Upon seeing The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public

“Hm, that sounds like my kind of play,” I thought* immediately after reading a flattering review of Nathan Englander’s The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public Theater. I think I may have even said this out loud to my roommates … or, at least, to the room. And I knew then that I would go see it, considering that I’m in a show-seeing mode (and that I could possibly get a ticket for relatively cheap.)

How about fish tacos why not?

Since I can't get to Baja, SoCal, or even Rockaway Beach regularly ... and seeing as we had some fresh radishes in the garden ... and I just so happened to be strolling by the Mexican grocery shops of Sunset Park ... I felt it time to try my hand at fish tacos with a side of fried cactus.

After a couple hours of sweating and swearing in the kitchen, or what other people call "cooking," I had produced a blog-worthy meal. Here's the decently-photographed evidence:

nopales

slices

fried cactus

fish fry

dos tacos

For those interested in cooking up something similar, here are some sources I consulted:

~ Fried vegetable batter: http://www.dvo.com/recipe_pages/deepfried/Batter_Fried_Zucchini_Sticks_full.html
~ Fried cactus: http://www.tasteofhome.com/Recipes/Fried-Cactus-Strips
~ Fish tacos: http://thepauperedchef.com/2006/06/baja_fish_tacos.html
http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2009/02/easy-pan-fried-fish-tacos-with-white-sauce-recipe.html

(I used frozen mahi mahi pieces, and dressed the whole thing with a simple guacamole, yogurt/mayo white sauce, and raw radishes and cilantro.)

Southern Exposure

#5 Brooks Robinson, Orioles legend

Caught the Bolt for a buck (or more)
For a 3-day weekend in Baltimore:
To see old friends and new sights,
Indulge in Southern charm and culinary delights,
And in my (old) backyard ... explore.

North Avenue guides me from interstate to inner city:
Metropolitan sprawl to blocks both gentrified and gritty.
New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down.
So let's take a chance on this old, yet vibrant town--
Two centuries since the Bombardment, and never more pretty.

Past Downtown and Inner Harbor we drive
To the hot spots in Fell's Point--both luxury and dive.
How 'bout lunch and a soccer match, if we make it quick?
Bertha's mussels and an afternoon pint do the trick.
Spain routs France, and for another round La Roja survive.

To Vaccaro's we amble for an Italian snack:
Pastries, cakes, and gelato--there's no lack.
We select some cannoli filled beyond capacity.
Where else would you find such vintage generosity?
Won't see Berger's here--just pignoli by the stack.

How about a movie to kill some time and avoid the heat?
To the Charles Theater we scurry and grab a seat
Just in time for the new Wes Anderson flick:
Moonrise Kingdom--quirky & sweet, clever & quick,
With characters and actors that can't be beat.

A brief drive fulfills the day's final mission:
A late, but fresh dinner at Woodberry Kitchen.
An old foundry houses this farm-to-table joint,
Where course after course fails to disappoint.
A delicious meal here might become a tradition.

On a bright summer Sunday fit for a ballgame,
More friends arrive, and a shady corner of Camden Yards we claim.
But early on, the Nationals take the lead.
Runners left on base? It seems the Os just won't succeed.
Except for a two-run homer by Wieters--and his arm's deadly aim.

A better finish couldn't have been written:
A sold-out stadium and an Orioles win;
Relaxing with friends, a Natty Boh in hand.
On to DC I travel, leaving behind Maryland
For some Ledo's and that new(s) show by Aaron Sorkin.

We swing by College Park, home to my alma mater,
For a bagel brunch, as the day grows hotter.
The sight of campus evokes memories both good and bad,
But I hold no love for Route 1, which never looked so sad;
Vertigo Books, 3 years gone--caught in a cultural slaughter.

Though the Mall is a construction zone,
There are still free museums, obscure and well-known:
At the Hirschorn we interact with modern art--
Colorful installations where the viewer must take part.
While Natural History exhibits colonial skeletons & bones.

