Tag: food

At My Fingertips 

There just may be something seriously wrong with me. It’s like I don’t need to wait for a physical internet implant. I think that maybe I’m becoming The Internet of Things. I’m reduced to an acronym: IoT.

How did this get to be?

So today I was hungry and thinking about lunch. That’s what you do when it’s 12:08 p.m., and you’re working on an epic procrastination. You exit your 11:30 a.m. meeting that was blissfully over by 11:48 a.m., even though you were seven minutes late. On that happy note, let’s think about lunch.

There’s tons of choices within a few blocks. I have the curse of choice. (Don’t hate. I used to work at a secure location with the only choices being the type of bread for your Subway sandwich. After 2 weeks, I recognized that all the meat choices tasted exactly the same, so I’d get the veggie and save a buck. Sometimes I’d order the the wheat bread and sometimes the salty spicy bread that I don’t remember what it was called. I’m trying to forget. I can’t even walk by a Subway today without gagging.)

Back to my surfeit of choice.

I didn’t know what I wanted. There was nobody to ask. I looked around, and they were all gone. Siri is more than (or is that less than?) useless. I looked at my screen and asked,

“What do I want to eat?”

Nothing. Fingers to keyboard,  I googled,

“What do I want to eat?”

I half-imagined, with great hope, that the results would be topped by one of those Google cards that you gives you the answer when you type, “How far to Dublin?”

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 8.10.58 PM

or what is the “French word for bread?”

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 8.09.40 PM

“What do I want to eat?”

 

 

 

 

 

Nope. Nothing. Nada.

Always hopeful, I looked down a bit. Sometimes there isn’t a card. Like when you say, who won The Bachelor last night? (Really, is winning what they do? Another post, another time.)

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 8.15.45 PM

The all knowing Google has a variety of ways to answer.

I looked down the search results. There was no answer. There was, however, a Buzzfeed Quiz.  A few clicks later (Do you eat meat? Are you hungry or hangry? Which image of the sky do you prefer? Unicorn or Winged Horse?), I had an answer.

A sandwich.

Fine. A sandwich it would be. At least I had an answer.

I pulled on my long black trench and made like Snape and his billowing robes around the corner and down the fire escape to the street. Before I reached ground, I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and powered up Yelp–location on–to find sandwiches, current location.

Standing outside on the sidewalk, I started poking the little pins on the screen. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Wait. Is that the one I was thinking of?

I click through to the restaurant deets. I don’t think it was the one, but maybe this is that other one I walked by before? I can’t tell for sure from the address. I pinch my fingers out on the map. Not the one I was thinking of but the one I walked by. Might as well try it. I’m now headed east at a clip.

It was a great sandwich. Bigger than The Dog’s big head. I sat there and looked out the window at the scurrying lunch goers as I munched away. Good choice, Yelp!

I pretty much finished my sandwich, tossed the paper remains in the trash, used the hand sanitizer to clean away the mayo that had leaked, ambled up the stairs back to the lunch-bustle and took the sidewalk headed back West.

My hand rested on the phone in my pocket and my mind went to another app. What am I going to enter for this calorie buster into my Fitness Program?

I decided to make a new entry. Big ass sandwich, 750 calories. But wait, nobody knows what I ate. I paid in cash. It’s a secret from my Internet life. Not even The Google knows, and I don’t have to ask. I can do whatever I want.

Ha! I got back my humanity.

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Puzzled Solution

Pile of old crosswords in the Sunday Magazine appropriately piled in the recycling basket.

Got a confirmation query. We were going to get lunch, but hadn’t zeroed in where.

FRiend: I know I said that cool new place, but I couldn’t find it. I can’t find the review of the restaurant I was looking at and I don’t remember the name.  Where do YOU want to go tomorrow?

ME: Did you really look?? Was it in the Post? Give me a clue.

FR: I went to the pile of stuff where I tossed the Magazine.  Yeah, online.  Duh.  It was in the Magazine week before last.  Local organic stuff.  Touchy feely in all the right ways

ME: The Magazine? I bet it’s over here. Spouse prolly has it since he hates to throw away the Magazine after he has completed the puzzle.

