Carrot Top

I recently came across a very old copy of "The Round-the-World Cookbook" by Myra Waldo, and was flipping through it last night. There are two dessert recipes included in the section on Portugal. One is a fried bread dessert and the other is . . . Leite Creme con Farofias (Meringue in Custard) (Wonder if that will be included in your book, David )

I don't like bunnies. In theory they are cute, but close up they have horrid little sharp claws on their feet that never retract and they really, truly, are not the brightest of creatures. Nevertheless, I gave in and let my son get a bunny for a pet. Since the bunny has entered the house, every time I turn around my son has decided to commune with it, as if his room were a barn. Which I believe he would like it to be. The bunny is set free and it does what bunnies do. It pees and poops and chews things. I have never done so much laundry in my life. For a bunny. I have never been so appalled at the way my son's room looks (though admittedly I've come close). Last night I almost electrocuted myself when plugging in a lamp that somehow had gotten unplugged - the bunny had chewed the cord and my hand was on the chewed part. I shrieked, naturally, and did anyone feel bad for me? No, we all felt bad for the bunny, who ran to a corner of his cage and so very cutely hid his head in his furry paws as if the world was being bombed or something. Poor bunny. So today I am keeping sane by imagining eating the bunny. I like rabbit, as food. Have you ever eaten a pet? If so, better tell me how it left a scar on your psyche for the rest of all time, so I can avoid letting the bunny chew on his own device of gnawed electrical cord by (heh) "mistake" then having some nice wabbit stew.

I'll bring an appl pi. SB ← Isn't that a new type of computer? If not, it should be.

Quite a Dickensian image, project. I am reminded of a children's round song where each time another ingredient is added. All that work. Laying eggs. Being a laying hen in general, indeed. Being meant, finally, for the soup pot. The whimsy of a chicken's life. Fairy-tale like but in the end, not. "Old roosters never die, they just fade away". (General McArthur) Let's move on to V8, shall we? I think it tastes that tomato-y not because of the quality of the tomatoes but the concentration of the tomatoes. I think each little can has a teaspoon or so of tomato paste in it. V8 is one of two ingredients that will make any child eat his vegetable soup. I've tested this on classrooms of second-graders. V8 and those little hot-dogs that come in little jumbled packages that are slightly spicy. There is no way any child can resist these two important ingredients. They must eat the soup to get to them.

Probably Campbell's chicken soup is made from the trimmings of chickens butchered in processing plants. Backs, necks (sometimes) and feet. This makes a good stock, and because they don't use the *whole* chicken it could be they used that reason (in their minds) to refuse a response to you, because (heh) "you didn't ask the question right". But probably they would not have answered anyway. I noticed something the other day about Campbell's chicken noodle soup (the one with the big egg noodles, my daughter likes it for a snack) that I remember from their original chicken noodle soup - there is still some chicken fat floating on top. This is really key to flavor, in my mind. The other day I made a soup that included chicken broth (from those quart packages) onions, celery, zucchini, bits of ham, cabbage, white beans and herbs. It was okay but something was missing. Not va va voom. Scooped up a bit of the chicken fat from the pan that the chicken was roasting in, added it and there was an immediate all over flavor pump-up. Great. Well. Just more ephemera about Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Didn't answer your question, but anyway.

Here's the link: Food Summit Always something interesting going on.

The very first time I ever tried to put pen to paper to write something, about two years ago, was inspired by fishing in the Keys, Anne. Naturally, my experience had to shape itself differently than some glamorous deep-sea fishing adventure: A Fish Tale Grits and Grunts for dinner, honey. Nothin' wrong with that. I'd travel to Florida for it. The fish might bite my finger but soon, soon, he'll get it right back.

