I Knew It!

When this story hit the headlines and all my feminist friends (which is to say, all my friends) reacted with outrage, I saw something other than a normative, male-dependent, self-loathing woman: I saw an ambitious stunt-blogger who was looking to parlay a self-consciously provocative story into a book deal and a shot at being the next Julie Powell.

Sure 'nuff!

Mind you, the feminist critique is warranted: The tale of Stephanie Smith's 300-sandwich race to a diamond finish line with her boyfriend Eric Schulte pings every invidious stereotype of the ring-seeking "gal" trying to prove she's "wife material."

But I saw more than just "make me a sammich, bitch" misogyny in their schtick all along: Maybe Schulte really is an unreconstructed bro, and maybe Smith is every bit the husband-hungry "chick" their tale suggests... but it has seemed more calculated than that to me since I first heard of it: I think it was a deliberate book proposal from the very beginning.

I loved the Julie & Julia film, and I entirely bought Powell's story as authentic. The sheer rawness and vulnerability of her second book, Cleaving (which I loved, though critical reactions were mixed), betrays not the slightest hint of calculation or pretense. Love her or hate her, it's hard to doubt that Powell's memoirs — even the "stunt" of cooking her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year — grew organically out of her own life.

On the other hand, I strongly suspect Smith's tale grew organically out of... watching Powell go from blog to bestseller to the big screen, and wanting to replicate that path. It needed a food-related challenge; it needed the right mix of romance and romantic tension; it needed a Hollywood finish line.

There's nothing inherently wrong with basing a book on an artificial stunt: A.J. Jacobs has practically made a career of it, and George Plimpton essentially invented the form with his participatory sports writing. But Smith's project just seems too canned, too derivative, too self-consciously media savvy to be compelling.

And that's before you even get to the project's reliance on outdated and unwanted concepts around gender roles and relationships.

If Smith had simply blogged about trying to invent 300 (or some suitably challenging number) of unique gourmet sandwiches, I'd happily have read that blog, and bought that cookbook; as it is, I think I'll make my own damn sammich!

The Lazy Blogging Timewarp: Happy Foodie Father's Day

Now that I've thrown another log on the Emerging Foodie fire, I'll be reaching into the (more or less recent) past to post about things I didn't get around to posting about when they actually happened.

First up: A quick post of belated praise and gratitude to my family for some delicious Father's Day presents. My daughter got me Bacon Nation: 125 Irresistible Recipes, by Peter Kaminsky and Marie Rama. This is not just a bunch of bizarre, bacon-obsessed stunts: It appears to be a serious, thoughtful cookbook whose recipes use bacon in well considered, balanced ways. I can't wait to try some out! (Actually, it was this book that inspired me to think about bacon chipotle sweet potato salad, even though I didn't use a recipe from the book.)

In addition, my wonderful wife got me tickets to see Alton Brown's live Edible Inevitable Tour when it comes to the Bushnell in Hartford (sadly, not 'til next February... hmm, Valentine's Day, actually...). Even with the videos on his site, I'm having trouble imagining what a live Alton Brown show will be like... but I'm having no trouble imagining that it'll be great: I can't wait!

More timewarping to come! I'll get my promised post about our post-Tanglewood dinner at Chez Nous up in the next day or two, then I'll reach back to May for several posts about a trip I took to the Northern VA/DC area and to Alton's hometown of Atlanta!

And Now For Something Completely Different

This afternoon, my wife and I went to browse the annual sale at Whitlock's Book Barn, a used and antique bookstore in a literal barn (two of them, actually) in Bethany, CT. I was introduced to Whitlock's by my daughter, who was in turn introduced to the place by a favorite professor at Yale.

But wait, you ask: Why are we talking about an afternoon of booking on a food blog? Well, it's because of my best finds, both of which are food-related books:

The first is Colonial Virginia Cookery by historian Jane Carson. Originally published in 1968 by University of Virginia Press (or perhaps distributed through UVa Press on behalf of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation: my Googling left me uncertain which), this is a 1985 Colonial Williamsburg Foundation edition that returned Carson's survey of 18th century cooking manuals to print.

