Pom-wonderfulness

This afternoon I walked into the kitchen and lo and behold! there on the counter, in all its late-afternoon-autumn-light splendor,  lounged one of the biggest pomegranates I had ever seen.

“Okay, you pompous  pomegranate you,” I said, giving it the once-over. “Let’s see what you have to show for your 1 pound 3 1/4 ounces (I weighed it) of pom-wonderfulness.”

First, I took that paramount pomegranate outside for a photo session — every pom has its day. The pom’s fame flashed by in an instant, though, as reality hit: it was time to mine the sweet treasures from beneath the leathery pink skin. With a couple wiggles  of the knife, the lifeblood of the pomegranate began leaking onto the bread board.  Success! Breaking apart the pomegranate, the jewel-like arils fought back by staining my hands purple. Tucked tightly together in rows, the arils were stubborn to release from their  home. A deft flick of my finger showed them I was not to be stopped; Pom-wonderfulness would be had.

I tossed a few of the precious gems into my mouth and savored the pop of the tender flesh and the tart liquid dribbling through my mouth. Then I suddenly began to realize how extraordinarily noisy eating a pomegranate can actually be. Eating an apple is unquestionably noisy–they’re crunchy–but pomegranates? Yes, those sly seeds encased within the arils were the guilty culprits. Normally, noisy eating habits top my pet peeves list (yes! even the inevitable apple-crunching…), but today the pomegranate seed crunch struck me as a wonderful  sound dimension enhancing the pomegranate eating experience.

And by experience, it really is quite an ordeal, as anyone who has ever eaten a pomegranate from scratch can attest. Would I trade the arduous task for store-bought pomegranate juice, devoid of the satisfying experience of breaking apart the scarlet gems and pulling them from their case one-by-one? No. Would I trade it for the prepackaged arils available at Costco at Christmastime? Well, maybe if I was really short on time. But here lies the moral: obtain a pomegranate (beheamoth or not), slice open, appreciate the intricacy of design and relish all that pom-wonderfulness.

Cape Cod: An Introduction

Though it’s been weeks since I’ve posted, I recently gathered much fodder for future blog posts on a vacation I took to Cape Cod. From the lobster rolls and fried clams at the local crab shack to the decidedly New England ice cream (purple cow, anyone?), the trip was a delightful exploration of seaside cuisine and lifestyle. Stray not far, readers, more posts to come!

Definition of an Adventure

Amaretti and chocolate -- our Mt. Diablo snack.

Last week Laura was visiting and we decided to make the winding, 40-minute drive to the top of my beloved Mt. Diablo. The recent rains have turned the hillsides a brilliant green, and the white flowers cropping up on the trees remind me that spring is on its way. Charcoal-gray clouds looked magnificent against the bright blue sky.

The visitor's center "turret."

The visitor’s center on top of Mt. Diablo is in a stone building with an enclosed lookout-tower on top and bears a slight resemblance to a castle. Laura and I had visited  our fair share of castles and aged stone churches in England and Italy together and felt faintly that we were reliving those adventures. The same chilly wind that turned our fingers red and made us pull our scarves closer around our necks in Europe was doing the same thing here in California. When we traveled in Europe, we always had some sort of sustenance with us, whether it be cucumbers and bread and butter in England or dried figs and clementines in Italy. On our Mt. Diablo trip we had amaretti, Italian almond cookies  light as meringue, and chocolate from Colombia.

Southerly view from Mt. Diablo

I wondered aloud to Laura how fascinating it is that food can have such a distinct connection to a memory. “Wouldn’t it be fun to always have a certain food to associate with a certain excursion? To intentionally add the sense of taste to memories?” I asked. “That is the definition of an adventure,” smiled Laura. “An adventure includes going somewhere you’ve never been, doing something you’ve never done and eating something you’ve never eaten.” I had never thought to define what an adventure is, but Laura and her fiancee Ben, who had heard this definition from a friend, are the authority when it comes to adventures. From now on, I think I’ll work on developing a taste memory. No, I won’t work so hard that I will think myself out of actually enjoying the moment; it will be about noticing tastes and connecting them with my surroundings.

