La Vie en Rose (Macarons)

I just got back from seeing “Julie and Julia.” As a self-professed foodie of a certain age, how could I not? The film provoked many questions, like

-How did low level diplomats get such fab Parisian lodging?

--Why does a dinner party in 1950s Paris--with wasp-waisted women and sharply suited men swilling martinis and taking drags on cigarettes-- look so damned appealing?

---Where are the loving, incredibly supportive (indulgent, doting) men of food-obsessed women to be found? (Sign Me Up!)

----What kind of blogs and bloggers get book deals???

Mostly, though, the film took me back to the beginnings of my own love affair with French food.

The first restaurant meal I can remember was at a French (or, in those days, Continental) restaurant where I downed an entire plate of escargot. This was at age two and a half. My first proper cookbook was not Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking but a slim volume on French food that was part of a series on world cuisines. I loved making the crème caramel recipe and, as a pre-teen cook, it quickly became my “signature” dish. (I had looked at the Italian volume but it didn’t speak to me they way the recipes in that French volume did; those recipes alchemically transformed eggs and cream into unctuous manifestations of the lick-the-plate divine.) By age 10, my favorite cheese was Camembert. My sister would curl her nostrils when I took it out of its box and tell me it smelled like “death,” but, then again, her favorite cheese was Velveeta.

By the time junior high rolled around, I knew I had to take French rather than Spanish language class. I endured three years with M. Summer-- an oversized Hercule Poirot, his chubby nail-bitten fingers methodically combing his 70’s ‘stache as he thought of how best to insult you for your ‘ideous pronunciation or stupid! ridiculous! grammatical mistake. But I endured that soul-squashing language teacher because I knew that, one day, I would speak my language of love: the language of la cuisine francaise.

My parents, as with all things gastronomical in my life, are to blame for this obsession with French food. We didn’t have much money when I was younger and as I got older it came in great hailstorms punctuated by long droughts. No matter what, my parents spent their disposable income on going out to eat. We went almost exclusively to French restaurants. I cannot remember the restaurant’s name but I do remember a place in the eastern SF Valley, its exterior painted with the tri-color scenes of Paris, and driving back happily sated in the warm night air of an LA summer. (That my father had a 1959 white convertible T-bird that we drove slowly down "The Boulevard"—a.k.a. Ventura Blvd, the main artery of the San Fernando Valley—is a good part of the memory as well). Then there was René’s and the Seashell and, later, La Serre. At René’s I was introduced to pâté au compagne and those gorgeous, addictive pommes soufflés—airy and crisp and salty. At the Seashell, I ordered fish--which I never ate at home or anywhere else, because it was bathed in butter and sometimes butter, cream, AND shrimp. At La Serre, I always started with the Feuilleté aux Quatres Champignons (and so my love of morels began). Somewhere I was introduced to Oeufs à la Neige. Clearly I was child cream addict. Beyond that, though, is what I really loved about French food: its ability to balance in perfect Taoist contradiction the extremes--rustic and earthy was also refined; luxurious was also delicate; simple was complex.

I finally made it to France at age 36 or 37. It did not disappoint. The apple pastry from Poilane, its crust so rich in butter that the paper bag was soon stained with a Rorshach of ecstasy. At the gilded Laduree, the sublimely delicate rose macaron filled with rose ice cream. In Normandy, the vergers and their simply perfect farm lunches of duck rilletes, goat cheese, salad, and cidre. And, of course, there was the CHEESE. (Next up will be a blog-ode to Vacherin de Mont D'Or!) In Dijon, at Restaurant Jean-Paul Thibert, I had the most memorable meal of my life: a 12 course culinary narrative that lasted four and a half hours. On my return to Paris, I immediately called my mother to tell her about the meal, mouthful by surprising mouthful. I knew she would understand my giddy reverie.

Perhaps I will make it to France next year. I hope so. Almost as good is that my son heads out to France next week for a four month stay in Lyon. I cannot wait for that "guess-what-I-just-ate?!"phone call.

My SF Crush

You know the guy you start finding yourself liking more and more, rather unexpectedly and against your better judgment? The guy who, at first, you liked casually, fraternally but the more you got to know began to feel a giddy affection for?

Well, I found that guy. Only it wasn’t a guy. It was a bakery.

I just spent two weeks apartment-sitting in SF, one block away from Tartine Bakery. I have many friends who have spoken highly of the place, some fanatically so. They showed me their Tartine cookbooks with reverence, touching each glossy photo as if their fingers could lift meringue or powdered sugar into the third dimension. I liked the treats they brought: the cocoa nib or toasted almond Rochers, the gougeres, the lemon bar. I even found the banana cream tartlette to be worthy of, well, hiding and having a sort of proprietary relationship with later. Mostly I enjoyed these pastries with appreciation for the art but I could never quite achieve the quasi-sexual reverie they had. I knew my food type fell mostly in the category of large, meaty and, preferably porcine.

Because of all the hype, I decided I had best make a trip to the bakery itself. After all, I needed coffee and it was a short walk. A half a block away it hit me. A wonderfully familiar yet also idealized smell. Not just the yeasty-sugary smell that wafts out of every bakery. This was different. It transported me back to a childhood place where baked goods smelled REAL. Too many bakeries these days smell overly redolent of sugar such that the air takes on a kind of sourness. I could smell yeast (but not like when I used to ride the RTD in LA past the Anheuser-Busch brewery—now that’s yeasty and a whole other story…) and sugar and almonds and vanilla and a hint of citrus—all in perfect proportion. I was excited but a little skeptical: could it really be as good as its smells foretold?

I stood in line. A very long line. Internally I harrumphed—what pastry can be worth such a line? A camembert, a vacherin mont d’or, or even exquisite gorgonzola—now those command devotion. I'll admit: everything did LOOK good. I ordered an almond frangipane croissant and, because I was on re-con, I also ordered a piece of quiche. To go back to the guy analogy, it’s like getting to know both his soft, sweet side and his more practical, logical self. If you just like one, it’s maybe good for a dalliance but you need compatibility with both for a relationship. I needed to know if this bakery was going to be worth my time (and serious amounts of cash: $3.75 for a croissant, $4.75 for a piece of quiche) or if we were destined for only an occasional fling. After all, bakeries really aren’t my thing (a.k.a he’s not my type). I actually think I’m a little allergic to yeast. And, besides, if I have to choose fat calories, wouldn’t I rather get them from something that also had a little more nutritional value, like salami?

