Carrot Top

The strangest picture just popped into my mind. I'd forgotten all about it. My mother's usual way of serving vegetables (always canned, never fresh or frozen please ) was to heat them in a saucepan then dump them onto the plates, each serving bearing a small slice of salted butter balanced on its top. The butter never melted for some reason, so you'd have to take your fork and try to break it up and of course the veggies turned into an absolute chopped up mess. On holidays, the veggies were in larger serving bowls with larger slices of butter cut directly from the stick. Rather imperious looking they were with their butter crowns. But this was only for me and her, which composed our family. Always, in an unchangeable pattern, when I'd bring a friend for supper, she would serve spaghetti, so the secret was safe. (Almost forgot to add "the lesson". Uh, butter does not melt unless a good enough heat is applied to it somehow.) (And of course one could think of those butter slices as merely unfinished Parmesan cheese shavings - that might work a small mental miracle. )

I like kasha for breakfast, too, hot, with just a touch of milk and some good honey. I've always bought Wolff's kasha at the grocery store - it comes in a 13 oz. box and is usually in the little "kosher" section of the store. It used to be that I cooked it the same way you do, but was startled recently one morning when staring at the box half-asleep to see that it offers a microwave method. Seemed like a great idea for portion control (I always make too much when doing the stovetop method) and is also good when you have to get going and run out of the house in the morning. 2 Tbs. kasha, dash of salt, 2/3 C water or milk, 2 to 3 C bowl. Microwave 5 to 8 minutes. I used a soup mug with high straight sides, hoping to avoid over-boiling. In my microwave, it's ready in about four minutes. Eat directly from bowl, no pot to wash. Good stuff.

Yeah! I particularly like that Tub of Fifty. Sigh. But that is a product for the countryside, and I no longer reside in the countryside. One can do so very much with a large hayfield and a pitchfork, though. And now there are other things that could be said, but a line has just popped into my mind - some old saw about discretion and valor. I do love valor.

Oh well. Always trying to introduce new things to the market, you know, Steve. It might be best if I stick to drinking Rachel's Fairy Tea. If she will put some in her shop. This morning, at Glorious, I am planning on offering Studmuffins for breakfast. Usually, it is true, Studmuffins are best eaten at home, but then again you never know how many people might have access to them or not. They do require a bit of cooking skill, but not very much. Today will be a special promotion - all the Studmuffins you could ever want, for one low price. Today only, you understand. Tomorrow your Studmuffin will cost you, and cost you dearly! There are several varieties. Oh! First of all, a Studmuffin is a muffin made in one of them there Texas-sized jumbo muffin tins. It must be a gorgeous sort of muffin to begin with, a muffin that gleams with perfection. It swaggers a bit, and must be watched to be sure it does not trip over itself and fall over sideways sometimes. I prefer my Studmuffins made of stone-ground cornmeal, with bits of fresh corn, jalapenos, maybe a bit of cheese for attitude. Or sometimes banana-oat with walnut bits. Or in the right sort of mood, double chocolate chip. It then has to be filled with things that make it full of itself, very full of itself. This is part of the charm of a Studmuffin. The cornmeal ones I like to eat filled with ham in cream gravy with bits of caramelized onion. The banana ones, sometimes a nutty fruit chutney, which gives that particular muffin a vacuous air that is more-than-slightly appealing. Double chocolate chip? Well. Fill it with cream, baby. Whipped. Be sure that there is lots of filling if the Studmuffin is in your kitchen. You might have to pull out some of his crumb to do so, but it is absolutely worth it! Who will join me in eating their very own Studmuffin for breakfast? I would love to hear more recipes, too!

........................... A limerick a day keeps . . .well it keeps something or other away. At the very least, it is a good way to avoid doing unwanted other tasks. ............................. There once was a fry-cook from Malabar Who made blowfish taste sweeter than azucar "Fabulosa!" they cried And he puffed up with pride Son nombre? Es "Magnifico Superstar"! One day a fine damsel was the bar She enticed him to sizzle her, in her car And after, he stumbled The fish cleaning, bumbled (In not getting the poison parts out too far). A man ate that fish (with his salad bar) He'd come here to eat quite afar from Quaatar "Blech-hooey!" he cried Then keeled over and died And that fish dish is no longer too popular. .................................................... P.S. Naturally you must understand, this is a Morality Tale.