We end our afternoon with increased knowledge,
Of the kind they don't teach you in college:
That art can be both pretentious and fun,
That 85% of Jamestown died in the Chesapeake sun,
And that a Rita's has been hiding under a Chinatown ledge.

But evening arrives and I must depart,
Though I do so with a heavy heart.
This trip of good times with good friends,
Is all too brief and too quickly ends.
One adventure over, I look for the next one to start.

Getting back to it ...

In the year 2012, I have been to Iceland just as many times as I have posted here. Forgive me for the humblebrag, but I really don’t know how else to begin my return to this blog … you know, the one supposedly dedicated to getting me to write more about anything and everything.

The hiatus is partially due to my lack of progress with my Rite of Spring project. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to post again about my story (see below) until I had a complete rough draft to share. And despite my research and writing in January, February, and March … I haven’t finished that—hence the lack of posts. (However, I should have posted about seeing maestro Alan Gilbert leading the Julliard Orchestra in a kick-ass version of the Rite. Hm … maybe I’ll get around to doing that after all.)

In the meantime, however, I have done a variety of things that a less-discriminating person would call “bloggable.” And seeing as I seldom write creatively, or have any wry observations or impassioned views to express in essay form, I must again deign to recounting and reflecting on the life I am extraordinarily lucky to have here in the greatest city in the country world. (And by that I, of course, mean Jersey City.)

A Very Mandy Meal

Before the extravaganza that is the traditional American Thanksgiving, Mandy and I put together a sumptuous for our apartment. It featured Mandy's latest crock-pot concoction ('tis the season, after all): lentil & butternut squash stew. 

Of course, Tim will claim that his meddling monitoring not only contributed to the cook of the stew, but also to preventing the house from burning down. Alongside this hearty stew, I added a loaf of my usual no-knead, no-worry artisan bread, paired the meal with a rather dry, tart Spanish apple cider.

And for those of you not familiar with my aunt: crock-pot meal + mountain of fresh bread + green drink = a very Mandy meal (though I believe a sprinkle-encrusted bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream would also qualify.)   

Bottling Summer's Bounty: a Tale of Three Jars

 When I have the time, I will go on a frenzy of cooking. This especially true in summer, when I desperately try to make ever meal as light, local, and seasonal as possible. I freely admit that I have a farmer's market fetish, and can never leave the Journal or Union Square Market without a bagful of produce, baked goods, or cheese. I justify it like my concert obsession--I don't have cable, or car insurance, or any of those normal kinds of expenses. So, please, let me have my pursuit of good meals and quality ingredients.

The other night, inspired by my kimchi triumph (see below), I created three concoctions either derived from fresh local ingredients, or destined to complement them: blueberry jam, basil pesto, and ricotta cheese. Each of recipe is rather simple on its own, but attempted all at once late at night ... It's possible to accomplish, but I don't recommend it; my ambitions sometimes get the better of me, but the results are almost always worth it.

The blueberry jam recipe comes courtesy of Mark Bittman at the Times, whose Minimalist column I've been following and cooking from for years. This recipe is incredibly simple, and only requires blueberries, a little sugar, and about 20 minutes of simmering until they've broken down into a syrupy mess. Actually, this warm blue goo would probably be fantastic over pancakes or waffles--and can be used to supplement the whole blueberries in blueberry muffins (before baking, of course.) Instead, I let it cool and congeal in some jars, and will use it with toast over the next week or two. And maybe I'll even save some for Mandy; a notorious blueberry fanatic, she once ate a pint of berries every day for a whole month ... or at least tired to.

While the blubes simmered, I boiled three cups whole milk and a cup of heavy cream until it reached 190-degrees Fahrenheit (having figured out how to actually use the kitchen thermometer helped immensely.) When the milk reached this point, I added some fresh lemon juice and let the whole thing curdle--cheese-making being one of the few times when you actually want milk to become a solid (well, ice cream is pretty good too, but I don't make that--that's strictly Tim's department.) Actually, this experience was a good application of everything I'd learned from Harold McGee in his book On Food and Cooking. Milk's unique molecular and chemical structure were fully demonstrated before my eyes in a novel way (rather than as the foam on my cappuccino, or as poured over my cereal).

curdling

draining

I dumped the curds into a colander lined with cheesecloth, and waited for the whey to drain. Sprinkled with a little salt, it's as fresh and simple as cheese gets. Besides eating it straight, I planned to use ricotta in linguine with sweet cherry tomatoes, but I also had to whip up a quick pesto.

Naturally, I went down to our front "yard" basil plant and, by flashlight, trimmed two cups of huge green leaves. Then I combined them with the traditional accoutrement: olive oil, garlic, parmigiano-reggiano, and toasted pine nuts (do toast them, it's worth the five minutes for that flavor.) Simple, right? Of course, with a recipe of so few ingredients the emphasis falls on the quality and balance of those ingredients. And, as with most recipes, you can alter pesto to your particular taste. One of the best things about pesto (there are several, but I will not explore them here), is it's ability to be frozen, sans cheese. Then come winter, you can thaw some pesto, add a dash of parm and a drizzle of oil and have yourself a taste of summer despite the snow and lack of fresh local vegetables. (If you have a home as well heated as mine, the effect will be complete since you'll almost certainly be wearing shorts--not that I'm complaining ... ) And with that, I tucked my three jars in the fridge and called it a night. The next morning I awoke eager to sample my home-made concoctions.

Check out this (not so) fresh hotness!

See, I told you it would happen. I pickled and spiced napa cabbages using two different recipes back in June/July to create the famous Korean condiment-of-a-thousand-faces known as kimchi. 

The first attempt ... Well, let's just say I have been to wary to eat it since the day I made it. One, it involved some apple sauce, for a sweet tang to go with the spiciness; this seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I'm kind of leary of the results nearly two months later. And two, on the first night of pickling, I was cruelly reminded of the necessity of a loosely-lidded jar to allow gasses to gently escape. Curiosity about my first ever attempt at kimchi led me to open the jar I'd been storing in my roommate's pantry cabinet (Shh! Don't tell him!) A few twists of the the lid, then WHOOSH!--and a stream of sweet/spicy/sour cabbage water sprayed across the counter and me. Oh well. So I cleaned myself up, placed the jar in a plastic bag on the floor of our recycling annex (yes, we have a recycling annex--right next to our dumbwaiter, as a matter of fact), and waited a few more days until it was good and funky before refrigerating. And ... I haven't tried it since--and I have a rather wide and unusual palate.* I have suggested two reasons why--the taste and eruption--but it's probably the third reason that's most accurate: the other recipe is just far better.

You see, I brewed up an truly spicy version for the guests at my uncle's annual Fourth of July picnic, since I knew there would both be an abundance of hot dogs and perhaps a few adventurous eaters who might appreciate a fiery Korean condiment. Actually, if no one else but myself had eaten any kimchi, I still would have been pleased. But apparently, people were really into it (not as much as my home-made limoncello or grilled clams, but I digress.) Months later, Mandy and I still use this kimchi to spike our tacos, sandwiches, and take-out Chinese food. It's good'n'pickled and incredibly hot, but I'd like to do it again--with the authentic Korean chili powder. You see, I live near New York City, so when a recipe suggests you go to an Asian grocery store, I can pretty much go any grocery store and find an plethora of ethnic food aisles. But this time, I really wanted to get it right (and I was glad for an excuse to go on a food adventure in Chinatown), so I went to Hong Kong Supermarket. Surely, a place with live frogs, preserved duck eggs, strange freeze-dried fish, and hundreds of Japanese snacks would have Korean chili powder, right? Apparently not. I searched high and low, found two separate aisles of spices and sauces (of the East Asian and South-East Asian variety), picked up a bottle of srihacha for Maggie since Baltimore is a rooster-less desert, and left with a small bottle of additive-free red chili powder. Not the right kind, surely, but I used the whole damn thing and don't regret it.

Uh-oh! Looks like it's time to make more ...