I can see what you both mean, Anne and Robyn. One might rue the lack of "destination" restaurants there and wish for more. And one might guess that really, the "food travel" to Florida from us out-of-staters is only part of the other draws that Florida has for us. (Scraped any ice off the car windshield lately? ). But I would add that even someone like me, who does not travel to destination restaurants anymore (though there were times I did) by choice, still counts "food" as part of the package Florida offers, and the thinking of that food is part of the reason for the travel. I'd like a grouper sandwich like I had on St. Pete's Beach a few months ago. Oh yeah. I'm ready. Can't find it here, and that will definitely be part of the draw next time I say "Where should I go, for travel (and food)?" That grouper sandwich will be calling me. From Florida.

Why so? ← Mallet probably can not answer as it's probable they've packed him into a wooden box with other salt cod. Or it could be that he's being made into a brandade at this very moment. Not a bad way to go, actually, considering. If you escape, Mallet, do let us know the details. How much salt of what sort, how long drying out in the cool air, and all that. In the meanwhile, I am back to being a red grapefruit since being a loquat didn't work out as I'd planned . I do hope some more delightful foods will join us on this lovely table.

This is the first advice given in the book Mindless Eating but he provides studies that say to cut the portions by one-fifth. If you do more than one-fifth or less than one-fifth, it will not succeed. I'll try to take a better look at the book to see if there is any other direct advice - just reading the book to see how "we" (the public) are psychologically manipulated by marketing and other techniques to buy more and eat more food is useful, and it helps that the guy has credence.

Here's some ideas: Sauce Verte (Use light mayo or half mayo/half plain yogurt) Chimichurri Sauce Cilantro Mint Chutney (Ignore the rest of the recipe where it details the cooking of the chicken if you just want the sauce for plain roast or poached chicken) Curried Chicken Salad (Which, again, can be made with light mayo or with half mayo/half plain yogurt) Russian Tea Room Russian Dressing(Replace mayo with light mayo, sour cream with plain yogurt) Sun-Dried Tomato Vinaigrette Remember if you buy yogurt for these recipes to be sure that it is "plain" not "vanilla" flavored. Sometimes plain yogurt is only sold in the larger containers.

It's been a while since I had one of their usual burgers, so I have to rely on "taste-memory", but there was not anything too essentially different of major proportions, to my mind, between the two, except maybe a bit of a denser flavor profile and, uh. . .more of it. It could be that my perceptions were skewed by the fact that I was hopeful of finding something that tastes like Hardee's Six Dollar Burger, which I really like sometimes (mostly because of the way it smells, for some reason ) but which sends me reeling to the couch to lay there moaning, a useless shell of a person, for a while after the rare times I do indulge. McDonald's has been freaking my son out lately, which is strange, for it used to be his very favorite. (He's thirteen, barely.) He has switched his fast-food allegiance to Subway or to BK if that is the only thing around when we are out and need to eat quickly. This happened after being served one day by a rather unfortunate-looking fellow at the drive-through window who looked more than slightly unkempt to put it mildly, and whose hands smelled like urine when he handed the food out to us. Drew would not eat the food, and will not go back. To *any* McDonald's. Can't say I'm terribly sad about it, though.

Why so?

ROFLMAO! AAaaaaaaaaahahahahah! I just picked loquat 'cause it sounded nice and I thought I wanted to be one. It was a mere philosophic decision, kind of like when a kid decides they want to be an astronaut. Then I read this, that Domestic Goddess just posted in another thread: I am *not* like a hairy red rambutan. I assure you! ( ) (A case of "be careful what you wish for . . ")

You know you're in the wrong place to eat when it is a Japanese steakhouse and all the guys cooking and the girls serving look like refugees from Yale. (Uh, refugees from Yale wearing traditional Japanese costume, I should say. ) (Tall, blond refugees from Yale. Not that WASPs can't cook Japanese but it sure didn't seem so in this case, in this place ) Sigh.

Lately one of the reasons I recognize for being hungry (sic) is boredom. Bored? Eat. Bad, bad, bad.

Time has passed, and I now am a loquat.