Ready to dismiss all the hullabaloo and stick steadfastly to my not being one of “those” girls (i.e. those who stereotypically ooh and aah over things chocolate and bread-y), I was poised to be unimpressed. The quiche, however, was a revelation: soft yet sturdy custard that was an excellent foil to the salty ham, all enveloped in a buttery, decidedly unsoggy, brioche dough. The croissant was a big-hearted sandwich of a thing. It was split in half and spread with frangipane-- the frangipane sweet and aromatic but not cloying, the dough buttery yet just a bit brittle. I was more than pleasantly surprised. I was intrigued.

I returned to the bakery just about every day and I learned new things, each more enticing than the next. The dense suppleness of the almond teacake. The complex heartiness of the cake aux olives. The lusciousness of the tres leches cake. The I-have-never-had-a cake-so good-as-this lemon meringue, caramel layer cake. While the slice of that cake may have sealed the deal—-oh, yeah, I was now in serious “like”—-it was something more humble, more quotidian (as it usually is) that cemented this relationship. One Saturday, after 5pm, my son and I walked in. He was the third or fourth person I had brought to the bakery, extolling and enumerating the bakery’s virtues to each of them as if the bakery were a new beau (and face it, it was). We had just bought more than a few pastries when I noticed they had just taken the bread out of the oven. Add a loaf to our tab, please. Back at the apartment, my son set out plates for the pastries while I tore into the still hot loaf of perfectly crusty country bread. I set a small knob of salted butter on top and watched it melt into the airy interior. This was THE BEST bread I had ever had. I have never, ever been so smitten by a baked good. I was positively giddy. Dammit: if you can do a perfect loaf of bread AND a sublime lemon cake, you’re the man,I mean, bakery, for me.

I’m back at home now. No more Tartine just down the street. I think wistfully upon it, not wishing to replace it with another local bakery but just reliving the excitement of a spring fling. But I did learn something. Sometimes right in front of us, or down the street, there is something you can dismiss as not your type. But if you allow yourself to follow your senses, you may find he’s your type after all. Of course, whether you’re his is another matter entirely.

Growing Distance

(In honor of mother's day, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote on my adopted son's 21st birthday.)

Underneath this
great-boughed tree, its
branches low, needles arc-ing
over us in fountain sprays,
we share
a picnic table,
my son and I.

Folding his limbs
to fit
upon the narrow bench,
he stretches out,
falls into
an easy sleep.
A thin strip of belly
between waistband and shirt
gently rises
and falls.

I watch
to see that he is
still

breathing. He rustles,
pulls the woolen cap over his face,
makes
his explanation:
To stop the chestnuts
from hurting
if they fall.
That’s not
going to protect you, I say.
But it will
ease the blow.

I look to the woods
wishing for
Lilliputians to emerge, come
to bind him
to this moment. For

what will ease the blow,
I wonder,
when I can no longer
watch him sleep,
when I no longer
see the six year-old boy
in the man’s face?

"In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts..."(or the Diagnosis Part II)

I live in a stunningly beautiful place. Surrounded by madrones, manzanitas, and vineyards, the property on which I am lucky enough to live also affords me glorious views of the oak-studded California hills, a sometimes-rushing-sometimes-dry creek and, particularly spectacular at the moment, three dogwood trees covered in ivory, four-petalled blooms.

In the mornings I walk down the road, past lizards sunning themselves, to the vegetable garden. Here, the farmer’s constancy is aided by the alluvial soil and everything grows brazenly, from the springtime favas and rhubarb to the summer’s sweet corn and tomatoes. In the afternoons, when I take the dogs out gopher hunting (they catch nothing but definitely enjoy the dig), quails traverse the road unsteadily, like besotted dowagers in party hats. Driving home on a moonless night I must be attentive to the jackrabbit zigzagging across the road; the foxes are faster so I only catch a glimpse of a bushy tail being sucked into the brush. Occasionally, a pointy-eared bobcat lopes across the driveway. Frogs sing me to sleep and coyotes disturb that sleep with high-pitched cries no different from the ululating wails of women in grief.

As the determinedly hot days give way to unhurried breezy nights, the uncluttered, certain sky becomes a layering of Braille on an indigo page. It is easy to breathe deeply here, to find one’s angle of repose. But as much as the beauty of this place brings me a contemplative stillness and unquantifiable gratitude, I am restless.

I remember this feeling from many years ago. I was living in another rural, wonderfully beautiful place: the Pocumtuck Valley in western Massachusetts. Farmland, rolling hills, a river, plus the New England seasons. After two years living there, I had to leave.

Now, as I did then, I realize that when I live so close to nature, I am overwhelmed. As I should be: Nature is profound in its beauty, power, mystery. Here I have fallen into an intoxicated stupor of submission. It is exactly what the poet Rumi writes about: that drunken love one experiences upon meeting G-d. All there is for me to do is luxuriate in this beauty. And so, prostrate before Nature’s magnificence, I do nothing. I feel too small, too insignificant. What can I possibly do to contribute to THIS?

Knowing my smallness in all of this makes me ready to leave Eden. But not out of a sense of inferiority, rather out of an understanding. Yes, in the grandness of Nature I am small. Just as a single jackrabbit or oak tree or creek is. But small and solo don't mean insignificant.

I don’t know that I will ever live in a place as beautiful as this one again, but I have been given an inestimable gift to have lived here for six months. I have been embraced by Nature--indeed by G-d--and shown the grandeur of this world to which I am not merely a witness but a bonded actor. And now strengthened by that embrace, I must go do my part.

(Note: Blog title from Wordsworth's poem "A Few Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey")

Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails (or the Diagnosis, Part I)

Yes, I have eaten two of the three. I have eaten an entire banquet made from snake in Hong Kong--I particularly enjoyed the stir-fried snake with chrysanthemum but the rest of the dishes didn’t do that much for me (then again neither does chicken). I do enjoy snails, though, to be honest, most snails are like nuggets of dark brown, rubbery tofu so, as with tofu, it’s really all about the sauce. And, at least when the snails are prepared in the West, the sauce usually involves butter. I have not and will not ever knowingly eat dog, though a roast dog seller on QingPingGaai in Guangzhou, China once tried to convince me otherwise. While I remained steadfast in my conviction not to eat it, I could not stand fast at his stall and so hightailed it out of there (you may disregard the pun). At any rate, the title refers to something I have been missing. Not in my diet but in my life.

