2nd in Life, 1st in Cheese

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Michael Procopio

letter eI am getting to be an excellent loser. I’ve had lots of practice. And I’m quite happy to report that I don’t find that such a bad thing.

In the fifth grade, I experienced the joy of finding myself in a vaguely Puritan outfit, attempting to string together letters in front of a large audience of teachers and preteens. As one of two boys left standing at the annual Clara Barton Elementary School Spelling Bee/ Thanksgiving Picnic, I was asked to step forward. The elastic of my black knee socks sagged under the strain of having my trouser legs tucked into them as a moved. I tugged at them as I was given my word: foreshadow.

“Foreshadow. F-o-r…s-h-a-d-o-w. Foreshadow.”

Headdress“I’m sorry, but that was incorrect,” said Mrs. Pettus– my own teacher. Bell’s Palsy had made reading her facial expressions a challenge, but the clear, pitying tone of her voice rang painfully clear. The other boy, who wore a feathered headband made of construction paper and glue stick, was then asked to spell the same word, which he did correctly by inserting the appropriate “e”.

When it was over, some of my classmates jeered and gave me a new nickname– “Loser.”

It was the first time in the history of our school that the “gifted” class, represented by me, had lost a spelling bee. It also may have been one of the few occasions in which European colonists had given Native Americans anything so freely. But more significantly, it seemed to have tarnished my life with a permanent silver-medaled tinge.

It took my therapist to point out the significance of the word I misspelled, which is one of the reasons I like going to him.

I am the 2nd Place Kid. The Bridesmaid. The First Loser.  If I’ve entered a competition, you can pretty much bet money on the fact that I will come in next-to-first. I have finished second on Jeopardy!, in Top Chef-style sandwich competitions, student elections, relationships, Academic Decathlon, and more recently, both IACP and James Beard Awards*.

CheeseThe one thing of any significance I have managed to actually win is cheese. But it wasn’t a contest, it was a raffle.

At a crowded party a couple of weeks ago, I was drinking wine in the relative calm of the kitchen with a few friends when I heard someone yell my name. Or, more correctly, my Twitter handle, because this was a food blog-related event. My hearing isn’t fantastic in the best of situations, but in the alcohol-fueled loudness of the living room, I managed to hear that I had actually won something. When I asked what it was, I saw my friend Brooke’s mouth move a little and then I heard her say, “Bleu cheese!”

What she actually said was “A year’s supply of Irish butter and cheese!” I just missed the first several words and inserted another, incorrect one. Kerrygold Butter was one of the sponsors of the Potluck we were attending, so it now made complete sense.

Q-tipI was delighted, but what exactly did they mean by “a year’s supply?” I’d been offered a year’s supply of both Q-tips and Dinty Moore Beef Stew from The Merv Griffin Company when I came in second place on Jeopardy!, but I declined them and spent the next 25 years of my life wondering how many cotton swabs and cans of meaty offcuts-in-gravy I could possibly go through in 365 days. And now I had the opportunity of knowing what that meant in the currency of Gaelic dairy products.

If I developed a passion for butter sculpture, could Kerrygold keep up with my inexhaustible demand for supplies? Would they send everything all at once? Did I have to prove that I was the only one eating the cheese? Would this be for a normal calendar year, or would it be an Irish Year, which apparently only has eleven months? I’d just have to wait and find out.

When I returned home from New York last week, where I did not win a James Beard Award, I had a package waiting for me. It was from the nice Irish people. I cut through the cardboard, pulled out the melting freezer packs, opened the inner container and found roughly a pound of butter (block and spreadable) and assortment of cheese.

There is no way to top this dairy-wise, I thought. I have won the Irish Cheese Sweepstakes. And, as I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, fingering the Red Leicester,  I remembered the fact that my own grandfather had won the actual Irish Sweepstakes nearly 70 years earlier. Or rather, not exactly win. The horse he was assigned didn’t place 1st in the race, but it did finish in the money. And that money helped change his family’s fortunes. My grandfather technically lost the Irish Sweepstakes, but in a practical sense, he won.

And that got me thinking that my string of second place losses were really second place wins. I didn’t win a James Beard or an IACP Award? So what? I got to go to New York, received some marvelous recognition for whatever it is I do writing-wise, and had several people buy me drinks. That’s a big win in my book. I came in 2nd place on Jeopardy!? True, but I got to have lunch with Alex Trebek on the set of Soul Train and be informed that I was the youngest contestant in the history of the show. I got a lovely Samuel Moore recliner out of it, too.

And, as for that spelling bee, it took me years to realize that all those classmates who called me a loser were eliminated long before I was knocked out by one of the nicest, quietly intelligent boys in the school.

Second place is actually a wonderful place to be, I’ve come to realize. It gets you recognized for excellence, but leaves a little room for improvement. I’m not saying I wouldn’t love to win a spelling bee or even a James Beard Award one of these days, but if I come in second again, I have the feeling I’ll be perfectly fine with that.

Beard drawingIn the meantime, I plan on enjoying an award infinitely more practical to a starving writer that any certificate or medal embossed with the visage of a chubby, bow-tied man could ever be: a year’s supply of cheese.

My hope now is that this sudden good fortune for(e)shadows greater wins in the future. For example, a year’s supply of crackers. That would be nice.

 

*Naturally, I do not have direct access to voting scores for either IACP or The James Beard Awards, so it is entirely possible that I could have placed 3rd. However, that is something I couldn’t bear to face just now.

Posted in Rants and Stories | 4 Comments

Big Bertha

Posted on April 24, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Big Bertha MapThree things happened when my friend Fatemeh mentioned online that she was “possibly the only person in history to drink a French 75 in preparation for picking up chicken pullets:

1.) I had to look up the precise definition of “pullets”. 2.) I somehow mistook her message to mean that she was preparing to give her Ameracaunas gin-spiked champagne as a welcome libation and 3.) I wondered how well young laying hens could handle their liquor.

Upon re-reading, I realized the error of my original interpretation, but decided that I liked the idea of her having a hen-house filled with intoxicated, ingenue poultry. My mind lingered there.

When I’d had enough, my thoughts turned to the cocktail with which Fatemeh was apparently self-medicating: the French 75. Invented by American Harry MacElhone at his eponymous New York Bar in 1915 (a mere taxi ride away from The Western Front), the drink was said to have such a strong kick to it that it felt as if one had been shelled by a French 75mm field gun. In the spirit of la guerre, the new cocktail was named.