Aliza Green's Starting with Ingredients. A tome. 1055 pages. A very good book for recipe-lovers, good recipes, good concepts, commonsensical and far from dull in terms of range of recipe types and specifics. All cultures invited, so to speak. Aguecheek's Beef, Belch's Hiccup, and Other Gastronomic Interjections by Robert Applebaum. Looking at literary history through the eye of food. Or looking at food through the eye of literary history. Or something like that. Some fascinating stuff, but please make sure to play your "Learn to Speak Academese" tapes before you decide to approach. I, personally, ended up skimming the book. Fierce Pajamas, An Anthology of Humor Writing from the New Yorker, edited by David Remick and Henry Finder. My favorite story in the collection so far is "Dusk in Fierce Pajamas" by E.B. White (from which the collection took its name, of course), a spoof where he becomes part of the pages of a glossy magazine he's looking at, with all the socialites and celebrities of the day lounging around him with their martinis and what-not's, all so very terribly elegant while at the same time seeming just a slightly bit off-balance and well . . .just wierd, because that's how he writes it without batting an eye to let you know he's doing so. I adore this book, so much that I only want to read it in small bits to savor each bite.

Priscilla, this image will remain in my mind forever. I like to imagine that someday, you and your neighbor will climb her tree, up to the top of it, on a fine sunny morning, and eat loquats together, smiling. And that from then on, it will happen everywhere, all around the world. Sightings will become rare but known, of women who have climbed right up into the treetops where the loquats are soft and ripe and luscious, to rest in the boughs for a bit and smile, while they lay back against the sun-spattered leaves allowing the sweet loquat juice to fall upon their elegant clothes carelessly. I, myself, intend to do it some day.

There was a commercial on TV last night that caught my attention. It was for On Star, and this guy was in the car, lost or something, looking for something to eat or something, and all he had to do was push a button to have a very *very* pleasant woman talk to him in soothing and accurate tones to tell him how to get where he needed to go to get un-lost. She was *so* nice. Her voice was melliflous, she somehow knew how to read a map to direct him, and when he thanked her, her laugh, along with a "Oh, that's okay, I love to help you" was such a light trilling giggle, subliminally sexual as if to say, "Hey guy. I *like* you. You're cute, you know that?" So charming. Of course she was getting paid by the hour to be like that. But what a novel and worthwhile service for those lost and hungry who need help.

Thank you, Domestic Goddess. Egg yolks are good for the face.

Actually, thinking of lemons and kurds and Greek symbols, I might want to combine them all and make a lemon galaktaboueriko (say that fast three point one four times ). With candied pi napple on the side and roast chili flavored pignolis to nibble too, for a balance of flavors. Pilates afterwards, bien sur.

It looks delicious. Another dish to be added to the Licking the Plate thread. The people in the crowd at the outside function looked to be a different shape than people in similar crowds "here". It makes me wonder if it is due to diet in general, or maybe walking more in general? or it could be all that getting up and down to sit on the floor each day, really. Discomfiting as it may seem to those unused to it, that could be a good thing to do for the physique. (Might have to chop the legs off my dining table now for this excellent life-style idea . . .) Thank you for sharing your poem - it was beautiful. I remember my one poem some teacher forced us to write around the same age, and it shows the difference between a natural poet (you) and a regular kid made to write a poem: "Kittens are big, kittens are small, some people don't have any at all. Kittens are cute, kittens are pretty, if you don't like them then move to a city." Lacks a bit of lyricism, there, and yours sure did not. (Of course in later life I would have changed the last line of my poem to, "if you don't like them, then you are just sh*tty" but darn it all I didn't know that word at that age. ) Here in southwest Virginia, as someone leaves, those who speak the native dialect do say, (in a musical drawl with a smile while looking directly into the other's eyes "Y'all come on back to see us, now" and those are my sentiments exactly, Doddie, Most Excellent Domestic Goddess.