So Long, Sweet Scharffen Berger

By now you’ve either seen it on the news, read it in an email or heard about it from a colleague: Berkeley’s beloved Sharffen Berger chocolate factory is closings its doors. San Francisco’s Joseph Schmidt, maker of decadent, artistic truffles, will also be closing shop. 

In 2005 both chocolate companies were bought by Hershey Co. Rumor on the web’s comments boards has it that Hershey “swore up and down they would not alter their new subsidiaries’ business or products,” but now Hershey is closing the original manufacturing plants. The chocolate production will be consolidated at factories in Illinois and Pennsylvania. Even talking about these fine chocolates in terms of “production” makes me sad — whatever happened to “crafting” artisan chocolates? Only time will tell whether Hershey maintains the high quality for which Scharffen Berger and Joseph Schmidt chocolates are renowned.

I am glad that I’ll still be able to buy Scharffen Berger chocolate (provided it still tastes as good!) but will miss the Berkeley factory. It was less than two weeks ago when we dropped by to try the latest chocolates at the factory store. The store was packed with students waiting for a tour that afternoon; little did they know they would be one of the last tours to pass through the factory.

For now, all I can say is so long, sweet Scharffen Berger.

Mr. Wizard Meets the Locavore

Eat Local.

That’s the rallying cry I hear these days. Maybe it’s because I live a stone’s throw from Berkeley, mecca of Slow Food. Maybe it’s because my Southern California college cafeteria prided itself in serving scraggly but delicious apples and tender stalks of asparagus from local farmers. Maybe it’s because Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food makes me want to grow my own food like my Neolithic ancestors or, at the very least, my great-grandmother. Of course I want to eat local: it’s healthier for me, good for the environment and supports the local economy. Eat local, eat what’s in season, eat what’s natural. Don’t tamper with your food — let its own flavors shine through.

When I read Denver food critic Jason Sheehan’s article “Mr. Wizard,” I was surprised to learn that not everyone is obsessed with eating locally grown and natural food. In fact, a whole crop of molecular gastronomists study the science of how of food behaves under certain conditions and then manipulates food with chemicals and extreme temperatures to create new forms of food. Ian Kleinman, the “Mr. Wizard” of O’s Steak & Seafood at the Westin Westminster, CO, is one such chef.

Whether Kleinman is flash-freezing crème anglaise around a blackberry, creating grape caviar by squeezing drops of grape juice into calcium chloride or coaxing balsamic vinegar into a stiff, peaked foam with a blowtorch, he is constantly transforming (transmuting?) the familiar into the unfamiliar.  If Alton Brown explains the rules of food science, then Ian Kleinman pushes the rules to their limits.  

My immediate reaction to molecular gastronomy is “No! No! No! This is so unnatural! This can’t be healthy! Isn’t everyone on the eat-local, eat-natural bandwagon?”

No, apparently not. What also disconcerted me about molecular gastronomy is how different the mindset is than the eat-natural philosophy. With the eat-natural philosophy, there is no need to change the texture or form of good quality food. The pleasure in eating foods naturally is derived from celebrating the food in its original form. In molecular gastronomy, however, the chef tinkers with the food’s very essence to create something unnatural, a cuisine nouveau.     

I’ll be honest: I’m skeptical about molecular gastronomy. Then again, I have never read the book Molecular Gastronomy, and I’ve never eaten a molecular gastronomy creation, but reading Sheehan’s “Mr. Wizard” opened my eyes to a new way of thinking about and preparing food. I’m not about to run out and buy a molecular gastronomy starter kit and test out this cuisine, but if you do, let me know. I’d love to try your creations and formulate an experience-based opinion on molecular gastronomy.        

 

Virtual Points of Interest:

***Chowhound’s 10-point cheat sheet to molecular gastronomy. 

*** Jason Sheehan’s article, “Mr. Wizard” (page 157ff).

*** Ian Kleinman’s blog. 

*** Molecular Gastronomy starter kit (complete with Calcium Chloride, Sodium Alginate and Sodium Citrate).

Germany Part 1: Kaffee und Kuchen

Almond kuchen in Meckenheim.