The idea that a World War I-era French field gun should be celebrated in such a way strikes me as odd, due the fact that it was woefully inadequate when compared to Imperial German artillery. Odd, but hardly surprising, given the French military’s defense plan was based almost solely upon the philosophy of élan vital*- – the notion that there was a vital fighting spirit inside of every French man that was so powerful it would turn back any foe by virtue of its sheer mystical power. Though it would be years until the French were able to force the enemy out of their country, they did manage to keep the Huns out of their capital city. And that, in my opinion, is worth a drink.

But the idea of celebrating insufficient weaponry got me thinking: why wasn’t there a cocktail named in honor of the most powerful field gun of The Great War– The Big Bertha? A 420 caliber gun lobbying an 1,800 pound shell is bound to lay waste to just about anything. Just ask the Belgians. I figure if one is going to get bombed during wartime, one might as well do it with one, powerful beverage.

Big Bertha

The Big Bertha

This cocktail is much easier to assemble than the artillery for which it was named, requiring little-to-no concrete at all.

A Big Bertha has three ingredients in common with the French 75: gin, lemon juice, and sugar. The key differences are 1.) the addition of kirschwasser for a decidedly German flair and added potency, 2.) a couple dashes of orange bitters because no war-inspired drink should be made without at least a hint of bitterness, and 3.) a bottle of Crémant d’Alsace rosé to add both a touch of historical flair and a faint, bloody tinge to the whole affair.

Alsace

Makes one stiff drink. Make two to devastate your liver. Or just make a double and take it with you in a tumbler as you take a leisurely drive through Belgium and Northern France.

Ingredients:

• 1 ounce of decent, London Dry gin
• 1/2 ounce kirschwasser
• 1/2 ounce lemon juice
• 1/2 ounce simple syrup
• 2 or 3 dashes of orange bitters
• Ice
• A freshly opened bottle of Crémant d’Alsace brut rosé
• Lemon peel for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a cocktail shaker add ice and pour over the gin, kirschwasser, lemon juice and simple syrup. If you don’t happen to like kirschwasser, hurl the bottle at your nearest enemy and add an extra ounce of gin instead. Stir until well chilled.

2. Pour into a champagne glass (I prefer coupes over flutes because they look like upside down Imperial German Army helmets when the stems have been broken). Top off the glass with Crémant d’Alsace to the rim, and garnish with lemon peel.

3. To serve, carefully walk the glass over to your hen-house and pour the beverage into a clean water trough and encourage your pullets to drink.

4. After a sufficient mourning period, purchase new hens. Repeat as often as necessary.

* Thank you, Henri Bergson.

Posted in Liquids | Tagged , , , , , , | 20 Comments

The Corn Dogs of Easter

Posted on March 28, 2013 by Michael Procopio

corndog fryingWhen I was a boy, I took everything the Catholic church told me literally.

After my first visit to the confessional, I was absolved of my transgressions by Father O’Connor and told that, as soon as I said my ten Hail Marys, my soul would be light and unburdened by the weight of sin. When I had finished my last “Amen”, I ran outside to the church’s tetherball court and began jumping around the blacktop, convinced that with each leap, I rose higher in the air and therefore rose closer to God. It was a very good feeling.

When I took Holy Communion, I understood that, thanks to the miracle of Transubstantiation, I was accepting an actual piece of Christ’s body onto the tip of my tongue. But which piece? I didn’t dare ask the priest who was doling out the goods, so I’d just return to my pew and sit next to my mother with the Eucharist softening and balancing on my tongue. I was afraid to chew the wafer, thinking it would cause Jesus unnecessary pain, so I just let it rest there until it dissolved, wondering if I could tell from what part of His body it came. Was it from His thigh or His breast? Was it light meat or dark?  If I were to have judged based solely on flavor, I would have come to the conclusion that I was eating a part of His sandal every time.

And yet I always found myself wanting to go back for seconds. We never ate before morning Mass, so I was always extremely hungry. When everyone else was praying for the souls of the recently departed, I was praying for breakfast. Ingesting the communion wafer may have brought me closer to Christ, but it also whetted my appetite as it found its way into my stomach and got my gastric juices churning. It was a uniquely Catholic torture.

At Easter Mass, which felt like the longest of the year, I found this torture even more grueling, which was appropriate given to constant reminder of Christ’s suffering and dying for our sins. I identified with Him because I was suffering and dying, too. Of hunger. I’d look at the altar and think the priests could have done a much better job at feeding their congregation if they had set it up as a buffet. It was already set with silver and a nice cloth, so they didn’t have far to go.

I never thought as to what they might serve at the buffet, but I was confident that whatever it was, they’d never run out of anything because Jesus would never let that kind of thing happen. Especially at one of his own parties.

For the bible told me so. And quite literally, for that matter.

Crucifixion Corn Dogs

Crucifix corndog

If I were a seven year-old today and attending Easter mass, I know what I would like to see served at an Easter Service buffet. Naturally, everything would conform to a Jesus/Easter theme: Hot cross buns, hollow chocolate bunnies, and cereal in the shape of crosses and halos on one end; a deacon with a big knife to carve up the Lamb of God on the other. Or the Ham of God, since I wasn’t a fan of eating lamb back then.

And in the middle of everything would be a treat which would really bring home the drama of Christ’s Passion in edible form. Something delicious and filling, but would still remind us of Christ’s suffering with each and every mouthful: corn dogs on a cross.

They’re more substantial than a communion wafer, and more delicious, too. And, given the nature of hot dogs, you still won’t be certain from which part of the body they came.

With the Catholic church suffering a loss in attendance, even at Easter time, drastic measures should be taken to reverse the decline. Ordaining women, getting rid of the celibacy rule, and welcoming gay, lesbian, and transgendered would be nice, but I don’t see these things happening any time soon, so they might as well throw a nice, big buffet and see what happens. Or they might come up with some other novel approaches. All they have to do is ask the seven year-olds* of their diocese. After all, Jesus loves the little children.

This recipe is adapted from Saveur magazine’s State Fair recipe, which was, of course, gotten from poor people who work state fairs, who got it from some other people, who most likely got it from wheat and corn crops. And cows. And mustard companies. The using-a-chopstick-as-a-handle trick I learned from Ree Drummond’s website. She most likely learned this trick from Beatrice Lillie’s character Mrs. Meers in Thoroughly Modern Millie. And Matt Armendariz will very likely be including this recipe in his upcoming Holidays On A Stick! cookbook (publishing date undetermined).

If the idea of squirting a mustard Jesus onto your corn dog makes you uncomfortable, you can still stay in theme by creating a condiment version of The Penitent Thief. Or The Impenitent one, if that is more your style.

Serves 8. To serve multitudes, pray over this recipe’s ingredients for as long as needed if you are perfect and without sin. For everyone else, multiply the recipe by hand.