Here's what I mean about threads. Both in a global sense of self (in the forms of being female and in the connections of feminism and all) and in the personal sense of self - all as connected to food. Why try to sort the threads? Sometimes, to find a good and accurate path to follow for oneself. Other times, because the stories we live and tell are the ones our children hear and follow, believe or not, take in to their hearts as part of who they are and how they will live. My mother was a single mother, ardent feminist, angry woman, and very proud of her Ph.D. She did not particularly like food - it was fodder. So when I grew up to learn about food and how it could show love and succor, it totally blew me away. If I had followed my mother's lead, I would not care too much about food and would avoid many other things that offer love. But then I learned to be a chef. When I was a chef, I followed my mother's feminist teachings, and also by the way profited greatly by the very fact of "feminism" having changed the world. I never would have been able to make a six figure salary as a woman as an Executive Chef in this venue in previous times. Hosannas, indeed, to notions and realities of feminism. As an executive chef, I was paid very well. Got lots of compliments on the things I cooked or the the kitchen under my direction cooked. Excellent feeling. So later on, in another life. I am married, with children. "I am married with children. I cook, at home," I would say. And the comments were blah in return from those who were around to meet. "I used to be a chef," I would say and the bright smiles lit up faces. Where? What did you cook? So much interest shown. In the profession. Of cooking. But *not* in the act of cooking, as mothers, wives, and now more, husbands and fathers are doing at home. The act somehow becomes a different thing at home. If it is done with love, it can give more than one can ever imagine. Yet those that do it are met with such a different attitude than those who do it to make money. My children know how to cook, they have from a young age. But still, there is no sort of religious fervor about dinnertime, and still, they are children and will eat from their mother, will want to be fed by their mother, which is a different thing for a mother to do than it is for a woman to feed a man. A different relationship. And children do make one humble. They do say 'yuck'. They do not want this that or the other thing, whether the President of the United States thought it was the best thing he ever ate or not. If they feel 'yuck' they say yuck. And so it goes. Not a high level of appreciation sometimes. How to fine tune all this for myself, is my internal question. And how on earth to answer this thing I see where professionalism in cooking is rewarded in the world though it really is a job with a salary attached, where cooking at home is thought of so very very differently by the world. Really it is. And with no salary attached, it is a jump of faith to throw oneself into it as sole occupation, as homemaker. Faith indeed, and prayerfully to all that undertake it in this way, it will be a faith rewarded in close-known quiet ways. Would that it could be made safer for those that choose to undertake it, in a world that sorely needs comfort, comfort of the home and hearth. Where have the better rewards been in cooking, for me? As a chef, whose food was well appreciated, where words of thanks were given each day along with the mantle of "chef" that people seem to like? Sometimes I laugh, thinking of how I would be approached here and there if I used the moniker "Chef Karen" (which of course I was). I look at that sort of personal experience and compare it to having been a home cook for a family where somehow my spouse turned out to be a turncoat, where the foods fed him were not somehow appreciated. This can happen. I don't know the "why's". But I do know that they need to be asked, if never, finally completely understood. It is good for each person to see the place they are standing on to see what it is that makes it, so they can love it or, maybe, say "uh-oh". I like the line Henry James wrote, about "the time-honored breadsauce of the happy ending". Food, delicious food, loving food, can sometimes take on that mythical soft and fuzzy sort of power. But is that power real? Or is it all in the narrative, which can not always be written as one might wish it to be.

Interesting questions, Rebecca. To me, the rope you speak of *is* a bundle of threads. To try to see each thread for itself, separate, in its different colors and textures, in a true sense, to use for oneself as a sort of compass or footing, is a fascinating task to undertake. Probably an endless task, but fascinating. I would add to your list of questions or defining points that I put in bold above, also life experiences. Luck has a lot to do with this, doesn't it? Sheer luck? And time and place. And how one reacts to what experiences one has. I know for a fact that I'm the same little red-headed girl I was at four years old. I can feel my personality and see it used in the outside world in the same way. And yet in other ways very much I am not, but the urge is still there to recapture the purity of self that existed in the four-year old Karen. Yet it also happens that the way I live my life is *not* the way the "original" ( ) four-year old Karen would have, for some things have been faced in the course of life that makes certain paths seem surer or safer ones to follow than others. The opposite too, though, minichef. If food is succor given or received, it can be the opposite - a lack of love or pleasure shown in what we give or receive.