On this pilgrimage of sorts to the country of my ancestors, the country where I spent the first four years of my life, I made an important self-discovery: the intensity of my weak spot for sweets. Of course ice cream and dark chocolate had always ranked high on my list of favorite foods, but why was I so enamored with Kuchen, the cake of Germany? Well, it all began in the Frankfurt airport.

My plane arrived a couple hours before Caroline’s plane, so I set about to find a credit-card accepting café where I could begin my German food tasting. Marche café, which markets itself as Frisch, Gesund, Schnell (fresh, healthy, fast), caught my eye with its bakery cases of pastries, baskets of fresh fruit and offerings of traditional bratwursts. I chose a pastry that looked like a soft focaccia topped with sliced almonds and apple pieces. A cappuccino was all I needed to complete my meal. I sat in the Treffpunkt (meeting place) next to the café, opened the brown paper bag holding the warm pastry and immediately the inviting smell of yeast wafted towards me. Warm, sweet, slightly sticky and utterly comfort food.

Federweisser in Wiesloch.

After Caroline arrived, we drove two hours across the countryside to visit friends in Meckenheim, the town where we used to live. Though we arrived past lunchtime, our hostess had a traditional German lunch waiting for us: Zwiebelkuchen and a savory broccoli tart. Zwiebelkuchen is an onion tart served in autumn with Federweisser, a half-fermented wine available during the grape harvest season. Because it is still fermenting, the sugars, which are turning into alcohol, release carbon dioxide and make the beverage carbonated. After having spent many sleepless hours in the plane and braving the autobahn in our rental car, the home-cooked tarts not only satisfied our hunger but between the tender crust and mellow, earthy flavors of the onions and broccoli schmeckt sehr gut!

Apfelkuchen at our friends' home in Meckenheim.

Four o’clock rolled around and what luck!–that wonderful smell of baked yeast goods filled the house. I peeked in the kitchen to see our hostess pulling an almond-covered Kuchen out of the oven. Soon the electric mixer was whirring –freshly whipped cream. Our hostess had made also made an Apfelkuchen (apple cake) for our afternoon repast. The sun broke through the cloudy sky and streamed in the windows of the living room where we sat–the type of sun where I would curl up and take a nap if I were a cat. With Apfelkuchen, the almond kuchen, coffee and bowl of Schlagsahne (whipped cream), we were treated royally. And the Kuchen was so delicious! The Apfelkuchen was moist and had a fine crumb, a fitting cake for Autumn. The crisp almonds on top of the almond Kuchen provided a lovely contrast with the buttery, sweet, soft Brioche-like Kuchen. A bike ride through Meckenheim ensured we got some exercise in the midst of our feasting.

Käsekuchen at Weingut Stutzmann in Einselthum.

The next afternoon Caroline and I hugged our friends goodbye, exchanged good wishes and called Tschus! Next stop: Einselthum further south in the Pfalz wine region. Einselthum is a charming town tucked amid fields of grass and low, rolling hills covered with grape vines. Einselthum was also home to Weingut Stutzmann, and this was our destination. We were greeted by three very friendly Stutzmanns, who graciously gave us a tour of their winery. As it was late-afternoon, we were also invited to stay for Kaffee und Kuchen. Die Frau had baked a Käsekuchen (cheesecake). Sehr Lecker!

An almond kuchen topped with apricots in Heidelberg.

The last three days of our trip found us further south in the town of Wiesloch visiting the Winzerkeller Wiesloch (winery of Wiesloch). At breakfast in our hotel I tried Marmorkuchen, sometimes called Tiger Cake because its chocolate and vanilla marbling resembles a tiger’s fur. Another lunch of Zwiebelkuchen and Federweisser had me wondering how hard it would be to get a bottle of Federweisser in the States. On our last day we spent an afternoon in Heidelberg, half an hour to the north. With the Schloss (castle) to tour and the town to see, we needed sustenance. A small café with home-baked Kuchen was the perfect place for lunch. Cake for lunch? Yep. The theme of Kuchen on this trip had already made itself apparent to me, so in the name of research I had Kuchen for lunch. I had a slice of almond cake with apricots on top, while Caroline had a slice of Apfelstreusel with whipped cream. This was the last day of our trip, but not our last Kuchen. That evening we ate dinner at a farm restaurant, open only 6-8 weeks of the year during harvest time. For dessert: Apfelkuchen and Zwetschgenkuchen (plum cake).