I knew that something was amiss was when I began to experience food ennui. Last night, I told a friend I really didn’t care what I had for dinner and she looked at me--the poster child for “Live to Eat!”—in alarm. I’ve been searching for the cause of my dining indifference and have come to the conclusion that my life is imbalanced.

I am a great believer in the Tao; I know that too much or too little of something disrupts life’s harmony.* Coming in the “too little” category is time spent in the “Bro-zone;” that is: I am missing boy energy.

Okay, this seems to make little sense. I am a forty-something woman. I have many, many close women friends. I went to a women’s college. I read Sisterhood is Powerful and In a Different Voice several times. I hate the oppression of patriarchy and the violence it has bred. I don’t abide bad table manners, “Dutch ovens,” or contests that involve distance urination. And, having been the dorm mother to 40 high school boys at an East Coast boarding school, I think boys smell bad. Or at least their rooms do, especially if their sweaty hockey uniforms are left drying on the radiators. Eeewww.

In spite of all that, having spent a good deal of the last 25 years around boys and adult males who can easily access their “boy-ness,” I realize that whether you’re a boy, an adult male, or a female, you can experience a lot of positive energy in the “Bro-zone.”

Without benefit of a sociology degree, extensive reading into evolutionary biology, or special attention paid to post-modern gender theory, here’s my highly un-nuanced, overly generalized take on what’s good about boys.

• Their desire to dog-pile, like puppies, whether on a grass field or in the back of a taxi-cab: it’s rambunctious, intimate, messy and someone usually gets hurt but doesn’t complain.
• That they can be picky without being fussy: that is, boys seem to be clear about their wants/needs and come to resolution quickly about how to respond when they aren’t.
• That they have a less angst-ridden relationship with their bodies than females do; they have little day-to-day concern with their bodies.
• That they trust their senses.
• That they like jokes--the practical, the scatological and the punny--and laugh with ease.
• That they form their bonds through doing things and so their memories and loyalties are etched deeply, right down to the cell-level.
• That they are curious and open to possibility (i.e. they're risk takers).
• That they can trust easily (and can be almost irrevocably hurt when betrayed by someone to whom they have given their loyalty).
• That they can stand alongside; they might not always know what to say or do but they will stay in the zone so as not to leave the person alone and unprotected.
• That they don't run the Social Communication De-coder at all times; a cigar can just be a cigar. (Okay, that was a bad example as phallic reference runs high in the bro-zone; the point is, boys can take a comment as it is said, unless it even remotely references anatomy or sex.)
• That they give their friends a lot of room to mess up, to be weird, to be themselves.

In short, at its best, the bro-zone is physical, fun, goofy, less verbal, straight-forward, loyal, protective, less focused on analysis and more on being & doing. I need more of that in my life. You?

*(Caveat: butter, cream, pork and good bourbon are excluded from the “too much” category; any amount of these is the perfect amount.)

Canary Meet Coalmine

It doesn’t take much to get me excited. Mere mention of pork in some form—bacon, trotter, ham—or a runny French cheese or a seared rib eye makes my eyes sparkle in joyful anticipation. I am ALWAYS thinking of what delights the next opportunity to cook and to eat will bring. Every meal represents creativity, pleasure, choice.

But lately…something is amiss. I feel as if I am stranded on a barren shore, with no culinary wind to roust my sails and set me a-sea again. So much so that even a luscious ramekin of rhubarb custard the other night could not float my boat. I had lunch today without once thinking of all the options--pupusas? ceviche?burger? I came home and ate whatever was on the counter. (Some pretzels, a handful of almonds, and a half an avocado.) My palate lethargy signals "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" My palate, my love of food is my compass. When my palate fatigues, it means I’m not on true north.

I began to wonder where I had gotten off tack. Perhaps I have been neglecting my other senses. Those of us who love food are usually sensualists. We feast not only on taste but also on:
smells—a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs or the rich earth newly plowed;
sights-- the sunlight playing hide and seek among the oaks;
sounds--the caress of Alan Rickman’s voice; and
touch--a cashmere sweater holding you close (or, even better, a cute man in a cashmere sweater holding you close).
So I did a check of my sensory world to determine if my palate was in a funk because another sense was being under-utilized. You know: sometimes when part of the system goes down, the whole thing gets affected. I had to conclude, well, no, my sensory life is pretty dang rich.

More diagnosis is needed. I mean, a girl without her pork joy is a lost girl indeed.

Make It a Double Old-Fashioned

I am, as mentioned in earlier posts, a brown-liquor girl. While I can appreciate the clever dexterity of the modern mixologist, I tend to go for the unfussy but classy old school choices: the Manhattan and the Sazerac. When I wrote this to a friend, he (pun-ishingly) replied that I was an “Old-Fashioned” girl. Although he may have been talking about my choice in cocktails, I think the lower case version also applies.

That I like the classic cocktails perhaps says less about my palate (though I do like the caramel honey taste of whiskey, bourbon, and rye) than about my relationship to the world. Those drinks suggest something clubby, like the drawing rooms of English manor houses in Masterpiece Theater dramas where men retire to sip aged whiskies in front of a roaring fire flanked by two Scottish deerhounds. Part of the attraction, if I must be honest, is what attracted Charles Ryder to Brideshead. No, not Sebastian, but the whole social echelon to which I can never gain entry. I don’t really want entry (do I?) but I want the romanticized version of it, where comforts envelope you like a wreathing of sweet cigar smoke and where dinner is an enough of an occasion that one needs to dress for it. Sipping an amber-hued, cherry bejewelled Manhattan is like sipping that world but without all the racism, imperialism, classism, sexism and tubercular consumption that go with it.

Too, I think classic cocktails, white or brown, suggest a formality that, say, a Sex on the Beach or Cape Codder cannot muster. While I am not in the least formal, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like a good dose of propriety. Yes, I like rules and precision. I like manners and etiquette to the extent that they are intended to make everyone more comfortable. If I must be uncomfortable (e.g. not chew with my mouth open) so that someone else can enjoy his meal, then so be it. A little giving up of one’s personal interest for the greater good seems a fair trade to me. (I know this may seem a bit contradictory given what I said about my attraction to upper crust salons.) All of this is embodied in a classic cocktail. Its proportions are precise, the shape of the stemware specified, the expectations for its being imbibed genteel (i.e. sipped rather than slugged, chugged, or downed).