Ingredients:

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 1/3 cup yellow cornmeal
• 4 tablespoons sugar
• 2 tablespoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard
• 1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper
• 2 teaspoons kosher salt
• 1 3/4 cups whole milk
• 1/2 cup buttermilk
• 2 eggs, lightly flogged
• 16 6″ hot dogs. I have chosen to use chicken dogs, which is more than likely still offensive to practicing Catholics on Good Friday, but probably less so than beef franks.
• Vegetable oil, for frying
• 4 pairs of wooden take-out chopsticks to serve as posts, 8 coffee stirrers to serve as crossbeams.

• Yellow mustard and (non-yellow) catsup for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, dry mustard, white pepper, and salt. In a separate bowl, combine milk, buttermilk, and egg until the trinity becomes a confusing, inseparable muddle. Add the liquid to the dry ingredients until all becomes binding and Universal.

2. In a wide, deep pan or Dutch oven (this requires more elbow room than an ordinary, non-Catholic corn dog recipe), pour oil to a depth of 2″ and warm over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F.

Wiener Demo3. As the oil is heating, make the hot dog crucifixes. To assemble, cut about 2″ off the narrow part of each chop stick which, under ordinary circumstances, be the end one would place in one’s mouth. Discard the circumcised tips. Gently insert the chopstick into  one end of a hot dog, until all that is left visible is a 2″ handle. Cut a second hot dog in thirds, discarding/sacrificing the center piece. These will be the arms of the cross. To attach, cut a coffee stirrer to the appropriate length and slide through the center of the top half of the  whole wiener, then slide on the remaining 2/3 of cut wiener. (See photo**).

4. Dip one crucifix into the batter, coating well. The batter should be firm and giving, but not run. If it is too dry, add a little milk. Too runny, add a little more flour. The batter is as forgiving as He is. Gently shake off any excess and lay directly into the pot of hot oil. Fry on one side for about 1 1/2 minutes. Using tongs, gently turn its other cheek and fry for the same amount of time. On the third minute, let it rise from the oil and rest on a shroud of paper towels to cool. Repeat until all crucifixes are battered and fried.

5. To serve, decorate with mustard. You do not have to put the image of Christ on every  corn dog. If you have any martyrs in your family, feel free to squirt on their likeness and share it with them to show that you know how much they themselves have suffered, which will give them great comfort. Just please remind them not to bite into the coffee stirrer crossbeam, which most decidedly will not.

* Or eight year-olds. Luis Antonio de Bourbon was ordained cardinal on 19 December, 1735. He was eight years old

** Note: This is a photo of a practice-run crucifixion dog in which I discovered that coffee stirrers are excellent for sidebeam support, but terrible for for use as handles, which is why one should use chopsticks.

Posted in Holidays, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , | 44 Comments

A Bottle of Tokaji.

Posted on March 21, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Bottle of Tokaji

A grave little Czech man  met us at our train in Prague. He was holding  up a handmade sign with my friend Anastasia’s name written on it. When we identified ourselves to him, he greeted us with a curt “Hello”, a sharp nod, and a slight raise of his pale grey hat. It could have been a fedora or a trilby or even a porkpie, but all I remember about it is the way it seemed to blend into the dull, Novemberish sky in front of us as we exited the station, which gave the distinct impression to my tired, bloodshot eyes that at times the top of his head was missing.

I was exhausted from several weeks of trains and hotel rooms, currency exchanges, and rapid language shifts. And my wardrobe was testament to the fact that I had no concept of late-Autumn Eastern European weather, which had taken a turn for the worse, as had my head cold. But I didn’t dare complain– Anastasia had crossed an ocean and two continents to be with me and had suffered her own cold like a trooper. We followed behind the doctor in shivering silence to his apartment.

We had just come from Budapest, where the people and the weather felt infinitely warmer. If our reception by Dr. Ludvicek was any indication, our visit to Czechoslovakia was going to be a cooler one– formal and business-like. We were paying guests in his home and would probably feel as such for the duration of our stay.

We met his wife inside the apartment door. Pink-cheeked and robust-looking, but on the shy and fidgety side, she apologized that she “had no English” and retreated to the kitchen to make us tea. Anastasia politely complimented the décor of the living room, which was to double as our sleeping area, as we sat down straight-backed in our comfortable chairs to have an uncomfortable, formal chat.

Is this your first visit to Prague? Do you travel often? What of your family? How is your head cold? I answered every one but the last question truthfully.

Our fascinating talk was interrupted when Mrs. Ludvicek brought in the tea.  While it did wonders for warming our bodies, it did absolutely nothing to heat up the conversation. Stronger medicine was needed, so I reached into my bag and pulled out a bottle of Tokaji.  It emerged cool from the protection of what I hoped was my clean laundry. I held it out to our hosts. The doctor’s eyes protruded and his wife let out a little gasp at the sight of it, but they refused it.

“Oh no no no no no!” he cried, “That is too nice for us. You save it for yourself.”

“Nonsense,” I said. And then horrified that I had possibly insulted my host, I added something to the tune of, “We’re so grateful to you for having us that we’d love to share it with you.” I was praying my diplomacy would pay off in the form of a drink.

Down the bottleI was surprised to discover how high their regard for the bottle was– something precious and not to be wasted on strangers. I had never heard of it before visiting Hungary, where I found it to be plentiful and, thanks to the miraculous exchange rate for the American dollar, fairly cheap. We all looked at the same bottle, but saw it from different perspectives. There was another, less strenuous refusal on their part, one more bit of insistence on ours and then, with a nod from her husband, Mrs. Ludvicek broke out the good cordial glasses.

When the first glass was poured, Mrs. Ludvicek was exhorted to stop dusting and worrying the knickknacks and sit down. The doctor passed around the half-filled glasses held up and held his up to offer a toast. He lifted his glass again to admire its contents in the light before taking a second, more thoughtful sip. By the second glass, the color of Mrs. Ludvicek’s cheeks deepened and we discovered that she had much more English than she had previously let on. And the serious little man surprised me by cracking a faint smile.

I pulled out the second (and last) bottle immediately. This time, there were no protests. By the third glass of Tokaji, my cold no longer mattered. We all sank a little deeper into our seats as the alcohol relaxed us. By the fourth glass, Dr. Ludvicek was as warm as a Hungarian. Fortified by half a bottle of mold-tinged, fermented furmint grape juice, he began to tell us fascinating little stories about his life.  If he had written it down, it would have read like a Grand Tour of the Communist World.

He grew up and survived the war in Prague. He attended medical school in Moscow. He was sent to Angola to patch up comrades at the beginning of their civil war. And, most fascinatingly, wound up in Cuba, where he became Fidel Castro’s personal physician.