Dere once was dis chick from Manhatton Whose diet was solely fried grattons Till one day dis guy Looked her straight in de eye And said "Dahlink, you look like George Patton".

It is very difficult to break out of thinking of the words and sounds that we traditionally associate with things. All these "cr" sounds with bread crust (in the English language anyway) crispy, crackly, crunchy. And when there's no crust, crappy. Something might be done with the term "bloom" which is a term bakers use (from a word reference site).Last night the term "blowsy" came to me, like a woman - who is slightly coming apart at the edges. There's underlying tones of fragility (like bread is, inside), perhaps an aura of danger as if she might start to crackle if touched - and a sense of that yeasty femininity that all good bread holds. Oh well. That's as far as I got with your task. P.S. I wonder if the English language has this potential, really, to do it in one or two words. When I think of crust as it should be, my mind goes to Italian, with all the "sbr" and "ch" and "ttt" sounds all in the same word possible, like the sound of crust breaking. Then I wonder if it is the fault of our language that our breads are so often as they are or if it is the reason of the way this tribe baked breads way back in time that shaped our linguistic sounds of them. Maybe the ovens weren't hot enough due to whatever, or the wheat was too soft wherever. I think I'd better stop now.

Yesterday while (or "whilst" if we are going to be talking with Diogenes and his ilk) walking through town, I realized that there was one more tisane (so much nicer sounding than "herb tea blend" don't cha think) that would have to be offered on a daily basis in this college town. The "Please help me my butt crack is showing over the top of my jeans" blend. I am positive this would be a best-seller.

................................ That was a wonderful story, starting with a bite of the magical thing called "bread". I can still remember my first bite of "homemade" bread as if it were happening this very moment. It was a big round sourdough loaf from a "hippy" store on a small street in Hartford, Connecticut. I was thirteen and had never seen such a thing. It looked good, and homely, and I thought it would fit in well with the dreams of incense burners and tie-die curtains that filled my inner life. I walked out of the store after paying for it with my babysitting money and took a bite, walking down the street. If that moment had been recorded by a painter of the Middle Ages, there would have been angels circling my head, flying about and blowing their horns to announce the moment. I agree with Rachel. Aaaaaahhhhhhhh.

Yes, Hercule used to urge them on his friend Hastings as being important in assisting "the little grey cells" to work properly. Hastings never quite took to tisanes, though. And his little grey cells continued to suffer. The tisanes likely assisted Hercule in moustache maintenance, being full of good things that make one healthy. And of course the only other man I know with a moustache like Hercule's was Jim Quilleran but he probably drank his tisanes in secret. Wasn't Diogenes that guy that used to walk around on Greek hills with a large staff to lean on (maybe that was his lantern pole?), a dirty robe, and a bunch of sheep to keep him company when he wasn't distributing philosophy? I'd be cynical too it that were my lot in life.

You guys are really good. ................................................................... There once was a man from Hong Kong Whose plum strudel was wider than long But when one took a bite He showed such delight That one felt Other Strudels were Wrong.

You and me both, bud. I always pack a pistol when carrying small rodents. One can never be too careful. .......................................................... I've decided that my foodshop will have to carry tisanes. They will be available at all hours, made in gorgeous silver antique samovar thingies maybe. You can choose from four distinct varieties each day. I like some of the brews shown on this site. "Philosopher's Brew" is their best seller, and no small wonder with all the philosophers wandering around looking for a decent tisane nowadays. I would add (have to create them somehow, must study Ayurveda and such) the "Exhausted Mother" brew; the "My Gun is Bigger Than Yours" brew; and the "Just a Little Loopy" brew.

Such hubris shown on the part of the guinea pig, don't you think? It would have to be a tale full of intrigue and manifest destiny. Featuring vegan food.