From what I've heard previously of antique recipes — and note that the recipes of the period are more like a narrative description of cooking the dish than they are like the procedural form we're used to today — I don't have great hope that many of these dishes will be plausibly cookable (or desirable, for that matter) in the modern kitchen, but I'm expecting them to be fascinating to read. How something as ostensibly fundamental as cooking has changed over human history is a subject that never ceases to intrigue me. And in any case, when you flip open a book at random and find a recipe for "Soup of Any Kind of Old Fowl (The only way in which they are eatable)" and on the opposite page discover instructions for turtle soup that advise you to "Kill [the turtle] at night in winter, and in the morning in summer"... well, how could you not be captivated?

The book describes menus and ingredients, the colonial kitchen itself, dishes in several chapters organized by cooking method, sauces and garnishes, and finally, food preservation. That last chapter, in particular, calls out to me. Given that neither refrigeration nor canning was known in colonial times, I'm sure the methods described will be quite terrifying to a modern, germ-aware sensibility... and yet, somehow our colonial forebears (at least some of them) managed to survive. If it seems sane to try any of the preservation methods —or if any of the recipes seem adaptable —you can count on reading about it here!

The second find is even better. I'm the first to admit I'm no expert on the classic literature of cooking, but when I pulled a volume off the shelf, I instantly recognized the name Brillat-Savarin, if only as the author of the the quote that opens (at least in its American distribution) the original Japanese version of Iron Chef: "Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are." But even if I hadn't recognized the name Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, nobody even vaguely acquainted with the literature of food (and, as I say, I myself am no more than vaguely acquainted) could fail to know the name M.F.K. Fisher, perhaps the preeminent American food writer. What I had found was the 1949 Heritage Press edition of Brillat-Savarin's The Physiology of Taste: or, Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy, translated "with profuse annotations" by Fisher, and illustrated by Sylvain Sauvage.

I had stumbled upon one of the most famous books ever written about food, translated by one of America's best known food writers, in a very beautiful edition. The accompanying Heritage Club Sandglass brochure describes how (punctuated by what seem to 21st century eyes an inordinate number of references to how good-looking she was) Fisher and her husband brought them the idea of translating Brillat-Savarin; how the edition was translated, edited, designed, illustrated, and published; and how, sadly, Sauvage passed away before it was on the shelves. It's a gem of a food book, and I can't wait to get "stuck in" reading it

Dining Out: Fancy Burgers

The Lovely Bride© texting the
Brilliant Daughter™ from the
patio at Max Burger

It was a gorgeous day today here in southern New England, and the Lovely Bride™ and I took advantage by lunching al fresco at what is fast becoming one of our favorite restaurants, Max Burger in West Hartford. Because my dining partner must avoid gluten, you might think burgers would be a strange choice, but in fact, they're one of our go-to meals: Most places will serve a burger without a bun, or as a lettuce wrap, and increasing numbers of restaurants serve burgers on gluten-free buns.

Max Burger, part of the Hartford/Springfield area Max Restaurant Group empire, is one such place. The menu includes non-burger entrees, entree salads, and sandwiches, as well as a number of "burgers" that stretch the definition of the term, but the stars of the show are just what you'd expect: 8 oz. patties of ground sustainably raised Angus beef topped with a variety of cheeses, bacons, onions, greens, and condiments. Over a number of recent visits, we've sampled the Alfred, Inside Out, Blackjack, and Miss Daisy burgers, as well as several of the rotating list of daily "Chalkboard Burgers," and have never been disappointed.

One of my pet peeves about gourmet burgers has to do with the tendency to so load them with toppings, condiments, and sauces that it becomes impossible to actually eat them as burgers. That has never happened to me at Max: The burgers are a real handful, and each mouthful is a real mouthful, but I've never had to resort to knife and fork. Burger, handcut fries, house-made pickle slices... if I didn't need the napkin, I'd never have to unwrap the flatware setup. And that, friends, is how it should be, no matter how fancy your burger gets.

