JAZ

I can remember one occasion a few years back. It was before Chirstmas, and the dive bar where my then boyfriend worked was selling these horrid fruitcakes for some kid's organization. It was slow; we were bored and somehow decided that making a blended drink with one of the fruitcakes would be a good idea. Crumbled that sucker right up in the blender and added brandy, Bailey's, cream, cinnamon schnapps (seemed as if it would go with the fruitcake flavors) and probably something else as well. The drink, oddly enough, didn't taste too bad. Texture was weird though. And the blender stalled severely from all those nasty little fruitcake modules sinking to the bottom and gumming up the blades.

Just to keep the record straight, I did say that I do that with eggs. I'm unsure about what to do with sushi grade tuna, just as I would be with a high quality steak. I would hate to spend that kind of money on something and cook it to a point where I feel it's ruined, regardless of how someone wants it. That's why I suggested switching to something else -- salmon, in this instance.

Interesting list, Jonathan. Some of the categories seem more innately disgusting than others (rotting food, I'd imagine, is probably universally disgusting, whereas eating dogs or insects is not). And some of your categories I wouldn't say are commonly thought of as disgusting but are rather just unappealing -- for instance, I'd say that uncooked or undercooked foods are often thought to be disgusting, but I don't think overcooked foods are. There are theories out there that we find some foods disgusting for valid reasons (or at least they were valid back when our ancestors were evolving with their feelings of disgust), such as rotting foods, or some of the internal organs of animals, which tend to harbor more harmful bacteria and other toxins than the muscle tissue. And it seems reasonable to lump in some textures in this category, such as your "squidgy" or, as John points out, "slimy," -- textures that are often found in rotting foods. But others on your list seem to lack any features that would make them instinctively disgusting (not that I'm denying that they are disgusting for many people). Certainly, animal flesh does seem to carry the biggest potential for causing disgust, and maybe that's due to the fact that meat is much more prone to bacterial contamination than plant food. Maybe, as a species, our attitude toward meat is ambivalent -- yes, it's a great source of calories, protein, minerals and vitamins that we need, but it can also be host to harmful and even lethal bacteria. How any one particular person reacts to meat products might be an individual response to the ambivalent tendancies we all share. One friend of mine can't even stand to eat any meat with bones -- loves bacon, won't eat a bone-in pork chop; will eat a hamburger but not a T-bone steak. (I asked her why she's not a vegetarian, and she replied "because I really like the taste of meat.") Which may actually bring us full circle, back to Dr. Korsmeyer's original point that delicious and disgusting might be different sides of the same coin.

Mark, I was merely reporting the theory of one scientist; I'm not saying I think he's got the whole story. While the theories you've outlined probably have some basis in reality, the best evolutionary explanation I've yet heard for the appeal of spices, including chile peppers, involves the "antimicrobial" properties of these plants. The thoery, which was explained in an article in American Scientist (March-April 2001 issue), is borne out by both the ability of most spices to kill the microorganisms that attack our foods and by the scrutiny of spice use throughout various culinary traditions. Although onions, oregano and allspice are more potent against microbes like bacteria, chiles are right up there, killing about 75% of the little pests. Interestingly, the very toxins that destroy the microbes can also act to induce mutations in cells and even miscarriages, which may explain the fact that many pregnant women lose their taste for spices in the early months of pregnancy. It would also explain why very young children don't tend to like spicy foods -- their bodily systems are still developing, and could still be susceptible to damage from these plants. (Understand that I'm not saying that this is what goes through the minds of children and pregnant women, just that it may be an evolutionary explanation for the behavior.) All of this is definitley in line with your point about the capsaicin in peppers having developed to deter predators -- that's exactly why the plants that give us our spices contain such toxins. It's just that we capitalize on their natural protection systems.