I think, though, what I'm really getting at is that I want the ritual that cocktails or the cocktail hour, at least in my imaginings, suggest. Not in the 1950s parodied form where ruggedly handsome dad has polished off four martinis in quick succession and perfectly coiffed and rouged mom is soused from the cooking sherry she keeps pouring herself. Rather I want to reintroduce a time of repose into our day, a time of transition where we go from the ravages of the day into the reflective sanctity of the evening. Rituals tether us to time and place and connect us to others. In these times of uncertainty, it is easy to feel unmoored. Here, in the ritual of preparing a cocktail—measuring the ounces into the shaker, pouring the mixture into the appropriately chilled and chosen glass, garnishing the sparkling drink with an edible—we come back to the present because a cocktail, unlike a beer or glass of wine, must be made not simply poured. (Were alcohol not verboten for Buddhists, I think preparing a cocktail would be the perfect Zen act and the Pousse Café the perfect Zen drink.) We then sit, our cocktail perched on its little napkin, bowls of nibbly things on the side tables, and we chat. As we sip our cocktail (note it is singular not plural), we relax into our bodies, we enjoy the camaraderie of friends, and note our appetites returning. In this way, a cocktail is neither a crutch used to get through the day nor the focus, just as lighting the candles or eating the challah on Shabbat is not the point of the ritual, though it is integral to the structure. In a way, drinking the thing is not the point. What matters is the intention, attention, and belief that at least some part of our day needs to be sacred. I choose to mark that part of the day with a Manhattan, a Sazerac, or an Old-Fashioned.

Now if I could only re-introduce Game Night and Sunday Night Dinner, I’d be a happy old-fashioned gal.

Bonjour La Tendresse

The other night I had a wonderfully seared New York strip steak. Love that cut. Very flavorful yet chewy and, when it’s seared, it gets a nice salty crust that balances and protects the internal rare juiciness. I thoroughly enjoyed it and the virility—a manly man thing a charred steak is—of it all. And yet… maybe because it’s winter turning tentatively to spring (or maybe because my spring is turning to early winter), I am coming to regard a steak cooked in that manner as a thing of my youth. No, I haven’t lost my ability or will to chew. In fact, I’ve always rather enjoyed that which I can sink my teeth into, both literally and figuratively. It’s more that I am appreciating the delicacy and decadence of the slow hand, as it were.

There is certainly a primal carnality to searing. Hot flames, high temps, precision. Too long on the heat and the item being cooked—be it a quivering diver scallop or a stalwart sirloin—turns tasteless and leathery. Done right, the rough char of the exterior safeguards the sweetness within. In a way, searing food requires gamesmanship: risk-taking, the ability to count the cards, bravado. Remember, the food that is best suited to grilling or pan searing is the lean, unfatty cuts of exceptional quality. So the cook’s job, really, is to do no harm; s/he must be swift and sure, and know when to say “enough.”

As I grow older, I have come to see the value in a different kind of cooking, a different kind of cook. Don’t get me wrong: I will never say no to a perfectly grilled steak. And I appreciate the skill of someone who knows how to grill. But where grilling is youthful instinct, braising is mature experience. When a cook grills s/he is like the intense, ardent lover but when s/he braises, s/he is a seducer, a coaxer, a conjurer. Poetry is to be found in the slow cooked dish.

Unlike a grilled strip steak (or lamb chop or quail) which can reveal its pink pleasures nakedly with little adornment save large grains of sea salt, the chuck roast or shank must be treated tenderly and plied with spices. The cook who knows how to braise transforms the unsexy tough, fatty cuts into silken, luscious invitations to gustatory sensuality. This is an unhurried, patient cook who trusts the alchemy of time, heat, and ingredients. This cook is a conductor who melds the disparate flavor voices into a pleasurable melliphony. So, to take the metaphor achingly farther, while a grilled steak asserts itself in a solo, command performance, a braised short rib is an ensemble player, working with rather than dominating.

In these days, let us give praise to the braise.

“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

I saw this defiant declaration on a package of dried cuttlefish once. I think it was in Hong Kong. Maybe Tokyo. No matter. What I like about it is the proclamation of identity, like when Hymie says he wants to be a dentist and not a toy-making elf. (If you don’t know about Hymie then you didn’t grow up in the US during the 1960s watching a lot of t.v.; if you did, you’ll likely remember not only Hymie but also the commercial where Santa rides the triple-head Norelco electric shaver over the snow banks.) Unlike Hymie, my realization about my identity did not come after much soul-searching or elf angst. I just had a slap in the face last weekend that made me declare “I am a not a Hostess! I am just a Cook!”

Last Saturday, I attempted to cook what I had hoped would be a fabulous meal for eight. It fell, in my estimation, terribly short. I planned what I thought was a good seasonal menu. Fresh shitake mushroom duxelles in crispy won-ton cups to start; curried Dungeness crab salad on a chiffonade of Romaine with diced apple, fennel, and celery as a first course; duck legs with sour cherry sauce, pureed turnips, and wine-braised lentils for main; and, finally, chocolate cinnamon pot de crème for dessert. Too ambitious a menu, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps. But I am pretty good at doing things in stages, preparing my mise-en-place, cleaning as I go, so that a big menu doesn’t usually overwhelm me. What overwhelms is the people.

I think I have performance anxiety. I can't do the big group thing. Too many people to worry about, too many expectations to meet (or so I think), and I get too stressed out trying to make it "perfect." I have not managed the effortless, charming hostess thing where, with grease-stain free clothing and hair styled into something more chic and age-appropriate than a high ponytail, you float about chit-chatting with your guests, pouring libations, and handing out canapés. I have not achieved the bodhisattva state of entertaining where the hostess radiates the calm and good vibe that then puts everyone into the happy party soup. I haven’t even realized the shortcut to creating the perfect party: plying yourself and others with many martinis.

No, I was too anxious. Trying too hard. And as a result I was not in the zone. While the mushroom appetizer was good, I didn’t plate enough of the crab salad, the turnip puree was watery, the lentils under-salted, the duck legs too dry, and the pots de crème a little grainy. I wasn’t paying attention to the food; I was scattered. Funny, though, everyone who was here said they loved the evening and thought it was warm & cozy. I already know the big take away here: entertaining isn’t about the food, it’s about how people feel and relate to one another. But dammit, the way I try to show people I care about them is by making a nice meal and if it doesn’t come out well, then it feels as if I haven’t shown my guests proper care. People can tell me they had a good time at my dinner but if I feel like the meal wasn't really good then I don't believe what they've told me. Yes, I know that’s twisted and dismissive. (Where's Dr. Phil when you need him?)