Aside from the whole eating with your hands thing, Max Burger is in all other respects a true fine dining experience, offering appetizers and desserts and a full bar, including signature cocktails and a nice (and ever changing) list of craft and local beers. Rumor has it they also serve wine, though you couldn't prove it by me, philistine that I am.

Another recent fancy burger experience was distinctly different: While moving the Brilliant Daughter into her new grad school digs, we had occasion to check out Top Chef alum Spike Mendelsohn's burger joint, Good Stuff Eatery, in its Crystal City, Virginia, incarnation. Where Max Burger's model is fine dining, Good Stuff's is pure burger joint: Order at the counter; pick up your burger and fries in a paper bag; stop off to serve your own fountain drink, condiments, and dipping sauces; and find your own damn table. You might as well be at Arby's... and that goes for the prices, too.

Prez Obama Burger cooking at
Good Stuff Eatery

Except... that the food is spectacular. Not better than at Max, necessarily, but every bit as good, and possibly even a bit more sophisticated: With only one visit, I haven't been about to sample the menu extensively, but the Prez Obama Burger I had was to die for. I think it was the combination of Roquefort cheese and onion marmalade... but the horseradish mayo surely didn't hurt. But as good as my burger was, the real magic was the handcut Village Fries, made with rosemary, thyme, and sea salt. They're so deliciously fragrant that you almost don't need to eat them: Just stick your nose in the top of the bag and breathe! Ever since I've been home, I keep looking at the pots of rosemary and thyme on my deck and thinking I have to learn how to make those. Foolishly, I failed to buy a copy of Mendelsohn's cookbook at the restaurant, but it's on my list.

I'll let you know what I learn.

Actual Cooking: In a Pickle!

A couple weeks ago, I heard Terry Gross's 2-part Fresh Air interview with fermentation guru Sandor Katz, and was instantly moved to go out and buy his new book, The Art of Fermentation. You'll have to wait for a review — it's a massive tome, and I've barely scratched the surface — but the reason I was so hot to get the book right now was the fact that pickling cukes were in season at the Coventry Regional Farmers' Market, and Katz's description of making fresh sour pickles made it seem so easy even I could do it.

As of tonight, I can tell you that it is and I have! Last Sunday I picked up 4 lb of small, straight pickling cucumbers, a bunch of dill (to supplement my own heat-ravaged dill plants), and a fresh head of garlic, all from local farms, and Tuesday night I got "cooking" (no heat involved, actually):

I put the cukes in a large bowl of ice water and let them soak for about an hour. In the meantime, I mixed up about 3 quarts of a 5% brine (50g of sea salt per liter of water), using filtered tap water (just the built-in filter in our fridge). I rinsed the head of garlic and cut it in half crosswise (it's not necessary to even peel it); rinsed a goodly handful of dill fronds, plus some dill flower heads from my garden; and on a whim, peeled and quartered a small organic carrot (also from the CRFM): Everything went into a 1 gal glass jar (purchased from a local winemakers/homebrewers shop). Mindful of Katz's recommendation to include something high in tannin to help preserve crunch, but not having grape leaves or a green banana peel, I tossed in a tea bag.

Then I drained the cukes and loaded them into the jar, and then poured in the brine to fill. I was worried about how I would weight down the vegetables, to make sure they were well covered with brine, but the shape of the jar made that unnecessary.

Within an hour or two, small bubbles were rising in the brine; by the next day, a small amount of foam (but no visible mold) was floating in the neck of the jar. Thursday (yesterday), I tested one. It was definitely pickling, but not quite done; my Lovely Bride™ declared the flavor delicious. Tonight I tested another: It was clearly pickled all the way through, and really tasty... almost as good as the ones they serve at Rein's Deli here in Vernon (OK, I may be a tiny bit overly proud, there).

Later this evening, I'll transfer them to clean quart Ball jars and put them in the fridge. Since they're not preserved or processed, they'll need to be kept cold, and they won't keep forever, but I don't think that'll be a problem!