Tough question. My ex-fiance used to insist on scrambled eggs cooked to the consistency of little egg pellets, and so I used to cook my eggs the way I wanted, remove them and continue to cook his until they resembed egg-colored Grape Nuts. But eggs are not sushi grade tuna, and I think I would feel differently being asked to mistreat something like that. Maybe you could buy salmon instead?

I share John Whiting's concern. On the one hand, you could argue that "flawless flavour engineering" is simply the gastronomic equivalent of a CD-ROM.... Yet there is something sinister about this -- just as there is about the CD-ROM, but this seems far worse: the experience of food is divorced from any setting of care, conviviality, hungers satisfied. I wasn't planning to add anything to this thread since I know very little about haute cuisine, post-modern, renaissance or neo-classical, but I do know something about taste buds and taste research. And I have to comment on that aspect of this thread. This discovery is not that big a deal. Really. Researchers have been screwing about with the sweet and bitter taste pathways of rodents (and humans) for years. (They can't interfere with the salty and sour pathways, incidentally; those are too direct.) There are chemicals out there that neutralize sweet flavors as well. You can neutralize bitter flavors with salt, if you care to. You can turn your entire mouth numb and neutralize most flavors by chewing on a couple of cloves. The cyranin in artichokes makes other foods taste sweeter to many people. There's evidence that capsaicin may temporarily block our ability to taste sweet and bitter flavors. So what? To assume that such research is the beginning of the wholesale destruction of cuisine as we know it is the quantum leap. The fact that a couple of chemicals can interfere with the cellular process that results in bitter tastes has nothing to do with "redefining reality." Taste and flavor "reality" is much, much more than a couple of neural reactions in taste cells. Our perceptions of flavor rely much more heavily on our sense of smell, which involves about a thousand receptor cells programmed by about a thousand separate genes. If you're envisioning a world in which we simply take some pills and all the sudden oatmeal will taste like coq au vin, it's not going to happen. Here's what will happen with these newly discovered molecules: they'll be used in medicine to reduce the bitter taste and make them easier to taste. They might be used with some bitter vegetables to make them more palatable to children. And that's it. The thing is, most people who eat bitter foods like bitter flavors. I don't want my coffee free of bitterness -- that's part of its appeal. It's like drinking beer without hops -- I mean, what's the point? Quite frankly, the development of natural and artificial flavors was much more potentially destructive to the world of cuisine than this research. (It's not like "flavor engineering" is anything new; it's been going on for decades. That's what MSG is all about, as well.) And flavor research is minor compared with the research on textures. Lots of work (and chemicals) go into making low-fat products, for example, feel like the full-fat versions. But have artificial flavors and textures replaced real foods? Not for most of us. Everyone with moderately accurate taste perception knows the difference between artificial and real flavors, because real flavors are notoriously difficult to copy -- there are simply too many flavor molecules in anything with any complexity. And that fake sour cream might seem "creamy" for a minute, but it doesn't take long to notice the strange cloying quality it has. If all those attempts haven't ruined cuisine, nothing will. Certainly not a molecule that blocks bitter flavors.

After reading your piece (as reprinted in Best Food Writing 2002) "The Reviewer and the Recipe," I was struck that I view cookbooks in much the same way that you seem to; that is, I use them for inspiration rather than for the actual recipes. So I'm wondering if you have a suggestion for an Italian cookbook that someone (like me) with the same approach to cookbooks might enjoy. And more generally, aside from the books you mentioned in your "Annual Food Book Review" newsletter, what are some of your favorites (current or "classic")? And why? Thanks.