Anastasia and I were no longer staying under the roof of a stiff, unsmiling doctor. We were now under the protection of a man who once had El Comandante by the balls in the most literal and professional sense imaginable. I reflexively turned my head as I coughed.

I still had my cold, but I no longer cared. The room and its inhabitants were sufficiently warm and happy. And  very drowsy. Mrs. Ludvicek cleared away the glasses and the ignored tea things and made up our beds so we could rest. It was the soundest sleep of my trip.

The next morning, the doctor walked us to the Vltava river on his way to work and deposited us at the foot of the Charles bridge, which he thought would be an ideal place to begin our site-seeing. As he said goodbye, he nodded and raised his little grey hat to us just as he had the prior afternoon, but only this time, he smiled. The top of his head remained firmly in place as he walked away.

Anastasia and I strolled the bridge, separately examining the statues of saints with interesting names who flank each side. Wenceslas, Adalbert, Ludmila. When Anastasia let out and excited “Mike! Mike!”I knew she’d found something especially interesting. She pointed to the name on the plaque.

St. Procopio. One of Czechoslovakia’s patron  saints. I never knew such a person existed, but there he was in solid stone, with one foot holding down the devil. We gazed upon my newest, most favorite saint in the world for a little while and looked at the sign again. It was then we noticed the second half of what would be the oddest coincidence of our life: the artist’s name was Vaclav Herold.

I believe the words “holy” and “shit” were uttered in unison.

Glass of TokajiSo there we were, Michael Procopio and Anastasia Herold, half a world away from home, staring up at a piece of stone carved by one of her possible ancestors to look like a potential, canonized relation of mine. It was a strange and utterly unique moment that could not have been shared by any other two people on earth. We stared at the statue a little longer and then stared at each other in disbelief.

I felt at that moment as if we instantly and permanently belonged. I noticed that my head cold was gone– perhaps banished by my new holy protector. The sun made a brief cameo appearance from behind the clouds.  I felt warm and welcome and happy which, given my feelings not 24 hours before, seemed like another minor miracle. What else should one expect when he discovers that, not only is he sleeping under the roof of a man who’s had Fidel Castro by the balls, but protected by his very own family saint at the very same time?

When we’d had our fill of awe over the statue, we crossed the bridge to Prague Castle, which we felt no need to storm. We ate ice cream* instead because that’s how warm we felt.

If only I’d thought to buy a third bottle of Tokaji, we could have been positively toasty.

*Incidentally, the word for ice cream (zmrzlina) is the only word of Czech I can remember unaided to this day.

 

 

Posted in Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

Foodie

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Whenever I hear the word “foodie”, my first impulse is to douse myself in bleach. Like “cupcake” or “moist” or “classy”, it is a sequence of letters which makes me feel unclean.

“Michael, you’re a foodie,” I hear from out-of-town friends. “Any great restaurants we shouldn’t miss when we’re in San Francisco?” My typical response is that I haven’t the faintest idea, owing to the fact that I work in one of them and the last thing I want to see when I’m done for the week is the inside of another eatery. I am probably the last person in San Francisco to whom one should ask this question.

Because I am not a foodie.

This doesn’t mean that I do not enjoy food. Of course I do. I can eat with the best of them. And with the exception of a brief stint selling surf wear and fitted tees as a teenager, every single job I’ve held for the last 20+ years has been food-related: waiter, assistant pastry chef, food stylist, behind-the-scenes cooking show cook-guy, recipe developer, Disneyland orange juice-squeezer/de-concentrator, and food writer. My life is food, so I can understand how one might mistake me for a “foodie”. But, in my estimation, it is such an unpleasant, lazy word. And I’m not even precisely certain as to what it means. The only thing of which I am fairly certain is that it does not mean me.

Here are several examples of why I have the feeling that I am not a foodie:

1. Unless there is something truly interesting/odd/horrible about the food that is put in front of me, I tend not to Facebook, Tweet, Instagram, Pin(terest) or otherwise broadcast the food which is served to me in public spaces.

2. I couldn’t care less about the latest ingredient du jour. There is nothing inherently wrong with kale or quinoa or burrata, but they are things I could never get truly excited about. And I want to give anyone who hails any of these things as “amazing” a time out. Preferably in an undetonated Cambodian mine field.

3. Though I am not an avid follower of food trucks, I wish their owners all the success they can muster, chiefly so that they can one day afford a stationary home with a couple of tables, a few chairs, and a liquor license so that I might enjoy their culinary delights in relative comfort.

4. I think canning and jamming are marvelous, but I haven’t the patience or the cupboard space to perfect my techniques. The only pickling I do in the privacy of my own home is that which I do to my liver.

5. I eat ice cream over the sink in my underwear. And it is not necessarily locally made. Nor is my underwear, for that matter.

6. I happen to think that anything which calls itself “underground” isn’t.

7. I think organic is ideal, but I don’t always pay attention. Sometimes, I go for the bananas which are less expensive, but my enjoyment of said bananas is diminished when my Catholic guilt forces me to consider the person who labored to pick them. And not to think of them in their underwear.

8. I don’t feel like getting up at 7am to go to the farmer’s market on Saturdays and I’d rather stick leeches on my eyelids than go there during peak hours.

9. I love to cook in other people’s’ houses, but at home I often don’t cook unless I have to.

10. I don’t read cookbooks for their porn value. In fact, I rarely read them at all.

11. As the operator of a blog, I do not believe the food I make and consume part of my “lifestyle brand.” What I do believe is that this term and the people who use it deserve to be driven out to the nearest food desert and abandoned.

After working all week in and around food, it isn’t surprising to me that my enthusiasm for the latest restaurant or the hottest food trends pales like a corseted, 19th-century consumptive next to that of my self-described foodie friends, who spend their own professional lives in office chairs, sitting behind culinarily-bereft office desks. For them, food is escapism, a hobby. For me, it’s often a reminder of work, which is sometimes an unpleasant thing to be reminded of.

But certainly not always. Otherwise, I suppose I wouldn’t be writing about it.

I have absolutely no idea what it was, but something drew me to food a long time ago– something beyond the simple consumption of it– and I don’t see myself getting away from it any time soon. Or possible ever. Was it because my father was born above a butcher shop? Or that my grandfather was popped into a warm oven the moment he was born? Whatever the case, it’s in my blood. It’s part of who I am. And, more importantly, the scent of it has permeated my entire wardrobe. I love food. Just maybe not quite like everybody else.

Call me whatever you like: a gourmand, a gastronome, a glutton, an epicure. You can even call me an asshole, if you feel the need to after reading this. But, whatever you call me, please don’t make it “foodie”.

There has got to be a better term.

If you’ve got one, I want to hear about it. I think people who love food, but who do not fetishize it deserve a better term than this cloying, baby word we’ve all been saddled with for far too long.

