Carrot Top

In some categories of businesses, there are areas where those businesses (in a certain form, at a certain level) thrive, more than they would in other areas. New York, regardless of its detractors (i.e. the rest of the country? ) is a geographic place where the restaurant business, at a certain level, in a certain form, thrives. Moreso than lots of other places. In that sense, New York is important. Deference given, or not. (New Yorkers have never required deference, nor, as you mentioned earlier, are they particularly "effete". Not even the women. )

There used to be a place on the side of the small highway that went near the rural town we lived in - it was a gas station with a grill. Breakfast, burgers and stuff. Country ham used, of course. Grits always, in the morning. They always had a sign up trying to lure those driving by. Often, it said "Angel Biscuits". Sometimes, it said "Angel Steaks". I never quite figured out what Angel Steaks were -- it scared me a bit to think of them. . .Then one day the first letter of the gas station sign fell off somehow, so when you'd drive by, instead of seeing "Shell", you'd see "hell" being advertised as the place to come to eat Angel Steaks. . .I never did dare to do that. . . But Rachel, I think you just served me my first Angel Biscuits. Ethereal, existing in a time and place not here and now, exuding the sense of a light embrace of feathery warmth. Delicious, even spiritually so.

Yes, but who would want to view Rachel Ray through it? -Dick ← I'm going to admit to a very old-fashioned thing I do when I run out of Saran Wrap (or whatever it is that I've happened to buy, for I am quite daringly promiscuous as far as choosing food wraps go ). I take a plate that fits the bowl and I upend it right on top. Since I don't tend to keep lots of "leftovers" hanging around, it suits just fine, short-term. Maybe a few upended plates would help with your Rachel dilemma? For forty dollars a day, she could buy some rather pretty plates, too, to add just that special touch to the wardrobe.

I had never heard of Eater before this thread. Granted, I don't look for stuff within this milieu, but just the same. . . The result of Eater "deathwatching" ( whoa, serious stuff there!) eG, with the subsequent link posted here, made me go clickety-clickety. . .and therefore be aware of it. Great job of free advertising.

That reminds me. I just saw a photo somewhere of a new model mini-van coming out this year that has been designed with a table and chairs in the back instead of regular seats. ( ) (No, I'm not kidding.)

Yeah, SB. Go for it! I'm hungry.

Anchovy "B Must be for Butter"! I think "C" has to be for chocolate. Or how about C is for Cilantro? D is for dragées ("V" is for Velveeta?) "A is for Asafetida", but then I'll save it for "H is for Hing"... E is for Eggplant "H" has to be for hot peppers! K for Kalamansi jar of green tomato pickles "L" is for "L"ights I will offer the lowly Mushroom for "M". crispy mountain snake Tea. puff pastry "M" is for Morels very delicious pig Quaker Oats Ugli Fruit zachun-oil tree zahidi zamang zamia zebra zebrafish zebrawood zebu zig-zag scallops zucca zucchini Zulu nut zaatar zabaglione zakuski zampone zander zedoary zampino zeeland (oysters) zest(e) zibet zingara zwieback 1. Brown Rice 2. Green Salad with Lemon Juice, No Oil 3. Wheat Germ 4. Pressed Tofu Strips 5. Brewer's Yeast ............................................................................................. Well. . .there are some fine ingredients. I wonder if someone can write a menu with them. A menu from. . . A for Albania B for the Bosphorus C for China D for Dijon E for Ethiopia F for France G for Georgia (US or USSR) H for Hawaii I for India J for Japan K for Kuala Lumpur L for Lyons M for Marbella O for Oman P for Pakistan Q for Qu'atar R for Russia S for South Dakota T for Timor U for Utah V for Vienna W for Warsaw X for . . .for. . .whatever hits the spot Z for Zulu ( )