In On Food and Cooking, McGee mentions a theory put forth by Paul Rozin about why some people seek out the burn of chiles. He thinks it may be the same drive that makes some people seek out other activities that provide a sense of controlled danger, such as sky diving, bungee jumping and the like. In other words, you get the jolt of adrenaline that comes from facing danger, but the “real” danger is minimized. Perhaps the appeal of “dangerous” foods is the same? Any time once faces up to a fear, whether real or imagined, one feels, at least, a sense of pleasure merely from overcoming the fear. I think it’s certainly true that many people have a fascination for foods they find disgusting – I think that’s part of the appeal of Cook’s Tour for many people, and it’s probably why the theme of eating disgusting things (either knowingly or unknowingly) features so often in literature and movies (The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover comes to mind here; and even that stupid 70’s song Timothy). Is it the same combination of attraction and repulsion that makes some people stop to look at car accidents? Or watch that Fear Factor show? It seems perfectly plausible to me that there is some connection to our feelings of mortality in such fascination. One unrelated point: As for Jonathan’s suggestion that disgust is simply a stronger form of dislike, I have to disagree. Personally, I can think of a couple of foods that I dislike very strongly, and how I feel about eating them is entirely different from the way I feel when even contemplating eating foods that disgust me. For example, I really dislike raisins in any foods, sweet or savory, but if I’m served something with them, I can eat them. If it’s possible without insulting the cook, I try my hardest to eat around them, but it’s not really awful when I have to eat them. Stinky cheeses present a different example, because the smell of some of those literally makes me sick to my stomach. But even with them, contemplating eating them doesn’t make me sick or squeamish, it’s the smell (in fact, if I have a bad cold, I can eat them). But insects are another story. All those scenes of Tony Bourdain eating bugs on Cook’s Tour literally make my flesh crawl (I covered my eyes during those scenes, actually). I can’t even stand to watch my cats eat them. I think I’d be willing to try most things – duck tongues, brains, sea urchins – but not insects.

I fully intended to buy a bottle of Seagrams to give it a try, but the crappy little Safeway I went to was out, so I bought Gordon's instead, because a) nothing else was on sale, and b) I wanted to try a mid-range gin to compare it with the Boodles and Beefeater I'd been drinking. So, I mixed three tiny drinks: a martini (well, once again, it was a Gibson because I still have no olives and just can't resist an opportunity to eat a pickled onion), a gimlet (the drink with lime, not the one with an onion) and a negroni to see how it fared. The results? Gordon's aromatics are pretty one-dimensional. Lots of juniper and not much else. Not that this is a bad thing, but it was different from the Boodles, which also has some citrus and floral aromas going on. But I actually found the hit of juniper refreshing in the martini. The gin finished a little harsh, though. The Rose's lime in the gimlet soothed the harshness, but I wasn't crazy about all that juniper in that particular drink. Okay, but not great. I might give it another try with a little more Rose's, to see if that balances the juniper. The Gordon's was very good in the negroni though. Maybe because the juniper held its own with the bitterness of the Campari? Not sure. Overall, I'm not displeased with the Gordon's, even if it means no gimlets for a while. Especially since it's about 40 percent less expensive than the premiums, and about a third of the cost of Junipero, and I already blew most of my liquor budget on Hangar One vodka so I'm trying to be frugal.

That's right -- the 18/10 will be slightly more durable, but either is fine for cookware.

I have two sizes: 6 oz. and 8 oz. Keep in mind that these sizes are the amount of liquid the glass holds when filled to the rim, NOT the amount of the average drink I pour into them. I just poured water back and forth from a measuring cup to the glasses, and found that a 4 oz. drink fits very snugly into the 6 oz. glass (comes up to within an eighth-inch of the top). The same 4-oz. drink leaves about a half inch at the top of the eight-oz. glass. I find that a 4-oz. martini is about the upper limit if you don't want your drink to get warm. I tend to use the 6 oz glasses for martinis and the 8 oz glasses for cocktails with more ingredients (which tend to be larger than 4 oz). As for the design of your glasses, look for a glass without a seam at the base of the bowl. That creates a weak spot, thus making it really easy to snap the glass at that point.

So, I'm sitting at the computer and drinking a martini for the first time in months, actually. Love them, but for various reasons, I've had to concentrate on other cocktails lately. Boodles is what's in the glass, because that's what was in the bar, and strictly speaking, what's in the glass is a Gibson, because I had onions and no olives, but my oh my it's a wonderful thing...