Posted in Rants and Stories | 85 Comments

Hi, Bob.

Posted on February 18, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Bob NewhartI’ve never had much luck with drinking games.

The first time I tried to play quarters, there were none to be found. Instead, my friends and I had to make do with a French franc, which was the only type of coin on hand which approximated the size of its American counterpart.  We took turns sitting on the bidet for an added height challenge and bounced the coins off the bathroom floor tile, but none of them ever making it into the glass. We may not have gotten drunk that evening, but everyone agreed that the peculiar bruit métallique of the Gallic coins made a lovely sound.

During my freshman year at college, my dorm mates and I once crammed into somebody’s room with whatever contraband alcohol and mixers we could get our hands on to play truth or dare. After one or two tequila and warm grape Crush cocktails, I found myself lying my way through the truths and forced to kiss girls on the dares, which my inevitable purple-colored upchucking put a quick and merciful end to.

And when I finally graduated to the adult world of apartment living, my roommates and I decided that it would be the height of sophistication to have what was known as a Hi, Bob party. It was my friend Kag’s suggestion. The rules were delightfully straightforward:

bobandemily1. The players must wait until a re-run of The Bob Newhart Show aired on Nick at Night.

2. Every time someone on the television screen walked into a scene and said “Hi, Bob” to Mr. Newhart, the game’s participants must drink a shot of hard alcohol.

3. Intoxication, fraternal bonding, and colleg-age hijinks would invariably ensue.

4. Marathons of The Bob Newhart Show were to be avoided. As was the combination of tequila and warm, grape-flavored Crush.

Kag, our roommate Craig, and I consulted the tv listings, learned what time he show aired, and then convened in the living room at the appropriate time with a bottle of whiskey and a few shot glasses, one of which had an image of the car in which Bonnie and Clyde were shot to death.

I was excited for the game to begin. It would be the first drinking game I had ever played in the privacy of my own home, in my own living room, free from threat of French professors or R.A.s walking in on us and ruining all the fun. We poured our shots and set them in front of us on the coffee table and kept our eyes open and ears sharp and the show’s theme song played.

And then we waited some more.

Emily, Carol, and Jerry never once managed to say “Hi, Bob.” Not even his airline navigator neighbor, Howard Borden, could lead us to drink. When he barged into Dr. and Mrs. Hartley’s apartment, he managed a “Hi, Emily”, but when it came time to greet Newhart, all he could muster was a curt “Bob” and a slight nod in his direction.

It doesn’t count if they don’t add the “hi” before the “Bob”.

By the end of the show, we were as sober Mormon judges and, as anyone but a Mormon judge would guess, not exactly thrilled about it. Not one person in the episode was able to string together two simple words–  ”Hi” and “Bob”– in a television program famous for people saying them in sequential order. I was baffled. I felt betrayed by the writers. Flushed with moral indignation, we did the only thing one can do in such a situation:

We watched a truck commercial in which the number 4 was uttered repeatedly. FOUR years or FOUR-ty (it counted) thousand miles, etc. We accomplished what we set out to do. Four (FOUR) shots of bourbon in the span of 30 seconds instead of 30 minutes. And we didn’t need Mr. Newhart’s help to do it.

Take that, MTM productions. Meow.

Mimsie

I no longer play drinking games– I take the business of ingesting alcohol far too seriously  these days. But I might be tempted to play again, if only I could manage to find the right show and build a new drinking game around it.

Of course, the only program I’ve been watching with any regularity is Downton Abbey. My idea is as follows:

1. Every time the Dowager Countess, makes a scathing remark to a dinner guest or one of her lesser relatives, quick-tipple some sherry.

2. Each time Edith gets ignored, jilted, or rejected, knock back a glass of port.

3. For every death, either expected or not, slam a snifter of brandy.

4. Every time someone exclaims “Hi, Bob”, break open the tequila. After all, the Earl of Grantham’s christian name is Robert and it is the 1920′s. It could happen.

But I very much doubt it.

The Hi-Bob Cocktail

Hi, Bob Cocktail

I’ve decided to do away with the tequila and warm grape-flavored Crush cocktails of my youth (It only happened once, and will never happen again.) and create something that reflects upon my adult ability to legally obtain alcohol. It is a simple drink to concoct, and it is as dry and wry as Mr. Newhart himself.

Make them for your next Hi, Bob party. Or for your first, if that is the case. Caution: Do not drink while watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. One never drinks while watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Makes One Shot.*

• 1 ounce rye whiskey
• 1/2 ounce dry vermouth
• 1/2 ounce Cynar

Preparation:

1. In a small cocktail shaker, pour all the liquids over ice. Stir until thoroughly chilled, then strain into a shot glass.

2. Go to your computer and bring up The Bob Newhart Show on Hulu or Netflix or some such website. Press “play”.

3. Sit patiently with your drink at the ready until someone ends your misery and says “Hi, Bob.” Should no one speak the words, say them out loud to yourself. It counts.

4. Repeat as often as necessary until the desired level of inebriation has been achieved.

* You can easily turn this into a Hi-Bob Hi-ball by adding ice and either soda or ginger ale.

Posted in Celebrities, Liquids, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments

Southern Hospitality: Shrimp & Grits

Posted on January 29, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Greenbrier CloudOnce upon a time not so very long ago, there was a symposium for food writers held in Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia where aspiring writers were invited to mingle with established professionals and everyone had to scream to make themselves heard over the Dorothy Draper interiors.

I had wanted to attend The Greenbrier symposium ever since a young woman recently returned from there mentioned it was the place to which Congress would flee in the event of a nuclear holocaust. “The bunkers have been declassified, so you can tour them. You should go. I think you’d really like it there.” I was intrigued.

I submitted samples of my writing and, much to my great delight, was accepted to “come and be with [my] tribe,” as the Great Earth Mother of the symposium generously put it.   Much to my great disappointment, however, I did not win a scholarship to attend. With airfare, resort fees, and the cost of the event itself, the price tag was very much out of my reach.

So I told her, “Thanks a lot, but maybe next year.”

lampsBesides, I did not feel that I belonged to “the tribe”. I thought of myself as an amateur who had a bit of fun with his food blog, someone who would like to do more with it, but I certainly did not consider myself “professional”. I felt that, had I accepted, I’d be doing so under false pretenses and would somehow be exposed as a fraud. That’s just how my mind works sometimes. I talked myself out of wanting to go.

Fortunately, there were other, saner people who didn’t feel the same way. The creator of the symposium asked me to reconsider. My mentor, who was speaking at the event, invited me to go as his guest so that my hideously expensive resort fee would be waived. My father cashed in airline miles and spent six hours online and on the phone trying to get me to White Sulphur Springs. Six Hours.