I love this image. But if I do not get to the grocery store tout suite (you know, the one where the take-out is lame ) my children will be eating Mother Hubbard's Bone for dinner. Metaphorically, anyway.

This is an interesting topic. There is much to think about in hearing of the personal experiences and in the numbers that whatever studies exist can provide. One would like to see things fair and equal in this world for all, but how to make it happen either as individuals or as a society is an uphill battle. Change is a creaky, slow, confused thing for both individuals and institutions. My own experience is not in the "restaurant" industry that serves the public but rather in the corporate sector - private dining. As Executive Chef, out of eight cooks, I was able to hire (this was in the 80's and I would guess that the situation has changed somewhat, but from what I am reading above, not all that much) only one African-American. To anyone who looked at the this from outside, it would look as if he was hired as the "token black". The fact of the matter is that out of the many resumes that landed on my desk for perusal, he was the only one that turned out to be African-American when he arrived for the interview. He was hired based on his skills and I am sure that if he decided to stay in the industry (I did hear that he was considering leaving the industry to go into IT) he would have done very well, for he was both skilled and driven, with a great personality. When I grew to encompass front-of-house as part of the hiring responsibilities, it was the exact same scenario, strangely enough. We had one woman who was African-American as a server, again raising the spectre to any onlookers of tokenism. She was unhappy in her solo role, and when positions did open, she tried to encourage her friends to apply for the job, but none ever did - I really do not know why. Yes, this was high-end dining. Not public, but still it was about fine food and fine service, as it was expected that anyone who would be brought to dine here would be entertained with the equal savoir-faire and grace that could be found at any "top" restaurant in the city. Why didn't more people of color apply for these jobs? I don't know. It could be that other avenues seemed better for a secure or happy future. I would not presume to guess or say. One thing, touching on what Pontormo mentioned earlier. When I left my job there (unhappy myself with both the business of food and the business of business) one of the partners asked me what I would do. I said I didn't really know. Maybe travel, maybe consulting, maybe (as some of the other partners of the firm had suggested) I should "open a restaurant". La-de-dah. A blunt and commonsense sort of man was he. "Immigrants open restaurants. Are you really sure you want to do all that hard work?" I blinked at him, not really knowing what to say. "Otherwise, you'll need a lot of money. Probably at least half a million dollars." It's a tough row to hoe, either way. Either having the connections to summon up big bucks then to be responsible to your investors, as Executive Chef - or, alternately, shoe-stringing it with family and friends. This industry is at this moment in time teetering between being considered professional and "fun"; or alternately vocational and hard work. The benefit packages that attend most entry into professions are not inherent in this industry yet - medical insurance, etc, etc. It isn't "right" yet. Will it be? I don't know, but I am sure that it will get better, just as it has for women in the kitchen in higher echelon positions.

Fluffernutter.

Sorry about that. I just felt a story coming on. It's out of my system now.

Jorge still held the guinea pig in his arms. They looked as if they were meant to be together, as if they had known each other in a past life. Kelsey Snidedoodle turned from his rebuff by Nee towards Jorge. "Hah!" he cried merrily. "Wait till the press hears about this! Native guinea pig on the menu?" Jorge moved towards Kelsey angrily, and with a sudden lunge, the guinea pig jumped out of his arms. He landed with a slight plop! onto the sidewalk then he sauntered towards Kelsey Snidedoodle. Kelsey bent down to look at the animal, and with a quick jump, it flew into the air and bit him right on the nose. Kelsey fell back, covering his face and swearing. But suddenly he stood stock still, then keeled right over. ............................................................................ The investigation took weeks. Finally the verdict was given as "death by misadventure". Rumors flew here and there, sideways and up and down. Some thought it was Madame Skordalia (for Kelsey had stolen several of her best-selling ice cream recipes, that she had revealed to him during their lovemaking, then he had sold them for great sums to her competitors). She moved to a different city and changed her name to Spanakopita. Some believed it had been One-Eye. Just because. Others thought it was someone from his past. Kelsey had been baptised "Kevin Gary Snitchphlem" and it was discovered that he was Paulette's half-brother. Nobody really knew exactly where they had come from before appearing in the city ten years earlier. Although it was known that there had been cause to believe that Kelsey's death was due to being bitten by the guinea pig (who, it had been discovered, had been fed a steady diet of the calabar bean by person or persons unknown, - - an ancient bean from which an ordeal poison had been extracted in days of yore - -) it was taken home by Nee to live in her garden. Jorge visited them often. It appeared that it was a female, so the name Cecily was given her, and she lived a long and happy life entertaining Nee's various cats. Jorge brought special food for her when he visited, and Nee enjoyed those meals also. Cecily's Green Beans .......................................... Saute chopped onion in olive oil. Add diced plum tomatoes, chopped green peppers and celery. Cook till slightly soft with salt, pepper, bay leaf, tiny pinch of ground cloves, chopped parsley. Add blanched green beans, toss, cook to blend flavors. All was well for the Glorious Shop, as with appetites sated the moon rose, books were closed, lights turned off, covers tousled and all to sleep.