FG, when you say "copper bottom" do you mean a layer of copper sandwiched between stainless, or a copper wash, or something else? And how thick is the copper? Can you tell, or is there some indication? Does the copper extend up into the sides too?

When I first read your post, I thought of oil as well. I have no idea what this cake is like, but my mother made several coffee cakes that used oil rather than shortening or butter, and they always had a wonderfully dense, moist texture. Melted butter comes sorta close, but even though it tastes better than oil, it still doesn't have quite the same texture.

I've got a sauerkraut recipe that uses gin, and have used it in other German/ Eastern European dishes.

A friend of mine had a similar experience with imported paprika many years ago (he was sprinkling it over a bowl of potato salad). He did a little investigation and discovered a small class action suit against the company, so he got a little money when the suit was settled. Not that I'm suggesting that's what you do, but my point is that this seems to be a recurring problem with imported paprika, so I'd stick with spice purveyors you know and trust.

Havn't tried Seagrams in ages, but I agree that the mid-range gins can be fine. I've always thought Gordon's is a decent house gin, myself. Another good mid-range is Bombadier. With gins, I find that two elements come into play -- the smoothness (i.e. lack of alcohol "bite") and how pronounced the aromatics are. Any of the premium gins will be smooth in the first sense, but vary quite a bit in the aromatics, from heavy juniper to lighter almost floral combinations. Bombay Sapphire and Tanquerey 10 are both very light on the juniper in their aromatic profile, so in my experience they tend to be preferred by people who aren't big gin fans. I like juniper, so I prefer the originals of both brands, myself. Tanquery is higher in alcohol than many other gins (Sapphire is high too) and to me is a little overbearing in a martini because of it. (It's my gin of choice for a gimlet, though.) Boodles in always nice, as is Beefeater. Tanquerey's Mallaca is interesting -- less alcohol than regular Tanquerey, some different aromatics as well -- but you don't see it around much.

Well let's see... There are the minor disasters like the first time I tried to puree hot soup in my blender, filling it almost full and spewing hot mushrooms all over the kitchen, or the time I tried to bake a sweet potato at high heat without pricking the surface and it exploded. There was the time my mother asked me to whip up some egg whites into a meringue. I was in high school and not up on kitchen science, so I didn't realize that using a plastic bowl was not the thing to do. Even though the whites were not getting foamy I kept at it, thinking that if I started adding the sugar it would help. My mother finally came back into the kitchen and explained what the problem was. She wasn't upset or anything; we just started over. But she didn't realize that I'd already started adding the sugar, so she saved my failed attempt and added those whites to a big batch of scrambled eggs the next morning. A more exciting disaster involved toasting some rice cakes on top of the toaster (don't ask) and forgetting about them until they burst into flame, igniting the roll of paper towels hanging above them, which then fell down onto the blender and melted it into an unrecognizable blob (actually, many kitchen disasters in our house involved trying to toast or broil things, which often caught on fire because no one in my family has ever had a single brain cell devoted to keeping track of what was in the oven. But that was the prize winner in that category). But the best disaster story dates from when I was in junior high school. My mother was roasting cornish game hens for a dinner for some friends. The friends were in the adjacent living room; my sister and I were helping my mother in the kitchen. Mom took out the roasting pan filled with the hens in order to baste them, and set it on the open oven door (the oven was up at chest height, not underneath a range). Of course the door looked level but was not, so in the second or two she left it, the pan slid off, little birds bouncing everywhere and a couple cups of very greasy poultry juice following. The floor was clean and the hens went back onto the pan, but the grease remained. My sister wanted to help, so she tried to get a rag to clean up. Unfortunately, the rags were on the other side of the grease spill, and as she leapt over it to get one, she miscalculated and hit the edge of the spill, losing her footing and sliding across the floor into the cat's dish, sending kibble flying in all directions. So there's my sister, sitting on the floor in a puddle of cornish game hen fat, surrounded by cat food. There's me, trying really hard not to laugh and not having any idea what to do to help. And there's my mother, swearing under her breath (which I had never heard her do before) while calling out to her guests that nothing was wrong and she'd be out to join them in a minute. Mom managed to keep the guests out of the kitchen and we started to get the mess cleaned up. But when the potholder caught on fire (before this had all started, one of us had turned the wrong knob to heat up a burner --electric -- and enough heat was finally generated to ignite the potholder) I think she just gave up, poured herself a drink and joined her guests.