*Just last week, I bought for myself as little snack I saw while shopping at the grocery store: a can of smoked oysters--not your typical impulse-buy treat. (They were delicious, by the way.)

Catching Up on My June Adventures, Part 2: an Evening in Red Hook

late 19th Century Red Hook

 On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty. 

 I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.

            With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
            The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found: 

Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
            We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.

But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert, every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the music on this night was refreshingly familiar.  

                

*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from Sunny’s bar. Any takers?

Catching Up on My June Adventures ...

When I traveled home last month for my sister’s annual dance recital, I did not expect to experience a gastronomic tour of culinary curiosities in the area of the Delaware/Maryland border. All I had anticipated from this relaxing weekend away from the city was visiting my family, catching up on sleep, watching crappy TV, eating my grandfather's food, and taking in a little ballet. But when my mother declared while driving on I-95 (after picking me up from the Fung-Wah bus drop-off in Wilmington) that she didn’t really know where she was driving, I should have expected we’d end up somewhere wholly unexpected.

Return of the Food Market!

Welcome back, Madison Square Food Market—the bane of my budget and waistline (just kidding: I really don’t expect my budget to shrink or my waistline to widen, since both are perpetually small and fluctuate rarely.) It’s been such a long winter in the Flatiron district without. Was it really back in October when I first wrote about your many culinary delights? My, how the time does fly … and this blog sucks just as much as it did then. Oh well … Evidently, the month-long fest was so popular last fall that the organizers brought it back for the spring, with the addition of a few stalls of indie handicraft manufacturers. And along with the surprise of discovering the market’s return a couple weeks ago came the inevitable dread of having to decide what to select from the many options available—and how not to eat everything at once. (Oh, how lucky am I to have an expendable income, general lack of responsibility, and absence of dire life issues. That is why I write this blog after all—so I can gloat over any readers in the Third World who may stumble upon this.)
           
At lunch on the opening day, rather than be experimental with my selection, I decided to go with a sure thing and bee-lined to the Calexico grill cart on the south side of the market. 

Calexico began a few years ago in the early days of the gourmet food-vendor scene by dishing out Cal-Mex on lunch breaks downtown. I’d read that they were turning out some of the best burritos in the city, but never could make it to their cart for lunch. But once, on a trip to Brooklyn, I managed to stop by their recently-built storefront. I had a good pair of tacos, before I became aware of the breadth and diversity of NYC taco scene. This time, however, I chose a carne asada burrito to fill me up for the day—with a dose of their trademark chipotle “crack sauce.” Now, as much as I like Americanized Mexican food and the traditional stuff, I dare not claim to be a connoisseur. I cannot even compare this burrito to one from Chipotle, or that of Dos Toros (an NYC purveyor of Mission-style burritos). But let’s stick to what I do know. Would I have liked more gauc on the burrito? Sure. But, the pressing urgency of the cart’s line did allow for me to go back and request an extra "fwop". But—was the meat both well-seasoned and well-grilled? Yes, and that counts for a lot in my book. And, the crack sauce was definitely worth the extra cost. This would be the point where I include a photograph of a burrito, but I am: a) trending away from being a food pornographer, and b) sorry to report that the awesome delicousness of said burrito did not allow me time for a photo or a spare with which to take it. Moving on …

Last Wednesday, since I had an extended lunch break, I invited my aunt to the market. Last fall, the long lines at Roberta’s had prevented me from getting personal pizza from their wood-fired oven, but now that I had someone to share with, it made sense to order a pair: the SpeckenWolf, and a Bee Sting.  We grabbed them, as well as some sodas concocted from home-made syrups, and found a seat on the lawn in Madison Square Park. A pizza fresh from the oven is something to relish, but we were both too damn hungry—so no pictures! Besides sating me, these pies also inspired me get back to my own pizza-making hobby. (Among my favorites from last summer: a “smoke & fire” pizza featuring soppressata, roasted red peppers, and a touch of liquid smoke; and a dessert-like pizza of arugula and figs with a touch of honey and balsamic vinegar.) For me, the Speckenwolf did not feature enough speck—but it did hit home on the onions and mushrooms. The spicy/sweet flavors of the Bee Sting was more to my liking, and leads me to believe that a combination of my “smoke & fire” pizza with the fig one might just work … Although I’ll probably need a damn thick crust to support all that.

Speaking of fascinating flavor combinations, I discovered more at the goat’s milk ice cream stand. After the pizza, I got a scoop of their salted caramel, which suited me perfectly since my palate enjoys salty/sweet more than spicy/sweet or even sweet/sweet. A couple days later I stopped by for a cone of the flavor my aunt had gotten: bitter chocolate mint. Where my caramel had been a punch of saltiness finished off with a potent sweetness, this ice cream possessed depth and a subtle complexity I did not think possible. Rather than tasting like traditional mint chocolate chip or Thin Mint cookies, I tasted fresh mint—not overpowering, but reminiscent of mint tea, or chewing on mint leaves while playing left field during my family’s annual wiffleball game. And the chocolate had an intricate flavor profile akin to that of a good coffee, good beer, or good wine.

And finally, I treated myself to a pair of hot dogs from Asia Dog—a restaurant that combines two NYC trends: putting Asian condiments on non-Asian food (i.e., Korean tacos), and adorning hot dogs—a sacred New York culinary icon—with a plethora of toppings that make them resemble the dogs served in that “second city,” you know, that one in the Midwest or somewhere. Anyway, I ordered a Thai-style and one with kimchi and nori (seaweed) flakes. The Thai dog (of chicken meat), came with a mango, cukes, onions, cilantro, and, of course, crush peanuts. This was the kind of heft and variety of textures that should appear in a good sandwich, or hot dog for that matter. The kimchi—fermented spicy cabbage—on my beef hot dog wasn’t as tongue-burning as I’d assumed it would be (which is both good and bad), and the nori were too few (granted, this critique comes from someone who has been known to snack on seaweed flakes.) However, I did realize two things: first, kimchi, combining a cool relish with a spicy sauce, is my ideal hot dog topping (sorry, sauerkraut and spicy mustard—we’ll always have the ball park), and second, I could probably make my own kimchi easily, and enjoy it on my hot dogs all summer long. So, the next time I blog on food, it will likely feature my experimentation with jars of fermenting cabbage and a journey in search of Korean chili powder. Bring on summer, and keep the good food coming.

     

Driving Mr. McDermott (II. Road Trips)

One of the things I’ve regretted about not being able to drive—besides not having an ID, or being a capable designated driver (back in my straight-edge days)—was my inability to participate in road trips. For instance, in college I went on a road trip to visit a friend in Ohio; but if I ever talk about it, I’d have to say I “drove” to Ohio with some college friends—they took turns driving, but I merely rode along. My family has gone on cross-country trips, but I have no sense what it actually means to drive those miles or how it feels to cross the landscape behind the wheel. But in my lessons with Walter, as I’ve outgrown Jersey City, we have had to drive farther and farther for new experiences and sights.

Breakfast: bloggable minutiae reaches a new low (or high?)

Yes, it's come to this. Me, telling you, what I had for breakfast. (Truly, the nadir of blogging knows no limit.) Usually, it's just oatmeal and tea. But on the weekends that changes. 

When I have time, I will make brunch for my roommates.  Last weekend I made a pretty good applesauce cake, and attempted a Spanish-style tortilla (as you may have seen better executed on my friend Alex's blog.) And though she may have the recipes, photos, and humorous testimonials that make a good food blog, she does not have the regular access to New York and its eats you will find on this one.

And speaking of such things, on some weekends I work. And since I must go into the city early, I usually pick up breakfast and coffee somewhere to make the morning bearable.  Sometimes, I'm looking for good coffee, with the meal being secondary. And other times the treat is more of a pastry. My standard is the pain au trois chocolat from Bouchon Bakery. Yes, I know--very bourgeoisie. But it's awesome: a chocolate-dough croissant, with creamy chocolate filling, and little drizzled on top ... decadent, and it keeps me buzzing all morning. I should post a picture here, but you'll pick up one the next time you're near Columbus Circle. 