What a snippet, Rachel. I remember a story from MFK about how she ate chocolate with bread on a Swiss mountaintop where it had been offered her by a tall old schoolteacher type of guy, though I think he was actually an old colonel - and there was a frog-like shorter old man who joined them in the repast who might have been a professor. . .she felt no kinship before (rather the opposite, in fact), with either of them, till the moment of communion where all chewed bread and chocolate together. . . And I remember something about how she (if indeed it was in MFK but the story resonates in memory somewhere) went on a picnic at a separate time, maybe with her sister? - and how they sat on the sandwiches to smash them flat - for they were supposed to be those French sandwiches (savory, with meats and cheese and veggies) made on a baguette where part of the recipe involves flattening with bricks or something heavy for a good long time (eight hours at least?) before serving (can not bring to mind the name of those sandwiches in this exact moment) and how fun that was. But I don't remember chocolate and straight-laced schoolteachers and bottoms set on top of sandwiches all together in one place. . . (though I could be wrong). It *would* make a lovely children's poem, though, the very idea of it. . . .if *I* were a child, I would love to read a poem of such a thing. . . Even as a grownup, I would.

Nice pudding recipe, Janet. And you made me quite happy listing all those Z words, because as I am one of those odd people who read encyclopedias for pleasure ( ) and who is lucky enough to have all three of the books you mentioned, I knew most of what you listed, which made me feel as if I'd wandered into an beautiful encyclopedic paradise where I almost knew how to speak the language. And strangely enough, I had the same idea myself, while falling asleep last night, to list foods for a letter so the menu making can begin. Could it be the effects of the Moon? Anyway, it was "V" I was going to do. But as I was falling asleep I kept getting "Virtuous" mixed up in my head with "Vulgar" and could not sort it all out. They don't go together too often, do they? V will be for Virtuous The Top Five Virtuous Foods: 1. Brown Rice 2. Green Salad with Lemon Juice, No Oil 3. Wheat Germ 4. Pressed Tofu Strips 5. Brewer's Yeast ................................................. (Excuse me, must run now, am feeling an urge to say something Vaguely Vulgar. . . .)

Here's a modern story of fresh corn on the cob. That has to do with some things like lack of time, lack of prioritization of quality food, and microcosms. Sometimes I do cooking "classes" of sorts at my children's schools. In general, schools and teachers do not like to mess around with food - it is messy, some kid might be allergic somehow or who-knows-what like a parent will call in hearing of the lesson, offended that one item is offered and another not that they think better or more appropriate somehow (sigh), the teachers "lack time" as they are always fast-tracking to stuff explicit information into the kid's heads so that the test scores in the Spring will be high enough so that everyone will look good and where on earth will cooking or food fit into that. . .blahblahblah. Sometimes, though, I can invent a way to fit the cooking thing into an existing class such as Social Studies or English (which is now called Language Arts), in ways that will reinforce the existing lesson plan. Yes, I actually do this for "fun". Hah. So, the lesson was to be on Corn. It was sixth-graders who were studying the Colonial United States. I bought crates of fresh corn on the cob. Had all the info ready to go - all about corn and native Americans and settlers etc etc. We were going to learn how to cook corn on the cob. Simple enough. The kids had no real problems answering my questions about the settlers or the Native Americans, and knew a bit about corn in general. But then it came time to shuck the corn. Out of fifty kids (two classes combined, sixth graders) there were only about six kids that had actually ever shucked an ear of corn. The others had to be taught. We live in an agricultural area, a university town, so it's not like these kids have spent their formative years on the subway. They shucked their corn, we wrapped it up with seasonings in pieces of wax paper (for lacking real cooking things like stoves, the plan was to take it home and uh. . .microwave it for a snack). Everyone had fun. A bit later, I got some thank-you notes that the teachers had the kids make. Cute, some of them, little crayon drawings of ears of corn falling sideways and all. But here is the best part of all - the part of all of it that seems representative of this "microcosm" thing, and I don't think this sort of behavior is all that odd in this microcosm of working parents with active school-age children. . . One of the thank-you notes was a bit longer than the others. It was a happy note from an eleven year old boy. He said "Thanks, my Mom ate the corn straight from the wrapper while she was driving me to soccer practice. She liked it." Nope, no time to even microwave the thing. One hungry Mom. I can't say that this story holds the same essence of an ear of corn torn from a tall frond in a heat-soaked field with the scent of earth rising around one, the corn almost popping its juice in one's face as it's bitten into. But it is, a very real microcosm, here and now, today. I never would have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, in this small but telling way.

Hmmm. You may have posed a problem in terms of menu-writing from the stories, SB. Will it be Ugli Fruit on the menu or rotten grapefruit? And will it have to be stolen from someone's yard on a dark night? We want authenticity here, you know.

Ah. . . .do tell us your favorite parts as they come along, Jennifer?

Do you remember "The Jetsons"? Food would appear hot and ready-to-eat whenever one wanted just by pushing a button on some machine in the kitchen. It was so easy to do that I even remember George Jetson doing it. I believe this is many people's ideal. . .to be just like The Jetsons.

Again, I'm going to agree. Then I'd wish to add that it is not just the fact that our choices at the supermarket are different than they were (more convenience foods, something lperry raised in her initial post in terms of "lack of time") or that we eat out at restaurants and fast places so much more than we did twenty-five years ago, but that it seems to me that it might be worthwhile to consider our reasons for doing so, if we are to take the debate anywhere except within its own academic circle of effect. *Why* are people eating more (processed) convenience foods and going out to restaurants and fast food places (more processed foods) so much more than in the past?

Yes, kudos to Mr. Pollan. He's done an excellent job as a journalist in gathering facts in unprecedented ways then presenting them in forms more than palatable to the public. He is raising an argument raised before though, throughout history in differing ways, and probably with the same levels of success rates. Kellogg's and all that gang pop into mind at the moment. And just look at a box of Kellogg's cereal *now*. Far from unprocessed whole-grain healthiness. But I guess it's worthwhile to keep raising the flag of commonsense (in the form of sensible suggestions by knowledgeable persons) in any case.That flag certainly gets trampled on often enough. It's just when the flag is picked up by True Believers and used as ammunition against others that might not hold the same views that I start to feel more than a little bit uncomfortable. . .and I must say that if there *were* actual "sides" (like there's not?) when I see ammunition gathered ready to be thrown against the other (obviously more intellectually-stricken side, according to the flag-carriers, obviously those who *need better guidance*) side, it comes upon me to want to wander immediately over to the other side, for I just plain don't like flags used as ammunition.

I'm *never* ready to criticize *any* essay built on medical facts within a rhetorical argument, Suzi. I thought of putting in that disclaimer when I posted the link, but then thought that probably not too many people would bother reading Fox when Pollan was on the pulpit anyway. The real experts (medical doctors, specialists in all sorts of diseases in each and every part of the body) argue among themselves to such a huge extent on the subject of food and health that far be it from me to try to put my two cents in. If they can't come to a conclusion, who I am to think that I have the answer?! I only know what works for me, and that's about as far as I'll take my own conclusions. (But I am always happy to hear informed comment, particularly from a charming person such as a SuziSushi! ) My points in my posts in this thread have been two, one for each post: For the first post on chicken-fried bacon, the point was to say "Not all the old-fashioned natural food might have been excellent for one's health if not balanced. . .therefore the original study of "nutrients" that might be in our faces a bit too much now was an idea that was quite useful at the time it started. . .and as all things go around, probably this will too. . . ." (baby with bathwater idea) and two: There's more to the reasons we eat what we eat than we think it "healthy" for us or simply do not care if it is healthy for us. It is a complex and tangled web that to my mind can not be reduced to any simple argument, whether that argument includes or does not include the idea of "exercise" within it while leaving out big swaths of sociological stuff. If the cure must suit the dis-ease for a lasting ease, then the whole dis-ease must be taken into account or the fix will falter. But again, I feel no urge to argue what is best for the world. Those that do might think a simplified argument with a focus on one area that strikes a common chord the best way to go about it.

I am texturally omnivorous. Give me a pigs foot. Give me cream of wheat. Most of all, give me okra. Cake is fine, as is a spoonful of rock sugar. Jellyfish? Yay! The edging of fat on a grilled lamb chop. . .ahhhh. I have not tried a fish eye yet, but can't wait. Oh. I am American. From the United States. Do I have to leave now?

I find this site: An Anthropologic Perspective on Food and Eating to be interesting reading.

I like Saran Wrap. It never hurt me bad. And for $40 a day (thinking of Rachel) you can build quite an extensive wardrobe out of it.

I agree with you on this one. I'm pretty sure "natural flavor" in the ingredients list means "crack." ← I'm thinking about all this and looking at this thread. . . . Here we have a microcosm, yes, that likely is different than the Whole Paycheck's crowd comprises . . .here we have something "naturally flavored" that some might say has an essence of "crack" to the flavor. . .and here we have a food that our great-great grandmothers would recognize. As you say, curious. All of it.

It's obvious that you have given intense thought to the question of "what is a chef". I agree with each and every one of your points. There is not a stitch dropped in the fabric of your thought, and all edges are smooth, strong, and complete, to my mind. I understand the metaphor of orgasm in your paragraph above. I don't know a chef who does not feel this way, and even many line cooks (the ones who last). For me, I felt this way more intensely about dancing (real dancing, not dancing behind the line or in the dance of chef ) than I did in the kitchen. Perhaps I should have been a ballerina? Ah, well. There's still time. ( ) As to music, films, politics, history, in your narrative of chef and food - I say "yes" to all of it in "foodwriting". Yes to all of it and more, for food is one singular thing that is tied in to so many other things. It does not stand alone, nor does a chef stand alone with his or her food in some place where only aroma, texture, taste and science exist. . .without much affecting all of it. All of it. In professional cooking at places where it is required, we often use the standardized recipe. It is a formal tool that excludes any sort of alternate ways of doing. It provides a certain stability, consistency, and structure both of a naturally-based ingredient sort and one of a more hierarchal sort. Writing of food (or, as extension of thought, chefs) might sometimes be subject to this sort of standardized recipe being placed upon it. Personally, as someone who used to be called "chef", I guess I don't have a whole lot of tolerance for standardized recipes that are considered unbendable, unimprovable, never to be shaken off their bases by something new, something maybe tastier, something with a spark of difference. I like the freedom of writing a new recipe, as long as the technique is there to support it. The world is not only my oyster, but many people's oysters. It has been interesting to learn about yours.

Good story, SB. I almost decided to write on "Quarrelsome" (strange word to spell, with that qua thing going on) but got into a quarrel with myself over it and decided not to. I remember that story about the blizzard of the century from when you first posted it. Blizzards seem heaven-sent as story material, don't they? ...................... Let's see if I can do the next three: Rational, Stupid, and Theatrical. When cooking something, it is not neccesary to stick to one way of being. I remember one time when I was cooking something that I was three things at the same time! (At least three things - there may have been more that I am merely forgetting due to alphabetic restrictions in this moment. . .). I was rational, stupid, and theatrical all at the same time. "How wonderful!," some of you may cry, those who love the way confusing layers of things seem to exist in life. "How utterly ridiculous!," others may mutter to themselves, thinking that life surely is not as flimsy or uncontrollable as to encompass three conflicting feelings or actions within one split second of time. "She's whacked out!," may escape unwittingly from the sides of their mouths, from others. Well, perhaps. But here is how it happened: It was approaching lunchtime. I was a sous-chef then, in a small private trading concern on Wall Street. Most of the prep had been done, but the dessert needed finishing. It was going to be a chocolate-ginger roll. . .a sponge roll filled with vanilla-flavored whipped cream and crystallized ginger, enrobed in a dark chocolate glaze, decorated simply with candied violets and bits of crystallized ginger in a classic fashion. Time was short. I finished it and set it to the side of the countertop, balanced on a raised cake dish. It looked beautiful, and I knew it would taste wonderful. This cake could be drowned in, eaten over and over again, it was that sort of cake. Light yet. . it had an urgency of taste about it that made the tongue cry, "More! More!" It was busy that day, and the space became crowded, elbows and hips started bumping into each other in the small kitchen as the pace of lunch raced around itself. Different things to be made and served at different times, all with an air of utter control and laissez-faire with a winning smile to those at the tables. In one movement made during this rush, somehow I pushed something sideways, hard, into the cake in the crowdedness of it all. It toppled sideways, and as it was a gentle soft thing, it smooshed. It smooshed into a big mess in the middle of the crowded countertop. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn't I put it up out of the way?! What would we do?! My heart sunk to my toes, almost. Now I realize that this is a common saying, but if you focus in on times when things like this happen, you actually can physically feel this. Depending on the occurence (I haven't analyzed these occurences thoroughly yet, but hope to write a scholarly study on it some day, and maybe even get grants for it) your heart will either go to your toes or to your throat. Mine was in my toes. There was no sense of me, above the feeling of my heart in my toes, which feels really awful, really strange, awfully disconcerting. But then something happened in my brain, which I had not believed was still existing. Rational thought entered into it through some mysterious process, and a voice said (hollowly, as these voices do), "Make a trifle. Make a trifle. Make a trifle." Quickly I scooped up the remains of the sad cake. I found a big glass bowl and started chopping and layering. A layer of smooshed cake. A swoop from the bottle of amaretto, which was the first bottle of spirits I could easily lay my hands on in the muddle of bottles set high up on shelves so that I had to climb on the little folding ladder. Another layer of whipped cream. Luckily there was pastry cream, too, made, with a bit saved, from something else the day before. A layer of that. Some sliced berries. And on and on, the towering "trifle" became its rather obnoxious self. Dessert was to be served. It was time. Naturally the server did not want to serve it, as it was *not* on the menu requested and planned. Ahh. Time to dance. A neatening of the hair, a removal of the disgusting chocolate and everything else smeared apron. A straightening of the shoulders and a planning of a pirouette in the center of the room, all while graciously smiling at the table of somewhat crumpled looking (they often were somewhat crumpled looking, somehow) be-suited business-people. Enter the (sous) chef, with a dessert planned and made just for the occasion. Named, even, for the occasion, with the name made up as my mouth opened that very instant of speech. It was very theatrical. Which is as it should be. That dessert became a favorite of the man who ordered that lunch. It nibbled a warm place right into his heart. He even sounded sad when one would try to convince him to try something different for dessert. Moral of the story? Sometimes a trifle is not merely a trifle, and sometimes, even the merest of trifles can whirl one into unexpected places.

You have an impressive list of things that you've done, truly. Wish I could rattle off a list like that (in ways) but rather than delve into the world of external accomplishment I chose to leave the food world and be a Mom. (This is a job title that used to exist as a real thing that could take a full day of work to do, but whether it is a job title that is thought of in that way anymore is questionable.) I know that some Moms seem able to do more than focus on one thing, but it has been proved that I just really do not want to. So I am the one who cooks at home. (Which actually can be in ways more challenging than cooking for the public, for you just can't ever really get up and walk away from it to do something else! )(Well. . .of course unless you hire someone else to do it, but that seems odd to me, for me). I have mixed feelings about having been an exec chef, often, for sometimes the title seems to be attached to the handshake or smile of the person saying "hello" to me as a persona that must be filled. . .and of course the Mom part is left dangling sideways saying "Hi, this is what I really do". I never really have any mixed feelings about spending a full day as a Mom except when others angle their own stuff about it at me. Actually, in terms of difficulty, I find that the job of full-time single "Mom" to be much more difficult than being either an exec chef or being a VP in the Operations Division which is the job that followed (the role was managing all foodservices for the corporation.) So my question, originally, was tinged with a bit of ruefulness, and there is no smilie to show that. ..................................................... So how do you answer the question about the difference between a chef and a cook when it's asked?

Oops. Let me take that one back. Saving that story for my own book. But the other question remains. . .you know, the favorite food one. . .the one that every chef gets asked by every person that is not a chef? Always difficult to answer. Particularly when recipes are then asked for. (Did I say "meow" yet? No? Well, then. "Meow." ) ................................. I like to cook many things, but not too much of the sixties stuff. Beef Wellington. Sigh. Tournedos "however". Or alternately brown rice with mushrooms. Blech. Food to my mind has improved greatly here in the US since then. And of course food is the most important thing, sometimes the only thing, one can really talk about. I wonder what everyone reading was cooking in the sixties or seventies if they were there.

So. . .Joe. . .do you have a favorite food you like to cook? P.S. Hey. Maybe we can exchange stories of how we each became executive chefs for the first time, rather than just "chef". That might be fun.