No laughter from this quarter. I lived with a wine broker for several years, and although I wasn't a complete novice, I didn't know much about wine at the time we met. I went to a lot of tastings, and tried to fake it for a while, until I realized that I wasn't learning much that way. So I started asking tons of questions, and I ended up learning quite a bit. So here, for what it's worth, is some advice from someone who was once in your shoes. First the logistics: Probably best to avoid coffee, and also anything really sweet for the few hours right before the tasting. But make sure you eat something, preferably something with fat or oil in it, before you go. You might not think you're drinking much at a tasting, but you are, and if you do it on an empty stomach, you'll run the risk of getting drunk, which you probably don't want to do. If buckets for spitting are provided, don't be embarrassed to spit out a mouthful of wine if you want to drink less but still taste everything. In between wines, eat a cracker or some bread if it's available. It'll help clear out the flavor from the previous wine, so you can taste the new one better. If you really want to concentrate on the wines, don't eat anything else while you're tasting. If there's food available, you can eat it afterward. It sounds as if the tasting will be conducted by one person, who will pour the wines one at a time and talk about them. If that's not the case, and you can taste any wines in any order, start with whites and then move to reds. As for the tasting procedure itself, start out by smelling the wine. If you swirl the glass a little, it will release the bouquet and aroma better. Try to think back in your memory bank of smells and tastes to see if the smell of the wine reminds you of anything. Vanilla? Melon? Berries? Grass? Metal? Don't stress out if you don't recognize any smells; sometimes they're very pronounced and sometimes they aren't, and it can take some practice to identify them even if they are there. Tnen when you sip the wine, hold the wine in your mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. Some people audibly swish it around in the mouth, which is perfectly acceptable at a wine tasting. The point is, you want to give the flavors in the wine a chance to develop before you swallow it. I think you get more from a wine by taking several small sips rather than one big mouthful. As for what you're tasting for, well, wines are fairly complex, but here are some of the main elements to taste for. Some of these are truly tastes and flavors, and some of them have to do with the texture or "mouthfeel" of the wine. (As an aside on the term "mouthfeel" -- I know it sounds pretentious and sort of off-color, but it's a very necessary term if you want to talk about wine, or food, for that matter. All that's meant by it is the way a particular food or drink feels like on your mouth and tongue -- for example, does it feel heavy and viscous or light and "refreshing"?) First off is fruit. The fruit flavors in white wines tend to be described in terms of melons, apples, or peaches; the fruit in red wines tends to be in the berry, plum and cherry families. (Oddly enough, people never describe wine as tasting like grapes. Go figure.) These sorts of fruity flavors in wine, if they're pronounced enough, can sometimes trick you into thinking that the wine is sweet, but sweetness is something else entirely. Second is acid. Acidity will come across both as a taste and as an element of mouthfeel. Think of the difference between a Golden Delicious apple and a Granny Smith. That's acid. The acid in wine kicks your salivary glands into action, and if you're eating, it can cut through the mouth-coating quality of rich foods. And I'm talking in very broad generalities here, but acid is more of an issue in white wines than in reds, providing what is usually called "structure" to white wines. Wines with lots of acidity are described as "crisp;" those with insufficient acidity are deridingly called "flabby." A third thing to look for is the tannins, present in red wines. The tannins in wine are what give it a bitter aftertaste if it has one; they also have an astringent quality (which is why sometimes drinking a red wine by itself seems to dry your mouth out). If you've ever had overbrewed tea, that's what tannins taste like. Tannins, like acid, also contribute to what wine people call "structure." Tannins come from the skins of the grapes and the wood the wines are aged in. Some white wines will pick up some tannin if they're aged in oak barrels, but nothing like the amount in red wines. A fourth factor, speaking of oak barrels, is oak. Wines aged in oak take on some flavors from the wood. Any flavors you would describe as "toasted" or "roasted" or caramel or vanilla derive from being aged in oak. Unless you're tasting dessert wines, true sweetness will probably not be something you'll taste. If you taste any Rieslings and Gewurstraminers, then they might be the style that's referred to as "off-dry," in which case you might detect a hint of sweetness. Now, there are a lot of other flavors and textures to notice in wines, but these are some major characteristics that are relatively easy to pick out, so they're good for beginners to focus on. The only way to get a real feeling for what these terms mean is to try wines that have these characteristics and remember what they taste like. That's where asking lots of questions comes in. As you taste the wines at your tasting, the wine guy will probably give you descriptions of what's there; he'll say those things you hear wine people say, like "a crisp wine with hints of apples and peaches and undertones of vanilla." If he doesn't, ask him. When I first started dating the wine broker and I got over my fear of seeming unsophisticated, I asked him to describe virtually every wine we tasted. After a while, I tried describing them myself and I found that I'd learned quite a lot. I remember the day we tasted a wine and I said, without even really thinking about it, "this wine is flabby" -- that was when I realized that I was finally getting it. So, taste, ask questions, taste again, and then remember what you've tasted. Relax, and don't worry about being a beginner. Wine people (aside from the snobs and show-offs) love an interested beginner.

I can practically guarantee that she got it from the Betty Crocker Cookbook. (Nice discussion of this cake and subsequent, "lighter" versions in a book called The Best Thing I Ever Tasted by Sallie Tisdale).

It might be a mistake to speak of American cuisine as if it were a homogeneous body, given the great variety of regional cooking. Having grown up in the Western US, I have to say that lobster rolls, clam bakes and Boston brown bread are much more "foreign" to me than much Mexican cuisine. Likewise with Southern food: my experience with it is very limited, and my exposure to it has been as an adult, not as a child growing up with it. These foods might very well be "American," but they're not the "American" food I grew up with. They play no part in my personal culinary heritage. And you notice that there's never much sentimentality devoted to the "American" food of "middle" America (which, incidentally is what I did eat growing up, at least in part) -- the tuna casseroles, the salads composed of canned fruit cocktail and jello. Meatloaf and macaroni and cheese are the possible exceptions here, but those are usually lumped together into that dubious category of "comfort food" -- food that never seems to be taken very seriously, even while it's being enjoyed. Much of what I consider American food might more accurately be described as hybrid -- that is, Italian-American, Jewish-American, Pacific Rim, Cal-Ital, Tex-Mex -- which is hardly surprising, given our immigration history. I'm not denigrating these cuisines at all; I'm just not sure how to categorize them. Not having read Serious Pig, I'm unsure whether John Thorne discusses these. But certainly they belong in any thorough discussion of American cuisine. Adrian Hoffman, chef at One Market Restaurant (he might not be there anymore; the following is from the Spring 2002 issue of Gastronomica) has an interesting take, I think, on "American" food: "I'm often asked what style of food I cook at One Market. My stock answer, 'Contemporary regional European,' is as hokey as it sounds. The truth is, I cook American food. "So why do I cringe when I write that? "Sadly, 'American' has many connotations that I don't like to associate with my way of cooking. It's a catch-all term, which at one time or another has implied a lack of culture, a lack of soul, a lack of focus especially." He goes on to talk about his background as a chef, which is in the European tradition -- primarily French, although he himseef is not French. He talks about his experience learning to cook French food (in Japan from a Frenchman), how his menu creations were always taylored to match the food memories of his boss and instructor. He continues: "Now, at One Market, the menus are all mine. I cannot recall memories I never had, nor can I pretend to serve bona fide European food....So I take what I've learned and try to stay as true to the original region and culture as possible....But by the time the food ends up on the plate, it will be thoroughly American." And he concludes: "What, then, is American food? Our copious resources have spawned many great (but many more poor) chefs, purveyors of an anonymous or forgotten culture.... It would be easy to get lost in the maze of food cultures represented here [in California]. An American restaruant needs focus. At One Market, I cook American food inspired by regional European techniques and combinations. In my kitchen you will not find soy sauce, sesame oil or lemongrass. We do not use a tandoori oven for roasting. Nor do I sell hamachi, not matter how outstanding the quality. I do my best to keep the menu as focused as possible, lest the awful, generic term 'continental' be revived and applied to California cuisine. While the food I cook is very different from authentic European cuisine, I try to respect the culture and traditions I am borrowing from.... "At One Market, I cannot deny that I am an American chef. I am learning to be proud of it." So there's yet another take on American food.

I used to use a crock pot sometimes, and I noticed the same thing. I almost always ended up removing the contents from the crockpot and reducing the liquid (for the record, I always started with what I thought was the bare minimum of liquid in the crockpot). I think the difference has to do with the temperature primarily, which is much lower in a crockpot than I use on the stove or in the oven. The experiment outlined above would be really interesting, but I doubt I could get my stove to a stay at a low enough heat to mirror that in a crockpot. I probably could cook in the oven at a low enough temp to mimic the crockpot, but in practice, I don't. I generally braise things in the oven, and at a much higher temperature than that reached by a crockpot (212 tops). My point in going on about the temperature is that you simply can't get any caramelization or Maillard reaction browning at crock pot temperatures -- it takes temps of 300 or more for those to start. Add to that that there's virtually no evaporation from the crockpot, so you don't get the concentration of flavor you get from oven braising. There is simply less depth of flavor in the crockpot version. Browning meats and vegetables seemed to help (back in the days when I used a crockpot), but I almost always had the best luck if I actually started my dish on the stove or in the oven, and then dumped it into the crockpot to finish cooking (like Jeffrey Steingarten with his coq au vin). If I couldn't do that, then I generally planned on a little reduction work right before serving. The exceptions were heavily spiced dishes like chili, or soups. Bittman's right in saying that crockpots are wonderful for making stock -- they keep it right at the simmer, which is perfect. And I'm not knocking them at all -- they're a wonderful tool. But if I have the time necessary, I'll take an oven braised dish over the crockpot version any day.

Salmon with a reduction sauce of blood orange juice, Lillet (Blond), a splash of mandarin vodka, grape tomatoes and shallots, garnished with capers. Mixed greens with toasted pecans, dressed with a blood orange, balsamic and mustard vinaigrette.

Why not? First, since the flavors of the assembled burger (mustard, raw onion, pickles, ketchup) are so very sharp, you wouldn't even taste the subtler cornish hen. Just eat the burger. Second, because it's all wrong, psychologically. Burgers and Cornish hens exist on different culinary levels of sophistication, and although mixing levels can be done to good effect by the right chef, stuffing a cheeseburger into a Cornish hen is not the way to do it. And third -- what Jin said: Gah.

I can't say I agree with your assessment of Gastronomica; certainly it's uneven and some of it is just plain silly, but there's usually something there that's worth reading. It reminds me of some years ago when I used to subscribe to both Harpers and Atlantic. Atlantic was much more consistent and overall I'd say I enjoyed more of its content than Harpers. But the good stuff in Harpers was SO good that it was worth it to me to wade through the lesser stuff. That's how I feel about Gastronomica. Plus, it's the only food related magazine with book reviews of truly interesting books.