And although I had to be at the Lincoln Center again yesterday morning, I just had the chocolate croissant the last time I worked a Saturday. And besides, I was a looking for something to hold over my doughnut craving, as I eagerly anticipate the opening of the Doughnut Plant branch at the Chelsea Hotel--very near to where I also work.  (And by "eager", I mean that I mention it to my roommate nearly every week, check the website often, and even monitor the situation in person whenever I visit the public library across the street from the future storefront.)  So, I sought out a list of the best doughnuts around not made at the Doughnut Plant (or in my kitchen).  And as it turns out, Bombolini is very highly regarded and very near the LC.

I'd read that the Nutella-filled bombolini was very good, so I of course selected the one indicated by a chocolate-covered hazelnut balanced on top. But for my other doughnut, I was at a loss.  I didn't want to seem too ignorant of Italian, (genuinely wanted something not in the realm of chocolate), so I avoided the labels I could not translate and simply asked for a fruit-filled one.  I got an apricot, which turned out to be a good choice.

The dough itself was chewy, with a nice fried crunch on the outside.  The ratio of dough to filling was balanced, leaning slightly towards the filling, which is what I want if it's especially good. The apricot was sweeter and thicker than I'd expected. Granted, my only real reference for apricot pastries would be my grandfather's apricot kalac (although not as good as the nut version--which he will tell you is "so freakin' easy" to make.) 'Twas a good doughnut, with even a powdered sugar garnish.

Fortunately, I had to handle several phone calls and could digest a little before the Nutella one.  Again, the dough was good, with the filling being definitely lighter than Nutella.  Though delicious, it did not have the intense chocolate and hazelnut of the pure spread. But, considering most eater's palates, a more custard-like filling was probably a good decision.

Yes, the bombolini were rather good (though perhaps not the healthiest way to start the morning), but ... the craving for the Doughnut Plant's seasonal specialties and solid standards (and amazing chai!) was not abated.

Let's ... make ... a pie--an apple pie!

Tasty Habits, anyone?  Weren't you there?  Remember that show they did at WMUC above the South Campus Dining Hall--the night they promised "improved stage antics"?  And then they delivered by tossing marshmallows into the audience halfway through the set, and because it was a very small room with way too many people it got way too hot and all the marshmallows melted and stuck to the floor/our shoes?  How can you not remember that?  Well, that's why I baked this apple-cranberry pie.

Actually, it was for my office Thanksgiving party (from which I'm still full, despite leaving the office five hours ago.)  Yeah, those folks like their food & drink. I'm just sorry you didn't get to try my apple pie ... whoever you are.  Well, you can expect me to not stop making pies or going to concerts anytime soon, so eventually our paths will cross.

Ah! More baked goods than writing! (the usual)

This weekend, keeping with the seasonal theme to my recent cooking, I baked two decadent dishes much to the delight of my cold, hungry roommates.

First, the pumpkin cake/bars with maple cream cheese icing and topped by bacon:

 Yes, that’s caramelized bacon on a cake.

I ran across this recipe on a food blog, took one look at their photo, and decided that it had to be made.  It makes a great dessert, but an even better breakfast.

Speaking of good breakfasts that can be also be a dessert, yesterday morning I whipped up a batch of apple cider donuts:

before the flip ...

... and after

 And here’s even a video of me frying the final (disastrous) donuts:

Please forgive the puns and misshapen results (delicious all the same, though.)  Actually, a mistake from the pumpkin bars the night before—a maple cream cheese icing that turned into a vat of rich caramel—turned out to be the perfect glaze: a sweet compliment to the fresh-fried dough as well as an excellent adhesive for the minced apple topping.

Oh, look: they read the New Yorker and the Village Voice with their doughnuts.  Well la-di-da ... A bit desperate to prove our Manhattan bourgeois cred, aren't we?