During the week I made some amazing meals for others when I didn’t feel like I was having a DINNER PARTY. I was just making dinner. I was just a cook, not a hostess. So maybe I need to trick myself into thinking it’s just a meal. But, to be safe, I think I will limit my dinner guests to four. At least until I get some therapy.

A la Carte

“Well, where would you want to live?”

“I couldn’t live somewhere where the main food was pickled fish.”

What a weird thing to say.

My friend and I were talking about not living in the US for a time, which I enthusiastically said I needed to do. Of course, living “outside of the US” is a little too broad to be meaningful, so when pressed for details I gave as my parameters: no pickled fish. Hello? This is the best I could do? That’s not a first response to a question like “where do you want to live?” Maybe 37th, maybe even 15th given my love of food, but first? C’mon. What have I got against overly salted, preserved marine creatures that it would dictate where I live or don’t live? My gut level (pardon the pun) response tells me a lot about myself. Apparently I am so completely food obsessed, so mono-focused that I have become an unromantic, apolitical, apathetic, stagnant human being.

Were I romantic, I would have said Paris or Tahiti. Were I a less trite, predictable romantic I could have said the windswept outer Hebrides or the expansive Australian Outback. Were my urgings more geo-political, I could have said Egypt to learn Arabic and about Islam. I could have said somewhere where I could work to save an ecosystem, say the Miraflor Reserve in Nicaragua. I could have simply said I wanted to go where I could hone my French, perhaps Dakar or Lyon, or where I could really establish my Spanish, such as Montevideo or Barcelona.

But I said none of these.

My only criteria seemed to involve avoiding countries that love lutefisk and matjes herring (I guess I need to avoid Minnesota as well). How sad. My geographic food determinism shows that I have narrowed my criteria for life experience to the width of a strand of bucatini.

Or, perhaps not.

Maybe the pickled fish criteria, because it really leaves out only Scandinavia and Inuit lands, shows that I am open to living almost anywhere in the world. Maybe, my immediate, off-the-cuff answer wasn’t really about establishing geographic boundaries through food. (If it were, then where was the mention of nixing locales where the populace regularly dines on tree grubs, springbok anus, or raw seal blubber?) Truly, I want to live where I can learn new things about language, culture, politics-- both of the place I visit and the place I call home. And that’s just about anywhere.

Dang it: I am romantic, engaged, open. Just not about pickled fish.

The Language of Love

You know those little handmade valentines and other little “I love you” notes that you got when your kid was little? Well, I never got those. Occasionally, when the Child was a teenager, I got a card or wildflowers picked from someone’s yard. But over the last few years, since he’s been in college, I’ve been getting a lot of love notes. At least, that’s what these questions sound like to me.

“Hey, I’m in the market. What kind of mushrooms do I need if I am making a vegetable stock? Is it those dried ones?”

“I went back to that place you took me to, the Indonesian place. It was soooo good.”

“What are those noodles I like called? You know the fat ones. Yeah, yeah, the Shanghai noodles. Gotta get me some of those.”

“I went to the dimsum place today. It was totally packed. Must have been ‘cause it’s Chinese New Year. All these Chinese people ordering. Nah, I was fine. I know my my way around. I can totally handle it.”

The Child grew up with what I would consider a limited palate. His father baked and he had a lot of home cooked meals, but the range of foods was not broad. I felt it my parental duty to show him the world. To me, the way I grew up, one enters the world and becomes comfortable with its diversity through food. I introduced him to Asian cuisines—Indian, Chinese, Thai-- by bringing him curries and stir-frys to school; I took him to Asian markets and all sorts of restaurants, many where he was often the only non-Asian. I taught him to cook, and gave him cookbooks, pans, and spice collections. Over the last several years, he has developed a love of cooking, a passion for growing his own organic food, and strong commitment for sustainable eating. He now sees a grocery store the way an artist sees a palette: a place of creativity and possibility, not simply a place to pick up some milk. Just the way I see it.

While we talk about all sorts of things from the ridiculous to the profound, the Child and I talk a lot about food and eating. What I hear in these conversations is truly the language of love. Part of it is that, no matter the culture, the cooking and sharing of food is an act of care and love. In the case of parent and child, it is also something else. When they are young, our children often mimic what we do and then later rebel against it as a way to assert their own identity. But when they adopt something we have shown them or something that we too love, it not only seems to validate what we've taught but also serves as evidence of our deep parent-child connection.

I, perhaps more than others, look for that testament, that verification of connection. Though I call him the Child, I am not his biological mother nor did I raise him. I have no children. He has a mother, step-father, and father—all of whom he loves dearly and to whom he has unwavering loyalty. Yet, somehow, over the years, he and I adopted one another. I give him both unsolicited and solicited advice, nag him, worry about him, and beam with maternal pride over his accomplishments. He chides me for my illogicalities, pokes through the veneer of my self-assumed wisdom, and yet still makes me feel I have something to contribute to his life. While I cannot take credit for anything he is or has become (really, I don’t know that any person can, parent or not), I like to think that I helped to encourage this love of food in him. But what really makes me smile when he talks about food is knowing that he’s also talking about our bond.

Red Repast, 2/14

This Valentine’s Day, I actually had a date. Granted it was a dinner date with 7 other people, some of whom I knew (single friends) and some whom I did not (two couples and one formerly coupled). But I am calling it a date, as it was on my calendar. The cool thing, besides the people who were there –their coolness evidenced in their being able to discuss elephant seal penises with total strangers and later to produce a photo, is that we ate red. And later, at least in my case, peed red too.

THE MENU:
After introductions, we toasted the day of love with a pomosa (pomegranate juice with champers) and immediately descended on the crostini platter (choice of spreads: muhammara, romesco, or a date/pom/goat cheese). Our transition from polite hors d’oeuvres eaters to ravaging diners happened quickly. Timbales of beet tartare on white plates demanded we take our places at the dining table. (Visually, the beet dish conjured up the stained, blood-red-on-white, virgin-deflowered thing and was more compelling than I’d like to admit; maybe I shouldn’t have read all four books in the Twilight saga.) This first dish fixed our red tack; there was no changing course. Yet, as with most things where you start out assertive, maybe a little polemical, we softened as the dishes progressed. While we never abandoned our crimson core, we accentuated with creams and greens.

