saved. I think they should not only be saved, they should be grown and made to prosper in every nook and cranny of the Universe. ................................................................ About six months after this meal, I met my father for the very first time in my life. I also discovered, at that time, that I was half-Jewish, as he is Jewish - which my mother had not ever mentioned to me as I was growing up. Our first meal together, he took me to Gage and Tollner. For some reason I ordered Lobster Newburg. This was pre-Edna Lewis. It was dreadful. Our relationship never prospered. And years later, it is my theory that it all could have been better if only he had taken me to a deli.

Pas moi, dearie. Though I am enjoying being in the same sentence as those two dolls. I'm guessing that's a cull potato from the great state of Maine.

You're talking sweet tender baby butterleaf, sparrowgrass? I think you're talking sweet tender baby butterleaf.

Mmm. There is a sense of "I came, I saw, I ate" and there the story ends, in many reviews. Okay, I think to myself, so tell me something new. But there is a different sense felt, with some writers of reviews. One can imagine that, rather than have their head buried deeply in their plate they lift their eyes and look around. They look out to the horizon. And there they see things that have something to do with what they are putting in their mouth. And then they tell the story. Sure, the story itself can always be argued with as to whether it fits one's own version of reality. But at least the story is written, is read, is there, rather than just another bite of food. Food without story. Isn't that really just fodder? Chomp. But the point Heather mentions about "good writing" matters too. If I have a choice, I'll shop where the style says something different. I'll shop where the lines (the lines of the clothes, of the car, of the sweet red bell pepper) give me a giggly little pinch of visceral pleasure. Same with reading reviews or criticism. I like to read reviews that one would never, ever, associate with what used to be called "The Women's Page" of a newspaper. The name "Women's Page" . . . it doesn't exist anymore, maybe, but the genre of writings that would be there and named that, does. And it's all just a bit too damn cozy, with a sense lurking round the edges of horses chewing oats with blinkered eyes, the cold steel bits edging sideways back and forth in their large wet mouths. For my taste, anyway. I understand there are those who like it that way, though.

The thread used is too thin (i.e. cheap) to sustain the pull against the heaviness of the fabric of the bag, Chris. Generally the way described above of removing any seam from any fabric works. *Unless* the universe has it planned to make it difficult, as makers of charcoal bags obviously do, for you and for everyone else who is destined to try it. But it does add to the "He-Man" image of charcoal itself as cooking fuel to see guys grunting and gasping and squeezing up their eyes in exasperation and elbowing those arm muscles around doing their he-man best to get that bag open every time the charcoal grill comes out. Scissors, my man. Scissors. They even come attached to Very Manly Swiss Army Knives. That way you've got it all covered. High-Tech Low-Tech Guy. They even have pockets in some modern jeans that you can carry your mini Swiss Army Knife around in. P.S. "Cowboy Charcoal"?

Here's something interesting that I received in my e-mail today that "aspiring food writers" might like to take a gander at - a call for submissions for foodwritings on culture and history: