Carrot Top

The size of the tomato in some cases *does* have a lot to do with how we finally experience its flavor, but part of it has to do (in some cases) with federal regulations on interstate shipping. The smaller tomatoes are not as tightly regulated. I remember an article somewhere about this, but could not find it online. I did find this however, online in the Federal Register which gives a bit of a start to finding the concept behind *whatever it is* that I read about. If that makes sense.

Here, Sandy - I found where it was posted, with a start to some answers. Biscuits, Crackers, Hot Rolls and More

Marlena's post made me think of the very first Gourmet magazines I'd ever seen. They were in a thrift shop. It was a wonderful little thrift shop that had baskets of things like antique pink satin slips, and patterned crumpled dresses from the 1940's tucked in odd corners, for ten to fifteen cents. It was in Darien, Connecticut. Sometime around. . .1977? I was married to a guy whose mother, native to Italy, used to cook amazing things that I'd never heard of or seen . . .her kitchen was a sort of wonderland to me, having grown up without having any serious cooking done at home. There were piles of old Gourmets and Bon Appetits there in the book section at the little happy thrift shop run by the serious Methodist women with their tightly curled hair and quietly bustling ways, so I picked some up. The Bon Appetits rather scared me. They were filled with photos of people around tables eating and smiling hugely in what seemed to me to be odd, slightly ominous ways. And the recipes were dull, the stories nonexistent. I bought some but threw them away almost immediately. I tried to cook something from Gourmet. It was some sort of stew, and I didn't know that you could not cook a stew in a Pyrex pot on top of the stove. It smelled wonderful, till the pot broke all over the stove, exploding onto the kitchen ceiling. Sigh. What a mess. Thank goodness for Gourmet. Yes, I think without having found that magazine it's likely I never would have become a chef. I wonder where or how other people ran into their "first" Gourmet.

That's hilarious. That initial sense of dissonance and disbelief conveyed by the *first* ad with the white faces. Phew. And then the move right into "Marketing 101: Our Lives Defined". Sigh. Yes, an odd upside-down feeling to the whole thing. Not alien, entirely, to me though (though alien as far as kitchen or food life goes). I remembered clearly when reading your line about the "sufficiently fashionable kitchen, or else it's pointless" times past when I would literally spend several hours getting dressed to go on a date. Not just several hours, really, but even more time before that, shopping for the "right" clothes, from skin on out. It was more about the dressing up than it was about the date or the guy. A most feminine perspective perhaps? And now the kitchen is all dressed up, and perhaps for only the final, real, reason of "getting dressed up". (Well, one can always hope, but life being what it is, sometimes the dressing up is actually more interesting in the long run. . . ) Your story is touching, marlena. A window on the world, showing more windows on the world, endless vistas, really, in ways big and small. Interesting, too, for to my mind, you just were "always a food writer". I guess I thought you had been born a food writer. The genesis of how these things *do* happen are most fulfilling to imagine. You reminded me of MFK Fisher, too. And Julia Child. How women find themselves in unusual spots, sometimes odd or slightly disconcerting spots personally, from the ways in which we (at least in the past) have followed the men in our lives to places as their supports. MFK followed her then-husband to France, Julia the same - and both found things unexpected there, that were "just for them". A sideways, winding, mysterious path. I wonder if the next generation of women who write about food will do the same, finding this sort of surprise unexpectedly, or whether they will mostly just start out clearing their own paths from the very start. . . I'm with you on that, jess, and you've said it most beautifully!

Really I couldn't decide last night whose post scared me and made me laugh at the same time the most - lucylou's or Pontormo's. I was rather fascinated by whatever that thing is that's on top of that hunk of meat, lucylou. Phew. Really. Even now, my mouth starts hanging open stupidly just looking at it in wonderment. Pontormo's story made me think of Betty Crocker meets Julia Child on a rush night in the kitchen. Betty, of course, would be making dinner, a big fancy one, for her hubbie's boss, determined to please All with the perfect meal. And Julia, naturally, would be aiming for "better things", finer things, the higher calling to be found in it all, the food lending meaning to the table and the day, and therefore the Self. What a beautiful couple of posts in a row! Thank you!

[Moderator note: This topic became too large for our servers to handle, so we've divided it up; the earlier part of the discussion is here: The Soup Topic (2005–2006)] Gringa's (that's me ) Faux Mexican Lentil Soup tonight. Soften and just start to brown the very edges of chopped onion, celery, carrots in olive oil, medium flame. Add chicken broth. Add some fresh salsa. Add some oregano, thyme, bay, cumin. Add lentils. Add a touch of brown sugar. Simmer twenty minutes or so. Remove from heat and stir in the zest from a fresh lemon. Serve in deep bowls with a dollop of sour cream for those who like it, and with an handful of grated cheese of choice for those who like that, too. Freshly made tortilla chips are good with this. A bonus is that children who do not "like vegetables" (not my kids heh heh but some of their friends ) do not realize that this is a vegetable soup. They just think it's a "Mexican thing" and therefore cool. Yum. Spicy, sweet, rich and good. Great for a rainy night. Or any other time, really.

This should be fun. I know that Country Music has expanded in many ways, both musically and culturally, but still. One of the charms of Country Music are the repetitive themes (as with the Blues but shaded differently) of the situations where "my wife left me, my dog died, my pickup truck won't start and my girlfriend's fiance is heading for me with his shotgun" sort of things. Love it. Can't wait to see what the teams imagine and display with shimmering sugar work, deep chocolate creations, and fondant colorations. (!) Fun. Hmmm. How would one create a display of Hank Williams "Your Cheatin' Heart"? (My mind is running to some rather awful looking things, though I adore the song. )

I'm not so sure that attitude of assumption of ignorance reigning because of an exit number on the highway exists as much as it might have in years past, Anne. There are so many people that have travelled the highways so very much that surely the ones that think this way are a *very* small number. One hopes. Plus, you know, we've had several Presidents of the United States with accents in their voices that say "Deep South" and regardless of one's thinking on their individual "performance" as President, it does take a bit of a Top Dog in some way to get to that seat. As for your other question, yes, almost everything is a double-edged sword, actually, looked at close enough. I run to metaphors for fun quite often when I write. Please forgive me, dear lady, and if you will, say quietly to the computer screen, "Bless her heart". ( ) P.S. I intend to get crazier the older I get. I figure that's a preogative of age, no matter whether north or south of whatever line one chooses. Hope you'll still defend me? ................................................. Now I just got back from the west coast of Florida. It was Southern, but not Southern like here in old Virginny. The food was different, as was the sun and the soil. Darn it, but I was glad to come home to my *own* particular twang of accented voice and my own variety of foods available. (Oops. Erase that last part. We grow beef here, not seafood, and to my mind seafood just doesn't travel well far past the dock, in some vital way. )

There once was a girl from St. Pete Who couldn't decide what to eat So she purchased some prawns Then mixed them with brawn And discovered they tasted like feet.

And one more good dive-y place to add: up the road a piece on Indian Rocks Beach there is a place called "Crabby Bill's". Naturally I was attracted by the name. Picnic tables in one area, booths in another, a bar of course too. Everyone in this place looks like an escapee from the Mod Squad, the original Mod Squad. Rather wonderful. A very good and interesting oyster stew was offered. Oysters cooked perfectly not a hint of a split second over or under done. The stew was buttery and had bits of onion and celery, and (unusual) chunks of browned roast potatoes in it, which were surprisingly good and fitting. Stone crab claws were good sized. I ordered them chilled and they were delicious, served with two sauces. Here, they know what you mean if you order a "short beer". Almost forgot to add: The music played is Motown - and nothing goes better with oyster stew than Al Green's "Let's Get Together".

I did finally have lunch at Dockside Dave's. One-half pound fresh grouper sandwiches (on "weck"). I got mine batter fried. Fantastic. A glass of wine ordered arrived in a glass the size of a usual iced tea. I sat and tried to eat this enormous delicious thing and watched the people. Locals, mostly. Bellied up the bar in the other room were the serious drinkers, faces red and ready to hit the beer for the afternoon. This place could have been the inspiration for Joni Mitchell's "Barangrill". Photos of fish and people all over the walls that were coated with many layered coats of paint, rock and roll blasting from the kitchen in the back, the cooks shouting about how they'd just been slammed, the busser a thirteen year old babyfaced slightly plump girl in shorts and rumpled t-shirt, the ladies at the next table discussing who had died and who had gotten divorced and who had gotten drunk, both with bleached blond hair and thick heavy overdone black eyebrows. It was innocent, the place, a place of the beach, a reminder of seashore life, a place without pretension. The tomato on the sandwich was one of the three best I've ever had in a restaurant (the other two being at Peter Luger's and Bradley Ogden's. . .). On the wall was an article from "Southern Living" in 2004, placing Dockside Dave's as "one of our favorite places". I can see why. I walked slowly out, sated from the big fat crunchy flaky moist grouper and the wine that I could not finish unless I wanted to fall off my chair. It was good.

Bernini's of Ybor City is a very nice place to have lunch. Elegant but not stuffy, dress code casual but not scruffy . Apparently it is being touted as "the best place to impress". I didn't know that, but liked the way it looked and was not disappointed. The woodfired pizzas were pretty good (a bit too much cheese for my liking) but the standout was a dish of clams in a garlic butter sauce. Grrrrrr. You can *not* have too many of these. Perfectly wonderful. Add a glass of champagne and all is well with the world.

I was just about to head out when I saw your post, tautog. I don't *do* destination dining anymore, having gotten tired of it some number of years ago. So divey Dockside Daves in (ha, ha!) "Mad Beach" (?) sounds just about right for me. I'm not fishing this time, but do tell about this Htai place you mentioned. What did you catch last time, and where is the place? Might do it next time. . . (P.S. Never saw a tautog in FL. . .used to catch them on City Island (NY) in a fishtrap I built out of chicken wire that I hung off the side of the boat we lived in then. . . )

I just had dinner here, at the Mangrove Grille (it supposedly won some sort of "best" award from someplace this year, and it happened to be outside the door, and I am tired of getting lost driving around. . . . Anyway, it was pretty decent. Got to see the sun set over the water. . the conch chowder tasted almost exactly the way I used to make it when I used to chase my own conchs down for chowder the year I lived in the Keys. . .the server admitted that all the fish offered was not *fresh* but *fresh frozen* (with a smile) so instead an enormous grilled pork chop with good seasonings and toppings and enough fresh vegetables to feed four was placed before me. The orange blossom pie was the sort of thing that one can eat in about two minutes flat no matter what. Nothing spectacular, but undemanding, good food, made by someone who knows how to cook well. Also got a tip from the waitress that "the only place she knew" around that actually *does* serve fresh never frozen grouper is "Dockside Dave's" (whatever that is ) so if we don't end up in Ybor City tomorrow, that might be a place to try.

I literally start to fall asleep when I read the science of cooking. I've had the McGee books and the Wolke books which are similar. My eyes start feeling heavy lidded and I feel like running away from home or falling asleep forever, having to read the "whys" of what I know how to do from experience, which is how to cook. A person can learn to cook from experience and from a visceral see and feel of the thing. The explanations of "why" are great if you love that stuff, or if you *want* a reason of why things happen so you can explain it to other people or just "know", yourself. . . I never wanted a reason - I wanted to *do* and to eat. I prefer a bit of mystery, magic, as to why this or that happens. The mind is free to wander into mythology then. Perhaps an egg white whips up because it has the soul of an old gleeful dragon within it. . .that sort of thing. So much more fulfilling than chemistry (to me) in the long run. I read the 1971 edition of Larousse from cover to cover when I first wanted to learn about food. Now *that's* fun reading. Really. It's a liturgy.

One is Science the other is Religion.

I've decided that the thing that bothers me about the "holidays" is mostly the glut. So much, too much. A celebration of excess when already *I* feel as if I live daily with more than enough. This year we made some changes. I didn't reduce the number of the children's gifts, but started the holiday last night, pretending to find them around the house and saying that Santa must have dropped them early by mistake. (Yes, they are old enough to know who Santa is. . ). They adore stuffed shells, so that's what we had for Christmas Eve supper last night. We ate our dessert first, though, which was a caramel-apple pie. No good reason, except we wanted to. Why wait for dessert? Why? Today for the "big" dinner we started the same way. Dessert first. Fresh pineapple and some chocolate eclairs. Then we felt like more sweets so we ate some frozen strawberry fruit bars. Soon the next part of "Christmas dinner" will happen. Veggies. Roast acorn squash with cranberry filling. . .asparagus with hollandaise. . . .a cucumber salad. . .portobello mushrooms sauteed with scallions and marsala. . .some endive spears just plain. . .roast red peppers with garlic and oregano. On the table, set to nibble. For a while. For whenever one is hungry. Inbetween we putter and open gifts and do things and be lazy, and some dishes are washed etc etc. It is very relaxing, and quite different from trying to pull the whole thing together in a certain way at a certain time all at once. Later, we'll have some turkey cutlets milanese with italian sausage-apple stuffing. If we're still hungry. That might be pretty late. Maybe a movie inbetween. A glass of wine for Mom. . . The day will end, of course, with more desserts. Start with dessert, end with dessert. It's the best way to be. Chocolate laced zabaione, anyone? Why not. There are no Pilgrims around here, nor those fellows from the painting of The Last Supper. Here, we can do what we please.

I might do that, Miriam. It really was just an excuse to bump up the thread (plus the monk's face made me giggle a bit when it popped up before me) but it seems like a very nice thing. Wish I had some now. Right now. Jolly holidays, all!

It was not my intention to *focus* on racism, at all. Nor to say that it existed more in the South than anywhere else. Anyone that has read my previous writings on the South might realize that, but more than that they might realize my very deep and very warm feelings about the place (and, as the place to me is the people, the people). Moreso even, the people that most "outsiders" might not ever get a chance to meet, those who do live and who have lived in the rural pockets of the South that maintain more of a certain personality or culture of individualism, possibly, that those who live in cities or suburbs, as in those places there are many transplants that shift the sense of the place, bringing in their own ways of being and doing. In particular, if you read this piece you might find in it more of a cultural defense of the South as a final result than even a discussion of Gourmet magazine. *But* I was having a feeling about two things that made me write what I did. First, the repetition of the phrase that the boundaries of the War were what should define the South. Personally, I think one can *always* find more positive boundaries than a War to define any area at all, unless one wants to focus on the War every time the place is thought of. To me, there are so many better things about the South than that war. I've had wars of sorts in my own life, and I don't choose to define myself by them, either, for in ways they seem to make me lesser rather than more. They are part of me, a big part - but *not* what I want to be remembered by. That is my own way of wishing to be. Just my opinion. Other's mileage may vary. It also seems to me that sugar-coating or pretty-ing up of things, romanticising them beyond their means, might be dangerous in a long-term way to anything. The culture of manners is a marvellous thing in the South, *but* to make it seem as if it were everywhere at all times might lead to *expectations* for those that do not know the South well. . .and when they do visit, if those expectations are not met for whatever reason, disappointment could follow. Better, I think, to say that a glass of water (to use the metaphor) is a magical yet true part of the culture that one *might* find, rather than promise that they will find it. Then, that truly wonderful gift that is given in times and places that happen when they happen, will be a real gift, not an expected prettiness, not a tap-dance done for those who wait to see it. I delved into rhetoric further when adding my two cents to Maggie's comments. I do agree with the *general idea* of her post (while knowing that of course there are certain foods that say "the South" to most people at all times and places), but more than that I was trying to make a point. Making a character out of oneself or out of one's culture, though manners and foodstuffs, is a two-edged sword. It can backfire when done too insistently, for human nature will rebel at the continued insistence of a theatrical sort. In hopes that this leaves my intent clearer, Karen (who has lived here ten years now and who yet will never be considered a "Southerner", most likely, unless a whole lot of moonshine happens to confuse someone for a brief moment or so. . .)

Probably The Decadent Cookbook by Medlar Lucan & Durian Gray.

I am seriously considering, in this moment, making some Mead from the Monastery. Sante!

A healthy breast of veal well trimmed and filled with cooked short grain rice, slivers of onion, chopped spinach, any sort of cheese you like, and maybe some prosciutto or country ham bits, browned then braised in white wine with aromatics is something that might be considered a food of the angels. Or the devils. Whichever seems right to you.

I love Gateau St. Honore, which of course is filled with chiboust. My favorite recipe for this simple classic comes from Lenotre. Interesting history notes to be found here on the origins.

I think of Marinetti as being someone who clearly and purposefully set out to express a philosophy through food, but of course he had a lot of words attached.

One of my favorite poems that has food in it is about a boy who eats a bug, and finds that not everybody thinks that is "okay". The pages are illustrated with watercolor/line drawings of big flying bugs and teachers who sprout wings of their own to disabuse the boy of any idea that he should eat these things.