The best part is that I have a few cukes left over, and fresh jalapenos in the garden, so tomorrow I'll be able to try my buddy Andy's hot-off-the-(Word)presses Cucumber-Jalapeno Martini of the Month!

[edited for minor punctuation error]

Emerging Foodie Wishlist: Cooking for Geeks

I admitted in my last post that sous vide cooking gear isn't "basic equipment," for home cooks, and it really isn't: A quick bit of Googling finds the typical cost of entry to be north of $1000 (e.g., this gear-and-cookbook combo), and even the low end is reportedly close to $500.

But the other day, I happened across (on the Huffington Post food page, IIRC) this blog post about hacking a cheap slow cooker for sous vide (cooking in vacuum sealed bags in a water bath, at relatively low temperatures for long periods of time). It looks like a pretty cool project, appealing to both the tinkerer in me as well as the emerging foodie, and I'll probably try it eventually (cheap slow cookers are common stock in trade at the tag sales that are endemic in my part of the country).

But the really cool thing is that the blog this is posted on is that of Jeff Potter, author of Cooking for Geeks: Real Science, Great Hacks, and Good Food... and that led me to the concept of the Emerging Foodie Wishlist.

Have no fear! I'm not actually soliciting gifts from the vanishing fewmassive throngs who read these sterling words: The wishlist is just my way of alerting you to items — books, gear, restaurants, etc. — that I've stumbled across but not yet been able to read/try out/sampled... but which make me say me want!!

So Cooking for Geeks is the inaugural item on the Emerging Foodie Wishlist. It will also go on my actual Christmas wishlist for my family, and once I've had a chance to read it, you can count on hearing about it here. Watch this space!

Emerging Foodie Bookshelf: At Home by Bill Bryson

The latest offering from one of my favorite authors, Bill Bryson, isn't obviously a foodie book, but you don't have to think to hard about the central conceit of At Home: A Short History of Private Life to realize it has plenty of food-related potential. I'm less than halfway through with it, and already I'm ready to recommend it to anyone who's fascinated by food (well, to anyone, actually; I did say Bryson was one of my favorites, didn't I?).

Bryson's plan is to present the history of "private life" — the roots of how and why people came to live as they do &mdash using the rooms of the 19th-century former rectory he lives in with his family in England as a frame. It may not be immediately obvious that this simple plan would yield such a rich and deep collection of historical narrative and anecdote... not, that is, unless you're familiar with Bryson's earlier works, including A Walk in the Woods, In a Sunburned Country, and A Short History of Nearly Everything, which reveal the author's peculiar genius for chasing illuminating tangents from his ostensible subject.

And so it is that throughout Bryson's wanderings — but especially in the chapters on the kitchen and the dining room — we learn again and again how deeply embedded food and food culture is at the heart of how humans live. Though the focus is on Victorian history, as befits the Victorian home that gives the book its structure, Bryson reaches back to neolithic and Roman times, tracing the development of food production, the history of cooking, and the rise of cold food storage, first using natural ice harvested from lakes and then with artificial refrigeration. We learn of the meagerness of early diets and the contrasting staggering excess of the Victorian table, and that some of the seemingly exotic dishes of times past — swan, for instance — were eaten not because they were especially tasty, but simply because they were plentiful when meats more familiar to modern tastes were not. And Bryson traces the development of the familiar cookbook form, with recipes including precisely measured ingredients and detailed procedures, from the much vaguer cooking instructions in the manuals of domestic management that preceded them.

And while the book's focus is on domestic life, it encompasses the more global implications of food, including the extent to which lust for spices drove the Age of Exploration, and then the extent to which exploration spread food, especially in the form of the Columbian Exchange of crops and domesticated animals between the New and Old Worlds. And, of course, it was the extended voyages of the Age of Exploration that began to reveal the connection between disease and shortages of dietary vitamins and minerals.

There's much more to At Home than food-related history (and much more that I haven't yet gotten to), but there's enough that is foodie-ish to recommend it wholeheartedly.

PS: I especially recommend the audiobook edition; Bryson is a Midwest-born American who's lived much of his adult life in England, and his resulting accent is a perfect match to the tone of his prose.