Yes, The Spouse completes the Sunday crossword puzzle at some point in the future that is not Sunday. He leaves the completed artifact laying around. He’s like some proud Tom Cat strewing small animal carcasses around like trophies. But it’s the strew that should go in the newspaper recycling bin.

If this was a cartoon–and it’s close, cuz that’s the Doc’s life–you would now see a light bulb pop over my head.

The Spouse had just triumphantly completed a puzzle not 20 minutes before.

I knew this to be true because he chortled. Really, a weird sound. Chortling. And he slapped down his pencil like a basketball dunk.

He never uses pens when he does his hallowed puzzle. He can barely conceal his exasperation with my nonchalant use of a pen. Okay, truth? He doesn’t hide that he finds my use of an ink pen in a crossword puzzle positively philistine. Also, I don’t care.

ME: Got it. If it was The Dabney. It’s not open for lunch.

FR: Yeah, that was it.  OK, where to Magellan?

Down
28.  See 36 Across.

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Food Affairs

dark chocolate squares. yum

I had a boss once who didn’t like food. He had the palette of a 4-year-old.

He’d eat spaghetti with 70s-style Ragu™ sauce that was most likely corn starch, corn syrup solids and red dye no. 2 and yellow dye no. 6. No meat product. No mushrooms. No chunks of anything. Nothing but a red-ish orange coating on well cooked starch.

He’d eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, too. Always creamy peanut butter. Always grape jelly, since preserves or jams had an unpleasant texture–which for him was any texture. It was important to him to be healthy, so he spread the peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread, soft wheat bread. He was proud of himself when he tried quiche. He liked it. We’d joke and call it egg pie. He called himself sophisticated.

The guy took no pleasure out of food. He ate to live.

I was thinking about the relationships we have to food. His relationship would be considered a good one by many. Food had no power over him. It was not imbued with a special meaning. It gave him no reward. It wasn’t a treat. It was fuel.

I sent Baby Bear some chocolates with a request to be his Valentine. I sent it as a gift. I sent it because I love him. I sent some common chocolate and some better chocolate.

The common chocolate is good. It’s a quick hit of sweet and crunch. The chocolate wraps around a cookie wafer. The combination is good. You might hold the candy between your fingers as you bite it, and if you’re slow, it leaves some residue that you lick off. It can incite a smile.

The better chocolate is richer and darker. It has some sweet. It has some layers of bitter, too, like cherry coffee beans. When you bite it there is a satisfying snap. If you let it sit on your tongue it begins to break down. It becomes thick and creamy and swirly. There is a richness, a mouthfeel that helps you remember it after it melts away.

When you share the chocolate with someone–especially the better chocolate–you look at each other and say, “mmmmmm.” You might slightly close your eyes as you savor it.

I love food. I raised my kids to love food. And we love it together. We reward ourselves with a good dinner or maybe even ice cream. It wasn’t so much used as a bribe, but we would use circumstance as a justification to take pleasure in the taste and experience of food. A good report card was an excuse for Momma’s Fried Chicken. And a birthday was a reason to make paella for a table full of his friends. It’s making it sometimes. Or buying it sometimes [this one was REALLY good].

It’s definitely not about volume, but it is about consuming and enjoying. Both at the same time. In some books this is not a healthy relationship with food.

I smell the onions and garlic in a tomatoey sweet homemade sauce. It’s chunky and spicy and full of good fats and hot Italian sausage. The Spouse is making it. We will sit down and eat it. He made it for me. It makes me feel loved. We are living to eat.

I know. I’m doing it wrong, again.

 

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Cheesey Post

burnt grilled cheese sandwich in a picture wit a nice filter. I didn't make or take this.

It was pretty much guaranteed there’d be Kraft Singles in the deli drawer. Processed cheese product, Pepperidge Farm soft whole wheat bread and butter was my the three ingredient go-to dinner when I didn’t feel like cooking.

Grilled cheese sandwiches. Crunchy on the outside, melted goo on the inside. I would put butter on both sides of the bread so the cheese would be buttery as well.