While the donut holes received a cinnamon-sugar treatment right out of the oil.

Yes, that’s how we do it up in Jersey City.  And this wasn’t even for guests!  Just stop in for a visit and see what kind of culinary madness you’ll be served (quite possibly on our roof, winter be damned).

A Latin American interlude

It’s been a while since something food-related prompted me to write here.  Let’s face it: it’s been over a week since anything inspired me to write.  I mean, well, I did cook minestrone again—more tomato-y and spicy.  And I cooked up a “weird” butternut squash soup, complete with fresh-baked bread (which my roommate insists I bake daily.)  But none of this was really blog-worthy.   Until today. 

On my lunch break, I strolled a block through the rain to pick up lunch from “Latin American Restaurant.”  Yes, that’s actually what it’s called.  Though the name is generic, the food is not.  And not only is it cheap as well, but you always leave with two-meals worth of food in your take-out bag.  I’ve only been there once before, but the way my co-workers rave about the food makes me feel like I’ve been going there for years.  It’s our neighborhood secret spot, and mentioning the name alone invokes a craving for filling meal (or two) of Latin soul food done right. 

Now, I’ve probably mentioned that pork is my favorite meat (yes, all you vegetarians and vegans out there—I do have a favorite animal I like to consume).  And I may have also mentioned that I’m particularly fond of the Latin American treatment of this meat—especially in Mexican cuisine.  (Although, Italy comes very close to clinching this place in my heart with its various cured meats.  And, of course, there are the multitudinous Asian takes on pork: buns, dumplings, ramen, and banh mi among them.)  So, whenever I venture into a Latin eatery, I go straight to the pork, whether burritos, tacos, arepas, or just plain ol’ roast pork with rice and beans.  I had had this before from “Latin American,” and even though I knew it would be a satisfying meal, I opted for a delicacy not readily available from the hot bar: mofongo.

Mofongo comes to the US via Puerto Rico, as well as the Dominican Republic, and actually traces its origins to the “fufu” of West Africa--a common dish combining a mashed starch with seasoned meat.  And in this case, the mofongo combines two of my favorites: fried plantains and roast pork, cooked into a solid cake.  Fantastic, right?  It was.  The texture of the dense banana/meat is odd initially (for those of us unaccustomed to this combo), but the taste overcomes any such qualms.  Actually, to do that benefits from a hearty dose of the mystery sauce.  That’s right, “mystery sauce.”  To my surprise, a coffee cup accompanied my mofongo to the staff lounge.  Opening the lid let escape a delicious aroma.  For whatever reason, I always trust in a mystery sauce—it’s usually made with love, as well as the drippings of items cooked earlier in day.  In this case, it looked as if it was ladled straight from a vat of roasted pork.  Drizzle this on your mofongo—done. 

Yes, this rich meal was a nice deviation from the routine, but even the experience at the restaurant was satisfying in a way.  Since my order was not pre-made, I waited at the counter for ten minutes in the very midst of the hustle and bustle—with hardly a word of English spoken.  Phone orders came in fast and furious, with the matron of the joint belting them out to her team of servers rushing to fill tins, cups, and bags for delivery.  For whatever reason, I felt content to be immersed both a foreign language and the business of the restaurant at full lunch-rush tilt.  I would have savored all this by eating at the counter, but with all the food that would have arrived on my plate … I felt it best for it to come already in its doggie bag, aka tomorrow's lunch. 

Food! (this is just what happens when I have time on my hands)

For Sunday night football:

roasted taters (so crispy and sweet!)

brats

and good Belgian-style beer (courtesy of Brooklyn Brewery)

 
And for brunch, apple crisp:

Would have liked the streusel to have been a little more cooked and gooey … but a delicious way to use up the last of my Granny Smiths.


And for dinner?  Minestrone, of course!

 

Next time, I’ll have to bake my own bread.
















Oh, and at some point I made oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies: 

And as a finale, everything pumpkin muffins:

with chocolate-chips, cream cheese, and streusel