"If a tree falls in the forest, One-Eye, did it really happen if there was nobody there to hear it?" Randy smiled slowly as he turned to his Uncle Dave. One-Eyed Dave snorted. "Been a long time since my tree fell near her." As he spoke, Kelsey moved near Nee and placed his large paw-like hand on her head and ruffled the short strawberry-blond hair. "Nice cut, babydoll. A pixie?" Nee slapped his hand and spit out "No, a gamine. It's French. That's where I learned to bite stray hands, too." "Nice happy family here", said Jorge quietly. "Dave was married to La Skordalia, didn't you know, Jorge?" Randy laughingly said. "That's how he developed his famous marinade recipe. She still uses it as a facial treatment." Mutton Dressed as Lamb Marinade ........................................................ 1 C plain yogurt 1/4 C fresh mint, chopped 2 Tbs. olive oil 1 Tbs. lemon juice 1 Tbs. minced scallion 1 tsp. honey 1 tsp. salt Mix together and use as marinade for lamb to be grilled. "Looks like we'll all need some of that as a facial before this day is through" muttered Jorge under his breath.

I almost forgot - last year my son loved the word "frittate". "Listen, Mom", he'd say, "Doesn't this sound great?" Frittate frittate frittate Frittate frittate frittate Beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

Madame Skordalia's long leg followed Kelsey Snidedoodle as it stretched itself out of the limo provocatively. She allowed it to dangle there momentarily, then the rest of her followed it out onto the sidewalk. She moved like a cat. A panther, to be precise. When her mouth opened, one expected to hear a meow. Or perhaps a hiss. Madame was famous for her ice-creams in this city where ice-cream was eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. "Hellooooo, all. I've just been up to Rachel's. Feeling a bit under the weather, she was. I brought her some of my Biscuit Tortoni to cheer her up. Now what are you all up to?" "Sweet Skordalia", muttered Dave. "Tell me about your Tortoni." Tortoni de Madame 5" springform pan, buttered or oiled Combine 1/2 C crushed amaretti cookies with 1/3 C chopped toasted almonds. Beat together 2 egg yolks, 1 Tbs. sugar, and 1 Tbs. amaretto till light. In separate bowl beat 1 C heavy cream till stiff with 1/4 C confectioners sugar. In another bowl beat 2 egg whites till stiff with a pinch of salt. Stir amaretti mix into egg yolk mix, fold in whipped cream, then fold in egg whites. Spoon gently into mold and rap against table to expel any large air bubbles. Freeze three hours or till firm. Unmold by wrapping pan with hot towel for a moment then loosening contents with knife dipped in hot water and dried. Decorate with 1/2 C crushed amaretti cookies. "Hissssss", Madame said. For she and Dave had a History.

Ah, Rachel. I never watch those shows. Too real for me. I'm just playin' Pirate. It's fun to swashbuckle. Lookee up the thread a bit and re-read all the lovely things to eat at Rachel's shop. You'll feel good right soon.

