more on olfactory journeys

I don't use spices casually anymore. I have since learned, mostly
from making mistakes, that seasonings follow a grammar all their own.

When Dutch and I went to the Indian Grocery, we brought home nearly a
dozen spices-- some were old friends but others were complete
strangers. I have written about cardamom before. It is one of my
favorites. In addition to using it in coffee, I tried it in
shortbread recently (inspired by Arizmendi's bakery) and it was
decadent-- butter and sugar are near perfection by themselves, but
cardamom has a way of creating its own niche in otherwise complete
things. At least for things besides kidney beans. We discovered that
cardamom and kidney beans don't play well-- there was an overly
cardamommed stew recently that I had to quietly compost.

My first
association with cilantro is a memory of my dad trying to pick out the
tiny green leaves from his Tres Amigos burrito. I thought it tasted
like soap, but I was too hungry to care. Since then I have discovered
how empty pico de gallo is without it (it just tastes like tomatoes)
and how lovely just about anything Asian is with it. Imagine my shock
when I discovered that coriander seeds (cilantro's English name) taste
like lemon! Too heavy a hand with it, and the dish tastes of lemon
detergent (no escaping its soapy nature). Cumin has always been
exclusively for chile-- being the key ingredient that makes chile
taste like chile. This time I bought it whole-- such a different
beast than the dry powder. It has a subtle sweetness that comes out
when you toast it gently (emphasis on the gently-- burnt and it tastes
like charcoal). Every curry dish seems to call for a bit of coriander
and cumin together. The deep brown flavor of the cumin complements
the high yellow citrus of the coriander. Ground is better than
whole-- as they are they fit into my molars like a key in a lock.

Black mustard seeds have been a bit of a puzzle. At first I thought
the recipes called for them because they look so dramatic (little black dots in a deep yellow sauce)-- I couldn't
find a flavor. Their smell is so subtle (or my batch is so bland)
that I was able to smell them only after the mint lotion I had on my
hands was thoroughly dissipated and I was able to catch a hint of
pine trees-on-a-coastal-bluff-in-the-distance smell. Finally I
carefully crushed some with my incisors when the pine trees suddenly
rushed forward and morphed into something between French's and wasabi.

The writer says that "asa" is Persian for "resin" and fetida comes to
us from the latin "fetid." Walking into the grocery, I half expected
to find the asafetida hermetically sealed in a specially designed
cryogenic safe. Instead, when the proprietor pointed it out, it was
between the hair dye and the shampoo, in a nondescipt white bottle
that could have been cheap asparin. As soon as I turned towards it, I
realized it was the source of an unpleasant odor that had hit me on
the street, but had been lost in the cacophony of other smells. If it
had been a pitch, it would be one of those deep organ notes that you
feel with your feet more than you hear with your ears. I had to have
it. It was so powerful I wanted to cry, and transgressive, like
secretly admiring Nazi architecture. I brought it home and tried it
immediately in a curry (granted, there is no fast curry) and two hours
later after the custard had failed to solidify and the dairy had
separated in the sauce so it appeared like a botched cocktail
experiment the odor of the asafetida lingered well after the last
dishes were washed. Dutch, in his infinite generosity pronounced the
dish "flavorful." As I write, it is keeping the frozen eel company in
the freezer.

The Ecstatic Grocery Store

The Kitchen King once described the New May Wah Market as a food museum, because it contained all the foods that humankind has been eating for the last millennia. While that may be true, the New May Wah Market also caters to the currently-eating set.

The last few nights, I have been so busy installing towel rods, rearranging closets, and checking my email that I haven't had the time to obsess over that burning question of "what's for dinner." Fortunately, Dutch usually takes a late lunch, so he doesn't come home ravenous, but I usually am. As a consequence, we have sampled two new neighborhood Thai places and a pizza joint.

Tonight I decided I was going to cook, so I carved the time out of my hectic schedule to think about it.

The New May Wah is a gigantic Asian market, with the best and freshest collection of fruits, veggies and fresh meat of the 'hood. Its not for the faint-hearted. If you desire chicken, be prepared to slip your hand in a bag and grab a very-recognizable chicken part from the piles. If you stand in front of the crustacean department, you could be at an aquarium, but being a grocery, its more like death row for all the little creatures. While I was wandering the menagerie, I found some fat salmon steaks. I had never tried their seafood before and I usually assume seafood I buy from anyone besides a fisherman is going to have been frozen, and if there is a way to tell before you eat it, I don't know.

I took it home and poached it in beer (a recipe from the Clay Pot Cook Book) and it emerged from the oven a perfect and scrumptious hymn to all that is salmon. The flesh just melted in our mouths and our teeth made that fresh-fish squeeky sound.

Heaven

Subverting the Restaurant Mafia

fish, originally uploaded by camille94019.

Eager to explore more grocery options, Dutch and I hit the Alemany Farmer's Market last month. We bought bags of produce and still had change left from the original 20 dollar bill I brought to spend. The experience was pure, non-industrial food wonderment. Besides the lurid boxes of fish, pictured here, we found heaps of persimmons, citrus, local honey, local olive oil,
local potatoes, local greens-- despite it being the dead of winter.

The people-watching was also thrilling. Especially the Dancing Cat Lady.

She is a one-woman entertainment juggernaut. She played a handmade washboard-topped electric guitar while her foot powered the dancing cat with the fantastic star pasties. The audience was appreciative, especially the short set. She must have been doing this a long time, since the mural in front of her were of her and her cat. Click on any of the images to see more from the farmer's market.

I did a little research and it turns out this particular market was started during World War ll, when the pressures of food shortages and people's surplus Victory Garden produce forced the City to create it. Since then numerous mafias have tried to shut it down, but they have failed. The food is more powerful than any petty corruption.

Bike Food

bike, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I biked all the way across the City today, going farther than I ever have before. I snagged my favorite pair of hose on a sprocket tooth, but other than that, I returned home unscathed. I have been training for this day ever since I learned how to bike in the driveway when I was ten.

The City's infamous hills and aggressive, urban traffic, continues to intimidate me, so last week I attended a four hour bike safety class put on by the Bike Coalition. I learned that I had the right to a full lane all the time (except for on freeways), how to wear a helmet and other sorts useful things that are easy to take for granted. I am still scared of traffic, but now I can mostly avoid it.

Since the Silver Bullet's untimely demise, I have had to relearn how to be a grown-up. I used to just be able to drive places, like to work, the post office, and the grocery store. I feel like I have suffered from some kind of life-changing physical accident. What was once easy, is now hard and fraught with drama. It was as if she was an appendage. My phantom car hurts.

After the car went away, I didn't go to the grocery store for a long time. The stash of dry pasta was running out. The ranks of canned beans were decimated. Only a few dry garlic wrappers chased the breeze in the bottom of the allium bowl. The lone banana quietly rotted in the corner. The proverbial larder was painfully bare. Fortunately, Dutch didn't let me starve, instead, he fed me at restaurants, but that is expensive, though delicious (at this point, this blog could almost be entirely devoted to food). My nutritional outlook is now sunnier since I put a rack on my bike.

I was going to wait to install a bike rack until such time as I had money, but the irresistible cry of my stomach overrode those petty financial inhibitions, so I took the bus to the closest Sport's Basement (the Presidio lacks groceries, but it has a sport's megastore!). The Yellow Monster now has the cheapest rack and the heaviest saddle-baskets available (and when my ship comes in, I'll replace them with something lighter) and together we can haul up to two conservative bags of groceries! Now the wide, wonderful world of City grocery stores is mine for the taking! I can even go to places that don't have parking, like the legendary Mai Wah Market on Clement St, which I had to avoid before. (My housemates describe Mai Wah as a "food museum" because it represents everything eaten by humans, regardless of continent and epoch). Not to mention the Evergreen Market on Mission, whose tortillas are hot, the quesa cold, the chiles plump and you can fish the tofu out of the barrel for 99 cents-a-pound. The adjustment period has been difficult, but my gastronomy can only expand! Oh the vistas to conquer! and worlds waiting to be chopped, sliced and sauteed and consumed!

Chow Bike (adapted from Martin Yan's Chow Mein)

1 bundle Japanese yam and buckwheat noodles (from J-town, of course)
mess of green beans (from the Syrian Market District on Geary) cut 1"
two cloves of garlic, minced
1 t-spoon sesame oil
fresh ginger, to taste, grated
2 tbs soy sauce
orange bell pepper, diced
1 tbs oyster sauce (from Mai Wah)
half cup of chicken stock
pepper, to taste
cooking oil
1/2 tsp crushed "brown sugar" from Evergreen (it looks rustic, tastes divine, comes in a big, pre-industrial cake)

1. cook noodles per directions, rinse with cold water, set aside.
2. heat skillet, add oil and garlic, but don't burn either one, just warm the garlic, to release its fragrance. Add the beans and cook gently
3. mix liquid ingredients in a bowl, plus the ginger and sugar.
4. add the sauce and noodles and stir until heated through, add the bell pepper. Add some pepper if you want.
   

bon apetit!

Vacations...

I am back!

From what, I am not sure, but there have been a slew of things keeping me from my "business." (har har)

The Amazing N*ster spent a few days with me before I was stranded in bed with another intestinal bug (the less said about that, the better). Check out her food blog to see what she and El Cab cooked up last week.

It seems like nothing is happening, but in addition to Zine fest madness, I have gotten in touch with Made From Scrap people. If I do teach for them, I'll post it here. (still looking for that elusive full-time job).

Abba in a tube

A very generous Swedish family let me stay with them last night, in Muttonham. The feast was well underway when I arrived last evening.


We began with Corona at 6 (to accompany the chile and cornbread), Swedish Gevalia coffee at 9 (to go with the chocolate mousse), followed by Lapsang at 10 (to go with the shortbread). We took a break to go to bed. The feast resumed at 7:30 with black tea, pancakes, rolls, kefir (in a bowl), a large tray of cheeses, salami, braunschwaiger and a mysterious product in a tube. When I enquired about it, the little Swedes wrinkled their noses and told me that if I ate it, I'd have to brush my teeth, that it was stinky, and I also heard a "gross!"



I couldn't resist, stinky breath or not. Someone passed me a spoon and I tried a squirt. It was salty and smoky. Yum. Poppa told me he liked it on cheese, just like the kid in the illustration. I asked them if there was any connection with the other Abba. They said "no," but the kaviar came first.

The IKEA Constant

They do a lot of their grocery shopping at the local IKEA. They showed me a vintage Billy, from 1970, and it was the same color as the one they got last year. They were nearly identical.

What the Burrito Said

"Say No to Drugs"

I wonder at the wisdom of writing such a canned and tired slogan on the wrapper of a burrito. Why not "study hard" or "be wise" or even better, "don't eat this"? The whole idea is so ridiculous. In Teacher School we learned that it wasn't enough to tell a kid "not to do something" without providing attractive alternatives. I have found this to be true in my experience, from both sides of the podium.

"Made in Compton"

I have never visited the town of Compton, Ca. It has a bad reputation. Announcing that the burrito was made there doesn't inspire confidence, especially since it was legendary in the '80s as a violent crack town. The juxtaposition of both of the statements is particularly funny and ironic. The county of Flip Flop produces fantastic food, between the organic farms, the ranches, the fishing fleets and the armies of fine Mexican chefs. Theoretically, finding a bad burrito in the city borders should be nearly impossible. I am not sure how it is cheaper to pay someone in Compton (maybe it gets murderers off the street, ha ha) to make a bad burrito, freeze it, then ship it 600 miles north, then to reheat it.

I actually ate it. The tortilla was yellow. It was filled with cheese sauce and bits of something that looked like it was trying to be sausage. I was hungry and at a local high school subbing for the band teacher.

Fortunately, the jazz band sounded better than the "burrito" tasted. It was mostly boys, in that zitty, hooded, awkward chapter of adolescence. It took them a half hour to get themselves arranged in the band room and another ten minutes to decide what song to play. They chose "Cotton Tale." They didn't sound half bad. As soon as the guitarist stopped playing Metallica riffs (I didn't know the kids were still listening to them), they started, and what they produced actually sounded "jazzy." There were a couple aimless trumpeters in the back who were playing video games on their iPods and one confused kid who kept timidly stabbing at the xylophone as if it might bite back.

Dinner with MFK Fisher

El Caballero quotes MFK Fisher like other people quote Princess Bride. It doesn't even have to be a Godly hour for a Fisher quote to burble towards the surface of the conversation. On early Monday morning eggs-- "a thoroughly hard boiled egg is indigestible."

I took the day off today. I tried to be frugal. Eschewed Trader Joe's, tea and chocolate. Sat for hours on the floor of my room mending clothes and pondering the Tailor of Gloucester and the sartorius muscle. I allowed myself a trip to the library (but only enough books to fill my purse) to pick up more Borges and to find out, finally, what the fuss over MFK Fisher was.

Then it was dinner time. I was a little horror-sticken, recalling the contents of a larder that wasn't quite empty enough for a trip to the store, nor ample enough for a full repast.

I dug around, and when the food was hot, I sat down to it, and tackled the three introductions to The Art of Eating.

Camille's Bachelorette Lonely Dinner Menu

-Leftover Red Leaf Lettuce (with borrowed dressing) (still a little damp from washing)
-Fried Egg and Cheese Sandwich with Vital Vittles Bread from the Grocery Outlet.
I share the horror of a fully cooked yolk, so when I cut the sandwich in half, a warm yellow ooze baptized the plate. The cheese, of course, imported white cheddar (what else is there?).
-a bottle of Wolaver's Brown Ale, which satisfied my craving for chocolate.

I read about writing about eating while eating. The effusive and wordy introductions mostly served to whet my curiosity about this prolific gourmand. As I read about wartime shortages, the ugly sandwich started to glow slightly. "This isn't such a pathetic dinner," I thought to myself, "its actually quite nice. The eggs are cooked to runny-yolk, solid white perfection, and the dash of salt and pepper rounds the flavors. Even the old lettuce is still green and crispy."

Dessert
-two small fuji apples, one riddled with bruises, the other clean.
-a heel of Humbolt Fog-- a fine, creamy blueish cheese, with a layer of scrummy white goo right under the rind.

I crunched on a heavenly combination of crunchy fresh apple and gooey, aged cheese. The perfumed apple juice jousted with the cheese mold for sensory domination as I read about Greek banquets and Egyptian table manners, "and heard, from the north, the sound of blond men tearing the sinews of raw meat with their teeth."