Balancing the buttered bread as I assembled the sandwiches was the hardest part. (This worked out poorly if I left the butter in the fridge. I usually kept it on the countertop. Except for that time period when the dog was on his butter diet. The other dog, when the kids were young.)

I’d butter two pieces of bread and lay the cheese in, put the bread together, then butter the top. I’d flip the top to the bottom when I put it on the grill and butter the piece that was now on top.

Actually, buttering the sandwich really wasn’t the hardest part. Fact is, I would regularly burn the grilled cheese. The toast would be black and gross on one side. Sometimes both sides, but usually after I burned one side I’d be much more mindful and avoid burning the other. I’d scrape the bad side and serve it burnt side down. Artful presentation can go a long way. They’d still notice, though.

Fact is, burnt isn’t always the same. Sometimes it just burns right at the surface–just the coating of butter. It looks bad but tastes fine. The bread under the crust is soft and the cheese nicely melted and buttered. Sometimes it’s burnt through so the bread is hard and shiny like plastic and you know this because someone at the table knocked on it like a door with a little knuckle to prove it’s lousy. When you bite in, it definitely does not taste fine.

Because of the latter disasters, the kids would not trust that the former could occur. Always twice shy, they began to turn the sandwich over on the plate to see if it was actually burnt. Woe unto me that it was not good. To make it through dinner, I’d take the one that looked most burnt. It was fine. Almost always.

And that’s what I’d do when I did not want to cook dinner.

I think I may have burnt this one as well. It will be better next time. Probably.
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Pressured and Cooked

mmmmm. black beans and rice.

Pulled my hand out of my coat pocket to put the key in the door and get out of the cold.

Dog needed to go out, but I had a plan. Didn’t care that it was late and a long day. Did. Not. Care.

Fact is, the mantra that kept going through my mind–and occasionally out of my mouth–had to do with the few number of fcuks that I was giving today. Very few. As in NO fcuks.

But I had an idea. And it was a good one. First, though, to the dog and his duties. No reason to take off my coat, and scarf, and mittens, and hat, and boots. Hang the key next to the door, release the kraken, I mean dog, and let the business be done. Done! Next.

So let’s feed the beast. He needs to eat, too. And he’s likely hungrier than me.

I’m eyeing that pressure cooker in the pantry as I’m scooping the kibble. It’s next in my sights. It won’t get away. Just have to feed the dog.

The best part about cooking is the physicality; the chopping, the stirring, the crumbling, the spicing, the shaking, the dicing, the washing. The can of tomatoes and two cans of black beans that I open. I love catching the opener on the lip of the can and turning the crank. It’s an amazingly smooth mechanic. I would never use an electric can opener when I can turn a handle and watch the can spin around as the blade penetrates the lid and slices through the metal.

I get the pressure cooker out of the pantry and place it on the stove top. I proudly look at it’s shine since I Bon Ami’d it last time. I love it when it shines. And when it steams.

It’s 8:50 pm and I start. I grabbed the olive oil, but remembered that I have some cheap OO in the pantry. No reason to use the EVOO when I have a just OO. Switch on the gas and put a few swirls of the cheap OO in the pan. I reach in the fridge for the red pepper and gleefully find and grab a celery stalk. This is gonna be great. Chopping the celery and pepper I hold the large onion for last. It seemed a little squishy so I wasn’t looking forward to peeling.

Turned out it was perfectly healthy. In moments it was peeled and chopped. Dumped the cut goods in the pot and turned to the garlic cloves. I smashed them and cut them. I don’t know why the recipe said to mince. They end up flavoring the oil and then dissolve under pressure. I do it the easy way.

I add the bay leaf and measure out the basmati rice–only to realize that I’m about a third short of a full cup. Seriously? I thought there were three bags!?! I guess we ate it. I have some volcano rice, but that takes longer to cook. I’ll just use the remains of that box of short grain abrioro rice. Still a little short? Okay, a few tablespoons of that volcano rice will make a cup.

This entire rice drama took about 35 seconds.