Now darlin' why would you ever think that?! ..................................................................................... Jorge opened the front door gently, and the guinea pig retreated slightly but remained in the entranceway, its little whiskers quivering, eyes rapidly blinking. The orange and white fur looked shiny. He was a healthy little fellow. Slowly, Jorge bent double and started to make tiny chuck-chuck noises in his throat, looking directly into the face of the rodent. Its nose wiggled, pushing forward towards Jorge, and it started to move towards him. Lowering himself all the way to the floor, Jorge suddenly reached out and grabbed the guinea pig by its tail and rose, as it dangled from his fist squeaking a tiny protest. "Ah! Nice boy!" Jorge reassured it. "I used to keep guinea pigs." As he stood there holding the animal with everyone's startled eyes mesmerized on the unusual scene, a very long, very white, very shiny limousine pulled up in front of the store. "Oh, no", said Nee. "It's him." "Jesus, no!", breathed Randy. "Want me to get my cleaver, Nee?", snarled Dave. Before the chauffeur could come around to open the door, it had been opened by the passenger. From inside the lap of luxury rose Kelsey Snidedoodle, the city's most famous restaurant and food critic. He was large, dark, well-padded. He had been called Mesphistopheles Incarnate by some, and was well-loved by many others in the popular press. "What have we here?!", he boomed with a large hideous smile. "Local food sourcing! I love it! How are you going to cook it, Nee?" Dave's Winter Soup with Short Ribs (or Guinea Pig) ............................................................................. 2 lbs. beef short ribs (or equal weight guinea pig chunks) 1 C diced onion 3 C chopped carrots 4 cloves garlic, minced Bay leaf, thyme, paprika Toss all together and roast in preheated 450 degree F oven for 20 minutes. Remove to large pot, add 2 Qts. water, 1 small head cabbage (shredded), salt, and Tabasco to taste. Bring to boil and simmer one and a half hours. 1/4 C parsley 3 Tbs. lemon juice 3 Tbs. sugar 1 lb rinsed sauerkraut Add to soup, simmer uncovered one hour. Remove meat from bones and return to pot. Serve with a dollop of sour cream on top.

In her hands Nee held a flat pink cake box. Gold lettered script sprawled across the top. It said "Velma". Behind Nee (as usual, they rarely went anywhere without each other) was Dave the One-Eyed Butcher. As Nee held out the box towards Jorge and Randy, Dave stuck out his tongue, crossed his one eye (which gave him an appealing Scottish terrier look) towards his nose, and pretended he was going to grab Nee around the middle in a huge bear hug. "Where did this come from, guys?" she asked. "Look at it! It's gorgeous!" Opening the box, she showed them what was inside. A cake, or rather a torte. . .gleaming in its dark chocolate dress, a slice had been cut to show the layers inside. Dense cake-y chocolate sparkled with almond bits. Rich sour cherries. A thin light blanket of almond paste, then the dark rich cover of chocolate all over it. "I think Ellen brought that by when she stopped by to check next weeks schedule." Randy reached out to take the box, looking more closely inside. "AAaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiIIIIIgh!!!!" Nee suddenly screamed and Dave screamed along with her. "Look at the front door! There's a huge mouse looking in at us!" Jorge shook his head in disdain. "That's not a mouse. That's a guinea pig. Some kid must have left his cage open. Cute little critters. I'll go see what he wants." He walked with assurance towards the door. Torte with Chocolate and Cherries .............................................................. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9 or 10 inch springform pan and dust with breadcrumbs. Drain a 24 oz. jar of sour cherries well. Melt 6 oz. sweet chocolate. Blend together 12 Tbs. soft butter and 2/3 C sugar till creamy. Add 2 eggs and beat well. Add 1 tsp. vanilla extract and 1/2 tsp. almond extract. Stir in melted chocolate. Add 1/2 C finely ground almonds, 2/3 C flour, and 1 more egg. Pour into pan, top with cherries, and smooth. Bake 50 to 60 minutes, remove, cool. Meanwhile roll out 8 oz. almond paste into circle to fit torte. Place on top when cooled. Glaze with 1/2 C heavy cream, 2 tsp. instant espresso, and 8 oz. dark chocolate melted together.

Darjeeling. Reblochon (he is from the same family as Rigo). I've had a crush on calabash for some time now. Cherimoya.