He said he was sorry that the best he could do was get me a flight to Atlanta the day before the event. He apologized because he thought I’d have to incur the expense of a night in an airport hotel. But he needn’t have worried. I was lucky enough to have old friends to stay with.

On the flight to Atlanta, wondered if I was heading for disaster in West Virginia. Asinine thoughts crowded out the reasonable ones in my brain.  Would I be totally out of my depth/league/element/mind? I have no practical understanding of resort wear. What if I’m the only person there without a “book in me”? Why the hell was I going to this place again? When my fretting got the stage where I saw myself in front of my fellow symposium-goers in a white prom dress soaked in pig’s blood and hearing Piper Laurie’s voice warning, “They’re all going to laugh at you”, I knew I had gone too far. I realized I was being totally absurd, but I could not shake the sense of unreasonable dread.

CatanThat is, until I saw Donna Reed* pull up to the airport arrival curb. To see a familiar face (one that hadn’t changed much in the 30 years since I first had a crush on her), to hear a familiar voice– these are things that pull me out of myself and bring me back to a much saner reality.

Donna and her husband Dan (another old friend) put me up for the night. The evening was spent catching up on our lives, drinking wine, playing Catan, and eating shrimp and grits. They kept my angst at bay. They gave me a good night sleep. I woke up feeling alarmingly good and ready to take on the unknown, thanks to a full evening of the comfortable and familiar.

And, most significantly of all, I woke up feeling grateful. Grateful to my father, and David Leite, and Antonia Allegra for getting me to The Greenbrier in the first place, to Dan and Donna for putting me in the correct head space in the second. And to all the really lovely people I had the good fortune of meeting in West Virginia in the third.

I was an idiot to have worried about fitting in. We were (almost) all of us in unfamiliar territory. And so what if I was the only person there who didn’t seem to have a book to promote? It was an overwhelming experience. It was worth any price to go.  I’m still mentally and emotionally processing the mass of information and sense of possibility that stemmed from my experience. And I would not have had that experience if it weren’t for some truly lovely people in my life.

People who take good care of me and make me feel as if I do belong to a tribe, whether it’s in San Francisco, Atlanta, or Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia.

Shrimp and Grits

Shrimp & Grits

There is no clever name for this recipe. It is what it is. And, even though it’s inspired by the dish Dan and Donna cooked for me that evening, it is an amalgam of several different recipes. So many disparate people contributed to this recipe, much like so many disparate people contributed to my experience.

Makes enough to serve: Four medium-sized adults, six large-ish children, or one very hungry, childish adult. Or one unnecessarily angst-ridden writer for four consecutive meal periods.

Ingredients:

For The Grits:

• 1 cup yellow grits. The non-instant kind. Some things you just have to wait for
• 2 cups chicken stock/broth/bath water/whatever
• 1 cup water, plus the inevitable inclusion of more
•  2 tablespoons of butter, salted or unsalted– it doesn’t matter
• 1 cup white cheddar cheese, grated
• 1/3 cup of heavy cream
• Liberal amounts of salt and freshly ground pepper

For The Shrimp

• 1 pound of fresh shrimp. Not frozen, please. Rinse ‘em, peel ‘em, and devein ‘em.
•  3 thick slices of bacon. Some people like to use ham, or other pork products. That’s      okay, too.
• 3 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
• 2 tablespoons of butter
• 1 cup of chicken stock
• A few glugs from a beer bottle. IPA or lager– whatever you’re drinking. Guinness would be an inspired choice, but is not recommended in the least.
• Salt and pepper
• Freshly chopped chives for garnish.

Preparation:

1. In a heavy-bottomed dutch oven or  medium saucepan, bring 2 cups of chicken stock and 1 cup of water to a boil. Reduced heat to a simmer and add grits. Reduce heat to low and stir well until the liquid has been absorbed and the grits have the consistency of thick, gritty porridge. Cover the pot, but worry over it by stirring it up every couple of minutes or so. If your grits look too dry, add about 1/4 cup of water to the pot and stir in. Repeat this until action as often as necessary. I tend to add between 3/4 and 1 full cup of additional water. All of this grit-making business should take about 35 to 40 minutes of your time**.

2. When your grits have finished cooking, add the butter and cheddar cheese, stirring in until melted. Next add the cream until incorporated. Salt and pepper to taste. Keep covered and warm until ready to serve.

3. In a large sauté pan, fry up three thick slices of bacon on a moderate flame. Take your time with it. Coax as much fat as you can from it. When the bacon is crisp, but not overly so, remove it from the pan, let it cool for a moment, and then chop it into bits.

Shrimp & Grits Shells4. Drop 1 tablespoon of butter into the pan with the bacon fat in it. Add the garlic, shrimp, and the now-chopped bacon. Sauté for about 2 minutes until the shrimp have turned pink and the garlic begins to color. At this point, add 1 cup of chicken stock and a hefty drizzle of the beer you’re drinking. Bring to a simmer and hold it there for about 2 more minutes, then remove the shrimp with a slotted spoon to a clean, empty bowl. Cover the shrimp to keep warm.

5. Keep simmering the liquid inside the pan until it has reduced by at least half. Salt and pepper to taste. Stir in 1 tablespoon of butter, to give it a little more body and gloss, then return then shrimp to the pan to coat and heat through.

6. Divide the grits into serving bowls, spoon the shrimp and a generous amount of sauce into each bowl, garnish with chives. Serve hot. With beer.

*Not the girl-next-door type actress who won an Oscar for playing a prostitute.

** I believe that grits should be essentially smooth, but with a hint of grittiness to it. They are called grits for a reason. If you want yours smoother, continue to cook for a few minutes more.

 

Posted in Rants and Stories, Savories | Tagged , , , | 20 Comments

Shitty and Sweet: Cake Poops

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Michael Procopio

Cakepoop Group ShotThere are times when all I can see is the shit in my life: I’m broke, I’ve gained ten pounds, I’m tired of my job, I don’t have a boyfriend, I haven’t been to Iceland, I don’t have an au pair, I can’t read Japanese, I’m going to die alone.

Et cetera. I wallow. I get mired in my own muck.

And then, thanks to the miracle of the Gregorian calendar, it’s a new year. I reflect upon the past, look to the future, and meditate upon the present and try to focus on what’s so good about it. It’s an excellent exercise. Please remind me to do it more than once per annum.

I’m reminded that the core of my life is essentially a sweet one, in spite of its sometimes shitty appearance. I may not have an au pair, but I do have remarkable friends, a loving family, good health, a roof over my head, and more than enough food to eat (see: gained ten pounds). And that job I’m tired of? It’s the best restaurant gig in town filled with people I care about, and a management staff who is miraculously supportive of my writing career, such as it is.