Rice in the pan, stirred and coated then add the thyme and pepper and pour in the water. Okay water and some old cooking sherry. I’m on a roll now emptying the random containers in the pantry and filling up the recycling bin. More flavor and more space. Winning.

Top it off with the can of fire roasted tomatoes, set the top on and up the heat to high. Wait for the steam. It teases me–not sealing tight but still spewing from the regulator. I shake the pot a few times. It seals up, and I lower the heat.

Next it’s chopping up those pimento stuffed olives. I take the last three olives out of a jar that gets tossed in the recycling bin and find a second opened jar in the fridge. Winning again on that shelf space.

It’s been five minutes so the rice is done. I turn off the heat and let the pressure release on its own. Five more minutes and I remove the top and stir in the beans and the olives. Fill a pretty red bowl, add a little hot sauce and sit down to eat at 9:20 pm.

Just in time to catch up with the errant spouse.

A good night.

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To Market To Market

My recent trip to San Francisco included a morning stroll along The Embarcadero and the recently redeveloped Ferry Building at the Port of San Francisco. I walked through the market/commercial space–formerly the baggage handling area–on my way to watch the incoming catamaran ferrying commuters from across the water (I don’t really know where they came from, but they were mostly people going to work).

There were a bunch of stalls at the Port with the most incredible array of goods. Artisan cheeses, clams, high-end beef (and high-class hot dogs!), olives, wine, caviar, clams, fish, farmers’ market vegetables, fresh baked sourdough breads and rolls. All foods were super quality–and nary a chain in sight. All I could think of was, “I wish I passed through here every night on the way home.”

I am not an urban planner. But, I am a user of urban areas. I bought my cheese and olive roll and left thinking, “Why does SF have a surfeit of great shopping? What are elements of such success? City support? Income levels? Downtown access? Start-up and risk taking behavior?”

And, most importantly, “Why don’t we have a place like this in Washington, D.C.” (burned down Eastern Market notwithstanding).

Everyone in an urban neighborhood wants to have a great shopping district in walking distance. The District government pays alot of money for it. How do you jump start a great retail/restaurant row? How do you encourage people to frequent great local shops, like Dwellings, instead of the Tar-jay? What makes the local coffee shoppe–like Cafe Sureia a reincarnation of Cup o’ Dreams–viable?

I strive for the authentic–try Uncle Brutha’s hot sauce on Capitol Hill for the BEST, most flavorful hot sauce EVER.

I think, though, that authenticity can’t be manufactured. Darn!

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
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Forgotten Fruits

It’s like prison. They insist on eating 3-squares every day. If they miss a meal, it’s a civil rights abuse. So to keep child protective services away, I need to go to the grocery store.

B-K (not burger king, but before kids), we could go to the grocery store every three-four weeks. Once the kids came along, I got a frequent flier card to the Giant and Safeway–2-3 times a week is now the norm. (Living in the city makes the Cotsco and Shoppers’ way too inconvenient.)

So I am at the Giant, and they have Breyers’ ice cream on sale. Including my mostest ever favoritest flavor, Peach Ice cream. But I can’t eat 1/2 gallon of it. Damn! That’s too much of a great thing–my lust for which I blame le Dog.

Yup, when I used to work at the overpriced arcade in Ann Arbor, barely down the block, on Liberty Street was le Dog. A shack that sold hot dogs, and incredibly sophisticated soups and a shake of the day.

Some weeks, he would serve the most amazing peach shake ever. I didn’t want to have one. I like chocolate shakes. And I don’t like peaches. But he convinced me to try one and it was the best. I was broke, and couldn’t afford gourmet shakes, but Mr. le Dog liked to play video games so I could trade game tokens for the most incredible peach milk shakes. Ever.

This was the beginnings of the trail that led to the frusen gladje strawberry ice cream. And my love of Gifford‘s banana ice cream.

I usually buy variants of vanilla or chocolate with junk in it. But the fruit ice cream is really where it’s at. Like that peaches and cream pint that I just put away that took me back across the street from the Michigan Theatre on Liberty Street.

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
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