I’ve been Kuchen-less since I’ve come back to the States, but that will soon change. No, I’m not going back to Germany. And I’m not having Kuchen shipped here from Germany. I’m going to put the 6″ springform pan and Kleine Kuchen cookbook I bought in Germany to work. Looks like that chocolate bar will have to sit in the cupboard a little longer while I enjoy my Kaffee und Kuchen.

Destination Deutschland

Frankfurt to Bonn to Heidelberg.

Next week at this time I’ll be in Germany.

On Friday I am flying to Frankfurt where I’ll meet Caroline, who will be flying in from Atlanta. From Frankfurt we’ll go to Bonn-Meckenheim to stay with German friends whom we have not seen since I was four. I am really excited to visit the place I spent the first four years of my life (minus the first three months in California), especially with Caroline because she remembers much more of our life in Germany than I do.

After spending the weekend in Bonn, we are taking the train to Heidelberg, where we’ll meet the Winzerkeller Wiesloch representatives and go to the winery. It’s mid-September and the harvest is beginning, so we’ll get to watch the beginning stages of the winemaking process.

I had a fun time looking at the Winzerkeller Wiesloch website, trying to put my rusty two years of high school German to use. In July the winery had a wine festival and crowned three Weinhoheiten or wine royalties. There was one Weinkönigin (wine queen) and two Weinprinzessin (wine princesses). The girls had paragraph-long biographies and I couldn’t help but laugh when I read the last few sentences of each, “In Ihrer Freizet…” or “In her free time…” The exact same wording as in my German class textbooks, and I thought it was a silly script all those years.

Besides wondering what else I should take more seriously from German class, I’ve been thinking of:

–The Diet of Worms (the name kind of sticks with you)

–The Bishop of Bingen in his mouse-tower on the Rhine (Longfellow’s “The Children’s                                 Hour”)

–The Heidelberg Catechism (Thank you, Torrey)

And of course I’ve been thinking about making the list of food I want to try in Germany-but only thinking about making it. After all, who knows when I’ll be in Germany again? This list has to satisfy me for an indeterminate period of time.

Mustard’s Grill

"Sorry, everything has ben delicious since 1983"

A couple weeks ago my parents and I went to Napa Valley to celebrate my dad’s birthday. We stopped at a couple wineries along the way, but the highlight of the day was dinner at Mustard’s Grill in Yountville. I had never been to Mustard’s, but I was familiar with the chef and owner Cindy Pawlcyn and her style of cooking because I had scoured the pages of her award-winning The Mustard’s Grill Napa Valley Cookbook. Meriting every ounce of its James Beard Foundation cookbook award, the oversized pages set forth glossy photographs of the chef and her staff at work, vegetables and herbs growing in the garden and the simple yet sophisticated finished dishes. Pawlcyn’s annotations to nearly every recipe oftentimes explain the origin of the recipe (wild rice and game inspired by her Minnesota childhood) and offer tips for the home cook, such as suitable substitutions for chanterelles (morels) or where to look for pickled ginger in the Asian food market (small plastic tubs in the produce section or in the refrigerator). The basics on Mustard’s “truck stop deluxe” menu are all there—pork chops, steak, ribs—but are done-up with that Napa Valley flair: beef tenderloin with Tres Salsas, veal chops with roasted red bell pepper and black olive relish or double lamb chops with tapenade and polenta . Mustard’s Grill, which has been open since 1983, was so well-received that Pawlcyn opened another restaurant, Cindy’s Backstreet Kitchen in St. Helena. Cindy’s Backstreet Kitchen describes itself as “a local joint – hip, casual, not fussy.” It may be casual, but it is certainly not without spunk: the rabbit tostada I had there two summers ago was brilliant. Who would have thought of using rabbit in a tostada? Not to be slowed-down, Pawlcyn opened a sushi and small plates restaurant called Go Fish in 2006, also in St. Helena.