It may not be an ideal life. It might not be all that I want it to be. Overall, however, it ain’t bad.

To put things in vaguely Chinese terms, I know I haven’t finished with the Dragons of 4709. I’m sure I’ll be dealing with them again in the coming year. But I am so ready to slough off my dead scales and prepare my new skin for The Year of The Snake that I could just spit. Like a cobra or some other thing that looks vaguely like a snake and is prone to expectorating.

Life isn’t all good, nor should anyone expect it to be. But it isn’t all bad, either. Whatever comes your way this year, be prepared to take the shitty along with the sweet.

And vice versa.

Cakepoop toilet paper

 

Cake Poops

Nothing (to me) says shitty and sweet more than a cake pop with a fecal motif. Cake pops on their own are far too sugary and cute for my taste. To offset these qualities, I simply introduced something delightfully uncomfortable to the mix. Because life needs balance. And fiber.

I would very much like to thank Mister Irvin Lin and Ms. Kristina McLean for the inspiration and advice in the creation of these confections.

Makes: A Shitload of Cake Poops**

Ingredients:

I’m not going into “How to make cake” and “How to make frosting” for these treats. You’re smart enough to figure these things out for yourself. If you are not smart enough, or are just too tired to do so, go to this place, or this place, or this place for help.

• Cake, either yellow or chocolate. Although carrot cake would be most intriguing, texturally speaking.
• Frosting: please use chocolate frosting for maximum effect.
• 2 bags (24 ounces) of white chocolate chips, morsels, or what have you.
• A bag of pop sticks
• Candy corn, sesame seeds, etc. for garnish (optional)
• A deep container, such as a champagne bucket, which adds a bit of much-needed elegance.
• A large bag of kitty litter.

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, destroy the cake until it is a mass of fine crumbs. Mix in about one cup of chocolate frosting and combine with clean hands (You may use a spatula, if you’re squeamish. On second thought, if you’re squeamish, you wouldn’t be making these in the first place.) until you have a smoothish paste. Roll the paste into balls (I weigh mine to 39 grams a pop), place on wax paper-lined cookie sheet, and place in the freezer for about 15 minutes, or until firm.

2. While your cake poops are in the freezer, melt the white chocolate over a double boiler. Stir until smooth and fully melted.

3. Fill your champagne bucket with kitty litter to its very brim (If you do not have enough litter, stuff the bottom of the bucket with kitchen towels first.). I have only heard of people using styrofoam in order to stabilize their cake pops, but I do not believe in styrofoam. Kitty litter is ideal for both supporting the finished product and, naturally, for serving.

4. When your cake poops are suitably firm, pull them out of the freezer and place them near your stove where your white chocolate can get at it.  Dip the tip of a pop stick about 1/2 inch into the white chocolate and insert this sticky end half way into one of your cake balls. Dip the cake ball into the white chocolate. Remove, swirl, and gently tap the stick to remove excess coating. Bakerella has an excellent video on how to prepare such things. You might want to take a look at it before proceeding.

5. Place the cake poop stick-side down in to champagne bucket full of litter. Repeat until finished.

6. When the balls have sufficiently dried, pipe little coils of chocolate frosting onto the top of each pop. Garnish with candy corn, sesame seeds, or just leave plain.

Serve to adults and children alike.

Cakepoop Solo

*This date may not be accurate, since no one can really agree as to what year it really is on the Chinese calendar. This is because there are multiple calendars used, so let us just agree to disagree on this particular point.)

** Caution: loads may vary.

Posted in Sweets and the Like | Tagged , | 66 Comments

I Got It from Tom: Absinthe Jellies

Posted on December 20, 2012 by Michael Procopio

Absinthe JelliesI entered this joyous season with a couple of heart-chilling stories I wanted to share with the world and some fun recipes to match. Unfortunately, the point  driven home to me for the Holidays was that my capacity for coming up with interesting ideas is not always paired with the culinary talent for bringing them to fruition: the pot pie recipe I threw myself into wound up being thrown in the garbage, the Salted Carmelite nun candies I wanted to give out for Christmas looked warped and depressed in their nasty looking habits. I dare not go on. I will say that even my ability to fix myself a bowl of cereal with confidence was suspect.

It was enough to drive a person to drink.

Fortunately, I recalled the eternal wisdom of the great Maria von Trapp who once said to her flock, “Wenn der Herr eine Tür schließt, irgendwo Er öffnet ein Fenster,” which roughly translates (and I do mean roughly) to “When the Lord closes the door on your edible nun idea, somewhere he opens a window.”

As luck would have it, that window happened to shine a divine light upon my liquor shelf. Even more fortunate was the fact that I happened to be browsing the internet reading up on Tom Lehrer, the great mid-20th Century composer of such songs as “Poisoning Pigeons in The Park” and “The Masochism Tango.” It was if by some unseen force that I was willed to read the Wikipedia passage that mentioned Professor Lehrer’s (spurious) claim to have invented the Jell-O shot as a way to circumvent alcohol restrictions while working at Los Alamos Labs in New Mexico.

And, just like that, faith in my cooking abilities was restored like a Christmas miracle. Or maybe it was just the booze talking.

Whatever the case, it is thanks to Maria von Trapp, God, Tom Lehrer, and that bottle of absinthe collecting dust on my liquor shelf that I am able to bring you a recipe that is sure to please (and thoroughly sozzle) your loved ones, just in time for the Holidays. However, if anyone asks me where I got the idea, I’ll just say, “I got it from Tom, who got it from Agnes.” And then I will direct them to this video:

Absinthe Jellies

These jellies are not for children, which is a good thing because in all likelihood, they would not like them. They are what they are, which is incredibly alcoholic. 11o proof.  Please serve, suck, and chew them responsibly.

Makes enough to summon a legion of green fairies for you and all of your adult loved ones.

Ingredients:

• 3 cups of water
• 8 (1/4 ounce) packets of unflavored gelatin
• 1 cup of granulated sugar
• 2 1/2 cups of absinthe
• 2 drops of green food coloring (this is not entirely necessary, but it does make them more appealing)
• Plenty more granulated sugar for coating.

Preparation:

1. Pour the water into a medium saucepan and sprinkle the gelatin evenly over the surface. Leave unmolested for about five minutes, until the gelatin softens. Add one cup of sugar and whisk to combine.

2. Over low heat, stir the mixture with a rubber spatula, scraping down the sides of the pan as necessary until the sugar and gelatin are fully dissolved. It will take about 8 minutes to attain this state. Whatever you do, DO NOT BOIL. DO NOT EVEN SIMMER or the gelatin will not set properly and you will have wasted a lot of very expensive liquor, which is a crime in every state except Nevada.