Finishing our first plate and leaving little beet juice Rorschachs in our wake, we fell willingly into the red reverie before us. Delicate, fresh made pasta with a simple but sweet home-garden tomato sauce; sautéed red chard with blood orange, avocado and pine nuts; salad with red pears and red onions; and cheesecake. Where’s the red in cheesecake, you ask? Duh, there isn’t any and, no, we didn’t add red food coloring (we saved that for later). The beyond-the-beyond quadruple cheesecake was made Valentine’s compatible by studding it with chile “sparklers” and topping it with red chile jam (there was also an onion and apple chutney to accompany it, which must have been red in its raw state but was now the color of nutmeg—just eat, don’t evaluate the chromatics on this one). Luckily we had plenty of resveratrol (read: red wine) to combat the cholesterol now flooding our arteries.

None of us can believe that after all of that (including second and third helpings of cheesecake), we had room for dessert. Actually, we didn’t. But we were on the path, we could not fall away now. We were blue staters committed to doing the red journey—we heeded our President’s call for bipartisanship, for steadfastness in difficult times. Out came the cherry clafoutis and the red velvet cupcakes. To further bolster us, there was a bowl of red hots, more cheese (it wasn't red but it WAS cheese--'nuff said), and a couple of un-red chocolate bars (the latter snuck into our meal under the joint Hershey/Hallmark food proviso of 1954).

ALWAYS TALK ABOUT THE NEXT MEAL WHILE YOU'RE STILL EATING
The meal was such a success, we started to imagine the Purple meal, the Yellow and Blue meal (will I then pee green?), the Orange meal. I’m all for it. With Red, we not only got fantastic eats, we heard all about large sea mammal sex organs. I can’t recall the last time the term “os-penis” (a.k.a. os priapi or baculum) made its way into my dinner conversation. I can’t wait to see what the other colors bring out…or should I say, up?

THE LESSON
Love isn’t a holiday; it’s a feast day!

My Wonderful Cheese-tastic World

Last night I met up with a few friends for drinks at our town’s schwankiest bar, known not only for its three star restaurant but also for its cleverly named and complexly concocted drinks. Being more of a traditionalist in the winter, I tend to go for the warming bourbon and whiskey cocktails. (In fact, the bar’s former mixologist-extraordinaire knew me as the “brown liquor girl.”) While I was waiting for my Sazerac to further ennoble the fab mahogany bar, one of my drinking companions, another brown liquor girl, started pulling all sorts of things out of her purse. It was as if the ghost of Let’s Make a Deal’s Monty Hall had suddenly appeared at the end of the bar and whispered that he would give her $50 if she could find a Matchbox car in the depths of her handbag. She unfolded her clenched fist and deposited a motherload of lollipops on the bar. (“Seems a little rude to be cleaning out your purse at the bar,” I thought to myself and was momentarily fearful that a used, crumpled tissue might flop onto the bar next. Eeeww.) “Maple bacon lollipops,” she announced. “Perfect swizzle sticks for bourbon.” Immediately my estimation of her did a 180; she went from commonplace purse-fumbler to Felix, the cat with the magical bag. What other treasures had she to bestow upon us? I didn’t have to wait long. Before my Sazerac could anoint its white linen cocktail napkin, a perfect puck of aged goat cheese was set squarely in the middle. Cheese as party favors???!!! This woman is a goddess. I quickly stowed away the little crottin in MY purse (and wondered if there ever was a French Monty Hall who asked contestants if they had a hunk of gruyere or knob of Alsatian muenster dans la sac). The evening was filled with more little treasures, not edibles necessarily, but morsels of food chat such as the term “to brickle.” (See below.) I can’t believe I live in such a world where cheese and maple bacon lollipops flow freely from women’s handbags. It’s Wonka-world for grown-ups.

[To brickle: This verb apparently means to make sounds as part of the act of tasting. This is not to be confused with the sounds that come after the tasting as an estimation of the flavors; those are the “mmmms” and “yumms” and “aahhs” of which we are all familiar. Rather, it is the making of noises which, in a brickler, are integral to the act of tasting itself and are unique to the taster. Thus, I am told, there are bricklers and non-bricklers. I imagine this is a sort of genetic trait, like whether you have attached or free earlobes. Of course, I was immediately concerned about my own status as a brickler—was I or wasn’t I?—and if it was a good or a bad thing. My mind then jumped to whether brickling only concerned sound-making when trying food or if bricklers were people who made sounds at other times, like when they…Whoa. This is a PG/R blog, can’t go down that X-rated road...]

I Am Not A Cat Lady

I have limits. Many in fact. But not when it comes to the fridge and pantry. I’m like the food equivalent of the cat lady. You know: those women who have way too many cats? Well, I got too many cats in the fridge, if you will. Right now, this very moment, I have:
thick cut bacon, a few apple-chicken breakfast sausages, two chicken breasts, eggs, leftover Spanish shrimp (i.e. shrimp sautéed in garlic, onions, Spanish paprika, sliced onions—paste this in your browser http://www.metroactive.com/bohemian/06.14.06/dining-0624.html for my article on Spanish paprika and for the recipe), fresh tofu puffs, gobs of good cheese, a bunch of broccoli, a head of cauliflower, and assorted lettuces from the garden. And this doesn’t even take into account the condiments and liquids. The kicker is that, like the cat lady, I live alone. Why am I hoarding food? Well, I’m not. I am fortifying my creativity with its necessary tools. Each of these ingredients represents the opportunity to create. Yesterday I made an omelet of scallions, potato and those shrimp for breakfast; for dinner, a steak with a wild mushroom sauce over arugula from the garden. The night before, fresh tofu puffs braised in oyster sauce with broccoli. For lunch today, fresh crab and avocado over garden lettuces. (See, I didn’t mention the crab or the steak as being in the fridge because I ate them; so UNlike the cat lady, I thin my herd.) So part of the reason I have so much stuff is that I can’t actually eat more than a portion at one sitting. Of course, I always make more than one portion (let me mention—again—that I am part Chinese and feel the need to make enough to feed 6 or 8 well) and so always have loads of leftovers. Don’t worry, I do share (I made a maitake mushroom and chard lasagna and a vegan butternut squash soup garnished with toasted cumin squash seeds for friends the other night). But at the heart of all this is that I really like to cook. Supermarkets are to me what sheaves of Pantone colors are to designers: ah the possibilities! Cooking is transformational for the cook and the eater. In a larger sense, food is my longing and my fulfillment. It is my passport to other peoples & cultures. It is how I share and serve, how I connect to the earth. It is my meditation and my extravagance. (I wonder if that’s how cat ladies explain their compulsion?)

Eat Your Veggies

I have vegetarian friends. They’re good people. I wish I could emulate their commitment, their compassion. But sometimes when we go to one of those restaurants—by that I mean “lifestyle” restaurants—where the menu has a lot of raw and sprouted things along with nuts and tofu masquerading as dairy, I feel annoyed rather than uplifted. Yes, I know meat is bad for my body and for the planet. Yes, I know about Silent Spring. Yes, animals are our friends. That said, when I go into a place where I am told what I am eating is healthful, life-affirming, and righteous, it kinda pisses me off.

I went with a friend yesterday to one of the afore-mentioned type of restaurant. Their menu is listed as a series affirmations, e.g. “I am Supercalifraglisticexpealidocious,” rather than simply “kale salad with tofu and tahini.” Reading an entire page of that makes me want to tell the waiter, I mean server, I mean cool human who is taking my order, that “I am Bitter” or “I am Sneering.” Of course, he can already see that. But I behave and try to tune into the happy, hippie vibe, knowing that I will be energetically elevated if I just have the right attitude and a clean colon. I order a half-portion of a macrobiotic bowl. Rice and seaweed and kale and cabbage and nuts. All very tasty but I couldn’t finish it. Was it that my bowl was served with a large side portion of earnestness? Maybe. Was my appetite depressed by my feeling guilty that I should be more evolved and not such a carnivorous glutton? Yeah, likely. But the real reason I could never be a vegetarian? It’s not political (though it may be the result of a character flaw that makes me horribly hedonistic when it comes to food). It’s just that there is too... much... chewing. I get why many vegetarians are skinny. They probably burn off all the calories from chomping on those raw carrots and whatnot. Or their mandibular muscles simply get too tired from overwork and they stop eating. That’s what I did. Funny: that never happens to me with a steak.

Happy New Year! 1/26/4707

I grew up celebrating Chinese New Year (though it certainly isn’t just the Chinese who observe a lunar calendar) as opposed to the “other” one that begins with a large disco ball dropping in Times Square at Dick Clark’s command. Though my dad would on occasion (the occasion being if he was working) open a bottle of champagne in the waning hours of December 31st and the next day was all about breakfast crepes with lemon and powdered sugar, the Rose Parade, and endless bowl games—Rose, Sugar, Fiesta, Cotton, Aloha-- before the abomination of the national championship existed, I can’t say we really celebrated January 1. As with many things for which I am grateful about my childhood, celebrating the tradition-laden Chinese New Year is one of them. Here are my 8 (lucky number eight) reasons why.

1) Once more with feeling
Though it seems as if they have fallen out of fashion, new year’s resolutions were one of the American traditions my parents liked as it meant teaching us about having goals. By January 21st or so, I noticed that I and a lot of other people forgot or just plain broke our resolutions. When Chinese New Year came around 4 or 6 weeks later, having the year begin anew—again-- was a restart for my resolve. I can’t say it actually helped me accomplish my goals but I liked the opportunity to recommit, and who doesn’t like a do-over?

2) My people’s holiday
I am biracial. My mother is Chinese and my father is a third generation Californian of German and Celtic ancestry. Chinese traditions held equal if not greater sway than American ones in my family. In the 1960s, my mother and her family were some of the few Asians in our suburb. Like many immigrants, her ethos was to be Chinese and American but never to stand out. You could be proud of your traditions but never political. That’s why I was surprised when my mother finally caught up with “yellow pride.” I think it was 1975, and my mother announced she was keeping us home from school for Chinese New Year. First of all, in my family you never missed school unless, well, you were dead. I asked her why. She said, a little shakily as if she had the emotional reasoning for this but not the logic, “Well, we have our holidays too, and you should be able to honor them.” Uh, okay. I’m glad she picked this holiday as the one we should miss school for rather than the one where we had to clean the ancestors graves and then eat poached chicken graveside; that one weirded me out.

3) Fill the sugar bowls and don’t cut your hair
I like ritual. And superstition. For Chinese New Year there are so many of these to follow in order to “ensure” prosperity. Fill the sugar bowls and your wallet so that on New Year’s Day, you will have sweetness and abundance all year (see, the Chinese already knew “the Secret” and the Law of Attraction). Don’t wash your hair or sweep the house on New Year’s Day lest you wash/sweep away the good luck that has come to you (I love how the default position is good luck). Eat only vegetables on the first day of the New Year in order to purify your body for a healthy year (and no bad karma from killing a sentient being for dinner). I’ve never actually done an assessment to see if any of these work but I like that I must start my year by being attentive. And it beats a champagne hangover…

4) Slush fund
Taking care of children, assuring their health and prosperity is an important aspect of the New Year celebration. Married folk are supposed to give lay see, red envelopes containing money, to the children in the family. I loved this when I was little as it funded my purchasing Beatles’ albums. Sadly, for my mother, I am still eligible for lay see (read: single).

5) There ain’t no timeline
The Western calendar goes inexorably forward. And, yes, it is the year 4707 in the Chinese calendar but that’s not really how time is measured. It is the year, again, of the Ox. The Earth Ox, specifically. The Ox year comes every 12 years, and the Earth Ox comes every sixty. While the Chinese do not believe they can predict the future, because they view time as cyclical, they find familiarity and paradigms as each “new” year arrives. The Rat (last year) favors saving, so spendthrifts cannot do well in a Rat year. The Ox doesn’t take shortcuts and believes in hard, methodical work. (Obama is an Ox; listen to the Ox language of his inaugural speech.) I like the cyclical concept of time, I like the framework, and I like the astrology. Way cuter than Old Man 2008 and Diapered Baby 2009. Oh, and did I mention next year is the year of the Tiger? MY year.

6) People of Color
With December 31st, the old year is saluted and the New Year welcomed in the colors of winter: black, silver, white. Not really even colors but metallics and stone. The festivity strikes me as cold, distant, elitist where we should be almost fatigued by such luxe. But Chinese New Year is heralded with the colors of a pulsing life: red, orange, gold and green. It is a welcoming of Spring, of life, of possibility, of curves rather than edges.

7) Have you eaten yet?
In a country that had a history of being plagued by famine every twenty years, there’s no better way to ask someone how s/he is than to ask if s/he has eaten yet. And, certainly, there is no better way to open the new year than to begin with a feast. The Chinese New Year dinner is a gathering of riches, both edible and familial. Within the first two weeks of the new year, generations come together to share in a bounty that will presage the abundance to come. The food is symbolic—a whole fish because the Chinese word for fish is a homonym for surplus and rain, oysters because they are a homonym for goodness, shrimp and pork slices because their roundness symbolizes gold coin, leafy greens because their name sounds like fortune—and it is plentiful. Cold appetizers of beef heart, pig shank, and jellyfish were followed by a parade of foods from sea and terra firma. My cousins and I always favored the Peking duck part of the meal: we loved the richness of the crisp duck skin paired with the sweetness of the hoisin sauce, green onion, and steamed bun. There was never enough for us. So we went, like beggars, from the children’s table (tables were separated by age) to the “aunties” table where the wizened, gap-toothed, widowed matriarchs of the clan sat. The Chinese can deny their chubby cheeked children nothing, so another plate of Peking duck came our way.

8) Thanksgiving
It is one of the great sadnesses of my adult years that the multigenerational, 20-30 person Chinese New Year dinner is now a part of my past. The matriarchs and patriarchs are gone; the young ones know neither the language nor the traditions. I try to hold on by having my own Chinese New Year dinners to which I invite my friends and by sharing with my students all that I know about the rituals, traditions, symbolism and stories. But it’s not the same. It all feels quaint, a parlor trick rather than a way to bind past to present and blood to blood. When people look at me, it is easy for them to tell my parentage is EurAsian yet it is getting harder and harder for me to hold on to and evidence my Chinese cultural heritage. I used to laugh when my mother would get excited that her grandson liked to eat rice and gaai bao (chicken buns). To her, that food preference is the thread tying him to her, to his ancestors, to his Chinese-ness. For me, Chinese New Year is that ever-thinning thread.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its (Fried Fat) Name

God, I feel terrible writing this. But feel if I confess it, maybe it will go away. I’m not sure if the “it” is the guilt or the yearning. After all, when I do it, while I’m doing it, I can’t believe it. It doesn’t feel real. I say to myself, “This is disgusting. This is the last time.”

I hadn’t been tempted in a long time. Years, I think. Luckily, in my usual comings and goings, I can avoid it. It’s never even in my sightline. But about a month ago I went out with a colleague for lunch. She wanted a salad and recommended a taqueria near her work (no, it doesn’t escape me as being odd that she would think a taqueria the best place for a salad but whatev). I hadn’t been to this particular taqueria before. I decided to order a couple of tacos (and, yes, my friend had the salad…THE salad…there was only one on the menu). I saw that they were spit roasting chickens in the back, so I ordered one taco with pollo arrostado and on the other…oh, god, there it was. I was not going to order that. But it slipped so easily off the tongue, especially in Spanish. Chicharrones. Deep fried pork rinds: crumbly bits of pork skin, with a smidgen of fat and meat still attached, transformed by the fryer into the Trifecta of Porkdom. I both shudder and salivate just thinking about it.

When my order came, I ate the chicken taco first, thinking that I might get filled up and never actually touch the chicharrones. I was able to listen to my friend as she talked but as soon as I finished the chicken taco, I was lost. Fear, anxiety, shame all crowded out my other thoughts. “I can’t eat gobs of pork fat in front of this woman. She respects me, thinks I’m a together professional, someone who knows right from wrong, someone who doesn’t knowingly, let alone enthrallingly, put deep fried fat into her mouth over and over again!” But underneath their little green veils of tomatillo salsa, they called out to me. Salty. Meltingly luscious. Crispy. Porky. Forbidden of all forbidden foods. “Please, oh, please, let this lunch end,” I silently prayed. Another thought entered, growling: “Leave, woman, so I can scarf this taco down with no recrimination from you, a person who EATS SALAD IN A TAQUERIA!” But lunch continued and, as we talked, I ate my little pork bits one by one in an off-hand, slightly disgusted fashion. Until they were all gone.

I thought that was the end of it. My fix for the next twenty-five years. But it wasn’t. My gustatory memory is strong and I was reliving that taste every time I was out. I kept finding myself near that taqueria, even though it’s a good ten miles from my house. Miraculously, my self-loathing prevailed and I never went in. But the devil finds you, even if you avoid him in his usual haunts. I found him in the aisle of a supermarket where I don’t usually shop. There was a bag of fried pork rinds for $1.69 right at the end of my Aisle of Irony (a.k.a. the bulk natural foods). I bought them. By the time I was pulling out of the parking lot, I had a handful ready to pop in my mouth. And, here’s how I know the addiction is bad: these industrial, uniform-in-shape-and-size, virtually flavorless, air-puffed pork rinds turned to packing foam in my gullet and I STILL ATE THEM. What kind of freak am I? I stopped eating, but mostly because my esophagus was now clogged with pork sludge.

I thought that experience was enough to sober me up. But, a week later, back at that same supermarket, I found freshly-made chicharrones in the deli section. They were the real deal, the good kind every Porkaterian lusts for in his bacon-addled heart: gnarled, coffee-colored to golden brown, nothing uniform about them other than that each had a layer of fat still attached (as well as the occasional bit of meat). Again, in the car (clearly the locus of all bad eating), I reached into the bag. I took out one and the crispy clarity of porkiness filled my nostrils. I bit down with my molars and heard that oh-so-satisfying CRRRRUNNCHH.

It took a week for me to get through that little $1.50 bag. Not a day, a week. And, as much as I loved each and every morsel, I am now grossed out by my, dare I say it, piggy-ness. Not that I don’t love the pig—I blame it on my Chinese heritage and my mother giving us roasted pigs feet to gnaw on while we watched t.v. [what? I couldn’t grow up in a family that had Ritz crackers and cheese or celery sticks and peanut butter as afternoon snacks? Clearly this is a goldmine of food-related psychotherapy…]—but even too much of a good thing is well, too much, especially when you think about all that pig fat obstructing your own arteries. Thankfully my jonesing for pork rinds has abated. For how long I don’t know. All I know is that right now I’m craving broccoli, Brussels sprouts and cauliflower. I can respect myself again.