Back to Mustard’s. Before we went into the restaurant, we wandered around the raised beds and rows corn and squash in Mustard’s two-acre garden. Shiny orbs of eggplant hung from bending stems alongside zucchini and summer squash. Between the rows of corn, pink corn husks littered the ground. Green- and orange-mottled winter squash reminded me that autumn was just around the corner. The sun was mellowing in the sky, almost the amber late-afternoon light of autumn.

However peaceful the garden was outside, Mustard’s was all energy inside. With signs out front apologizing “Sorry, everything’s good here” and “Way too many wines” and the fierce loyalty of the locals, Mustard’s had to be busy. Our table was closer to the kitchen-a perfect spot for watching plates of baby rack ribs and piles of shoestring onion rings float by on servers’ arms. The restaurant was loud, but then again Mustard’s marketed itself as a truck stop deluxe.

We had secured a reservation, made the trek to Napa Valley and now faced our next task: ordering. Three-inch industrial looking binders, with “The Wine List” written in orange letters, showcased their extensive and eclectic wine list. Reading the menu and glancing over my shoulder multiple times at the specials board, I finally decided to order the Chipotle Rubbed Quail with Papaya Lime Chutney. The rabbit was tempting, but I’d had that at Pawlcyn’s other restaurant and wanted to broaden my knowledge of fowl. Entrée decided, I frantically scanned a condensed wine list, still overwhelmed by the choices. Our server recommended the Maranet Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley, which was an excellent choice. Before we were served our entrees, we were given butter and a chunk of bread. No need for a bread basket—they just plunked it right on the table cloth. Aware of the imminent crumbs, though, the servers had their token scrapers in hand, ready to whisk away crumbs at a moment’s notice. When she brought my quail, our server anticipated my quandary of how to eat quail in a nice restaurant and whispered, “Most people cut it into quarters and pick it up with their fingers. You’d be here all night trying to eat that with a knife and fork.” I smiled thanks, cut my quail in quarters and picked up the toothpick-thin bones of quail. The quail was not as greasy as duck nor as mild as chicken, but somewhere in between the two. The spiciness of the chipotle rub counteracted any greasiness of the quail and the papaya lime chutney and stack of green beans were the perfect complement for the peppery quail—sweet, mild and flavorful. My mom had sea bass with a pesto sauce and my dad had steak, which they enjoyed.

Though we would have normally refused dessert, it was my dad’s birthday and we were in the market to splurge. We decided to split two desserts, a Jack Daniels bittersweet chocolate cake and a corn cake with blueberries. Our server also treated us to a piece of Mustard’s famous Lemon Tart with Brown Sugar Meringue. I’ve made and tasted my fair share of meringue, but this meringue was phenomenal: billowing high, caramel-colored wisps with that earthy, down-home sweetness of brown sugar.

We were stuffed, but it was worth it; a meal like this only comes around every so often and a birthday only comes once a year. I think my dad had a very good day—I know I did. So who has the next birthday?

The Problem With Pain

The French knew what they were doing when they called bread pain. Even the related panis, pan and pane of other Romance languages carry a tinge of the emotion I associate with bread: each designation has captured so well my painful experiences of making bread.

My first bread-making venture commenced at age five. Our mother was gone, so with the astute guidance of my 10- and 12-year old sisters, we each set about making our own loaf of bread. Convenient and simple must have been my motto. Could flour, water and Captain Crunch cereal mixed in an orange Tupperware cup and subsequently zapped in the microwave go wrong? Oh yes.

My next attempt would surely find success: I was 14 years old and touting my new Baking with Julia cookbook. Inspired by brioche baked in mini flower-pots that I’d recently ordered in a garden-themed restaurant, I decided to bake my own brioche in mini flower-pots. The baking began. The mixing was thorough but careful, the kneading gentle with just the right amount of flour, the first rising took place in a warm but not-too-hot oven, the second rising—“Second rising?! The rolls are already in the oven!” Well, apparently I was literacy-challenged, not reading the directions thoroughly, and my flower-pot brioches were vertically-challenged, but at least they tasted good. And we all know that “at least they tasted good” is on par with “she has a great personality.”

Third time is the charm, right? Would have been, except failing to cook the potatoes long enough for the Rustic Potato Loaves does inevitably result in texture issues. And then there was the sourdough starter. It sat on the counter for who knows how long. “Please, Mom, let me keep it just a little longer! The special mold in the air is what makes San Francisco sourdough spectacular…”

The bread escapades continued but met no success, and that beast of a Baking with Julia book taunted me, reminding me of my inability to turn out a satisfying loaf of bread. I consoled myself, saying, “I like cooking, not baking. Too much precision in baking. I like to create combinations inspired by the moment. It’s an art.”

And yet those glossy pages boasting crisp loaves of chewy Focaccia and buttery Challah refuse to leave me alone. I am Odysseus and those loaves are the Sirens luring me to the kitchen, tempting me to pull out the flour and yeast from the cupboard and bake another loaf. I suppose even art involves precision. Brahms’ rich and layered melodies were not crafted without the great precision. And Matisse did not set down those simple swaths of color before he had mastered traditional technique. So maybe there is more to being an artist in the kitchen than just throwing things together. Perhaps I should try my hand again at the old bread routine. After all, no pain no gain.

Pasolivo

Some people are book-driven travelers, setting off to find the wine-dark sea of Homer’s Odyssey. Others are movie-driven travelers, delighting that they have found the house in Anacortes where The Goonies was filmed. In my family, however, we are food-driven travelers, taking every opportunity to enjoy the bounty of the land.

Last summer afforded us such an opportunity: we had been in Pismo Beach for my cousin Dara’s wedding and on the way home took a detour to visit Pasolivo, an olive orchard and producer of award-winning olive oils. We followed a winding road through rolling hills covered with silver olive trees, rows of grape vines and the ever-wild California Live Oak. A charming barn and farmhouse set the quaint tone of the Pasolivo orchard. The walls inside the tasting room were splashed with cheery yellows and greens, and bright printed tablecloths and cookbooks were for sale. A party of ten raucous visitors dipped their cubes of bread into the six oils and brazenly passed their judgments. As my parents and I counted out six bread cubes to taste the oils, the woman proctoring the tasting explained that Pasolivo is a family-run orchard on 45 acres and has been producing for eight years. We tasted all of Pasolivo’s oils: an extra virgin oil, a California blend, a Kalamata oil, and Meyer lemon, lime, and tangerine flavored oils. Pasolivo has won ten gold medals in the last three years in the Olive Oils of the World Competition. The bottle we purchased, their extra virgin olive oil, won Best of Class in the 2007 Los Angeles International Olive Oil Competition. As we tasted the oils, the woman suggested food pairings for each oil-salmon, grilled eggplant, ceviche. Lastly, we mixed one of the citrus flavored oils with a local honey, foretelling a wonderful breakfast with crusty bread and figs. The tasting room sold other olive oil related products: olive oil lip balm and lotions, chocolates made with tangerine olive oil, and garlic-stuffed olives.

While I was reading a framed article about Pasolivo, four bikers, arms sleeved with tattoos, entered the tasting room. One of the bikers pointed to a bottle of the California blend olive oil and said to his friends, “Man, this is my favorite stuff. I use it all the time.” The woman behind the counter, having caught a glace of this lover of olive oil, raised her hands in welcome and exclaimed with a smile, “Hey! We like this guy!” The tasting room broke into a happy chatter of friends catching up and enjoying good olive oil.

We all left at the same time-the ten rowdy tourists crowding into their white limousine chartered for a tour of the wine country; the bikers rumbling away into a cloud of dust on their Harley Davidsons; and my parents and I straining for one last glimpse of the seasoned farmhouse, our new bottle of olive oil tucked safely in the trunk. I wondered where the tourists’ and bikers’ travels would take them-maybe an upscale restaurant or a show, maybe a hole-in-the-wall pub or an aunt’s Victorian mansion. Even as my parents and I reached our destination, our home, I knew our travels weren’t over-there were still more olive oils to taste, more wines to sample-we simply had to find them.