3. Remove your pan of gelatin from the heat, add the absinthe and food coloring, then stir until all is well combined. If there is extra absinthe left in your absinthe bottle, wait until you have finished preparing this recipe until you drink it. Otherwise, I cannot claim responsibility for what happens.

4. Place an 8×8″ Pyrex baking dish onto a small baking sheet or tray that will fit such a thing, then pour your gelatin into the Pyrex dish. Place in your refrigerator to allow the near-liquid goo to cool and firm– at least 2 hours or, better yet, over night. There is no need to cover your gelatin unless you also have left items such as creamed herring or durian fruit uncovered in the same refrigerator.

5. To release your gelatin from its Pyrex confines, dip the container into hot water and (starting from the number one) count to the number seven. After you have wiped the bottom and sides of the Pyrex, place a small cutting board over the top of the container and quickly flip it upside down. The gelatin should now be released on its own recognizance. If it does not, repeat the t water trick and try again. Return the now-freed gelatin (still on the cutting board) to the refrigerator for a few minutes to the top and sides to re-firm themselves if necessary. Remove them only when you are ready to cut and serve.

Absinthe Butt Plug6. Slice the gelatin into any size you wish. If you have made the error of pouring some of the gelatin into an ice cream soda glass, thinking that it might make for an amusing Christmas Tree-like shape, think again. You will end up with something that looks like an advanced-level sex toy (see: photo on right). Small one-to-two bite squares are ideal and much less disturbing to friends and family.

7. When you have sliced the gelatin into cubes, roll them in sugar, shaking off the excess. Serve immediately* to people you would like to see very drunk. If you decide against rolling them in sugar, they will not weep, but remain miraculously stable. However, they won’t be as sweet. Do with them what you will.

*When I say “immediately”, I mean “immediately”. These jellies are so laden with alcohol that the will begin to weep if left unattended without refrigeration which, coincidentally, is what the angels will do on your behalf if you eat too many of them. Should this occur (the weeping of the jellies, not the angels), re-roll them again in sugar before serving seconds.

Posted in Holidays, Liquids, Sweets and the Like | Tagged , , , , , , | 21 Comments

Eating Light

Posted on December 2, 2012 by Michael Procopio

It’s always the shortest days of the year which seem the longest. When the sunlight packs up and leaves at four in the afternoon, I have to stop and remind myself that I am living in California and not in an Ingmar Bergman film. It confuses me. It makes me wonder where on earth the day went.

By the time Winter arrives, my temper is as short as the day is long and my mood is as dark as the night.

The fountain of creativity that seems to flow so freely in the Springtime freezes under a layer of ice so thick over The Holidays that it could bear the weight of Santa Claus himself, should he find the time to skate upon it. In November I think to myself, “I can’t write, I can’t cook. I can’t do anything. It’s all over.” In January, I bubble and froth at the idea of writing again.

Every year it’s the same thing. I could probably scribble the date in red ink on my calendar if I paid closer attention to the warning signs: insomnia, low energy, high fatalism, the desire to hide from the world until after St. Valentine’s Day. February might be earmarked for Black History Month, but I always set aside November and December for Seasonal Depression Time. It’s just what I do.

Or rather what I used to do. This is the first time that I’ve realized, “Oh, wait. This is a thing that happens. And it’s a thing that happens not just to me, but to other people I know.” I never looked at the pattern, never understood the cycle. In previous years, I’ve always sunk under its weight, but now that I know it’s just “a thing that happens,” I can make the best of it, rather than letting it get the best of me.

One way to make the best of it is to eat light. And by “eat light”, I mean feed myself with as many (good) mood-enhancing ingredients as I can get my hands on. Not only will my mood be lighter and brighter this season, but my ass will still be able to fit into a pair of size 32 jeans come New Year. And that is one hell of a mood enhancer in my book.

There is a long list of foods which contain natural antidepressants: beets, salmon, molasses, citrus, walnuts, and leafy greens just to name a few. This Holiday Season, while I still plan on consuming my fair share of spiked egg nog and Christmas cookies, I’ll be self-medicating with more fruits and vegetables and less bourbon. A little less, at any rate. One must keep out the cold.

Beet and Orange Salad

Oranges ripen in the light; beets mature underground. I’ve been enjoying this combination of sun and earth all week. And I think I’m a (marginally) happier person for it. It’s my own version of light therapy.

There are no precise measurements for this salad, because none are necessary. Make as much or as little as you want, if you choose to make it at all.

Ingredients:

• Golden beets, cleaned with the root ends trimmed
• Fresh, ripe citrus. Seville or navel oranges, clementines or tangerines
• Toasted walnuts
• Maple syrup
• Olive oil
• Something green: beet tops, parsley, dandelion greens. Your choice. And when I say “something green”, I do not mean items such as M&Ms or dollar bills. However, you’re the one making it, so I will leave that up to you. If money enhances your mood, then go for it.
• Sea salt
• Cinnamon (Optional. Of course, many things are optional, but cinnamon is extra so.)

Preparation:

1. Heat oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet or oven-proof casserole with aluminum foil. Lay another large, loose layer of foil in the pan. Place beets on the loose sheet, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with a few pinches of salt and cinnamon. Wrap beets in the top layer of foil an put everything in the oven. (When I say “put everything in the oven”, I mean the foil-wrapped beets and their roasting vessel [i.e. casserole or baking sheet]. DO NOT place iPhones, pets, or small children inside a hot oven.) Bake for about 45 minutes or until the tip of a knife slips easily into their centers. Remove from the oven and let cool.

2. When the beets are cool enough to handle, peel them and then slice them into whatever shapes you prefer. Transfer them to a bowl, squeeze the juice from one orange over them, drizzle with maple syrup, cover and refrigerate until ready to use. I prefer to leave them overnight. They will last for several days covered and refrigerated.

3. A few minutes before you feel you are ready to eat this salad, peel and slice your citrus. Suprèming (removing segments from their membranes using a very sharp knife) one’s citrus makes for an attractive presentation, but it is time-consuming. Peeling and slicing your oranges/tangerines/clementines crosswise is much less time-consuming/dangerous.

4. To assemble, toss sliced beets, citrus, and torn bits of greens in a small bowl with a spittle of olive oil and a good sprinkling of sea salt. Spoon out onto a serving plate and drizzle with maple syrup.

5. Cover salad well with cling wrap and head for the nearest high bridge. Offer salad to any and all potential jumpers. If your luring is unsuccessful, self-medicate with said salad. Then return home and pour yourself a very large bourbon.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments