bike sundays

I’ve been getting brave and braver on my bike in the last few weeks; on Thursday, I had some errands to run, and instead of finding a plant nursery in another neighborhood but near a subway, I just found the closest one and plotted my ride over there. Nothing like riding with three pounds of potting soil in your basket, by the way. That was about three miles round trip, but did I stop there? No sirree! Arriving back at my building, I swapped out the pot and soil for my faulty cable box and rode over to the Time Warner center a mile away, and grabbed a much-needed sandwich at a deli on the way home. I was pretty chuffed, I won’t lie.

So today, I decided to explore eastward from our neighborhood, where Brooklyn flattens out a bit into Ditmas Park and Kensington (did I mention we live in the highest point in Brooklyn? Fun for getting home!). There’s a greenmarket on Cortelyou Road I was going to scope out, and see how manageable the ride there and back would be for weekend grocery shopping.

I got there in about 30 minutes, taking extra time on the way there to scope out the cute neighborhoods around Flatbush Malls, and the straight shot back home only took 20. Of course, I’d left my wallet in my regular purse (d’oh!) so I didn’t have a chance to get my hands on the amazing cheeses and heirloom cherry tomatoes and man! that turkey sausage! that I wanted to bring home with me. The good news is, it’ll all be there next week, and year round – this might be the start of a new Sunday tradition.

Now all I need is a(nother) basket on the back of my bike to get all that farm fresh goodness home. And maybe some more sunscreen, if next Sunday hits the nineties like today.

look at that kitchen!

Like, it seems, everyone else in the world at the moment, I’m mildly obsessed with Julia Child. Not that I can say, oh, I was obsessed with her since the BEGINNING, I mean, I read her biography in 2006 on a lark and it’s only been since then. And I fully admit to being mostly intimidated by the entirety of her oevre in Mastering The Art of French Cooking (although I appreciate the various subleties – and the effort that went into picking it – in the title).

No, my obsession with JC is completely personality-based; I loved reading her words, and her energy, and the way it was never too late, or too far gone, to make something great for her.

I also loved hearing her descriptions of the various kitchens she worked in, which is why this brief article and its accompanying photos were such a delight. Look! There are the outlines that the meticulous Paul Child laid out on the walls for her pans! Look at the neat symmetry of the measuring cups above the stove! The serving plates on the counter! It’s all so… so…. NEAT.

As both a librarian (in training) and a home cook (in vino veritas) I can appreciate a bloody neat kitchen. Top marks as usual to the indomitable Julia Child.

two chickens!

This is sort of crazy in the way that I love my crazy: roasting a chicken to get enough juice for another roast chicken. Nick over at The Paupered Chef decides to try this awesomely crazy enterprise (two chickens!) just to see if using a first, throwaway* roast chicken to create the hallowed au jus for another roast chicken, well, makes the chicken altogether more chicken-y.

(Chicken chicken chicken!)

I’m not sure I would ever actually do this – I’m still working up the courage to master Zuni Cafe’s Roast Chicken Recipe – but I’d sure love it if one of you fools decide to try it and, say, invite me over to share the crazy.

* although, smart lad, he didn’t throw the chicken away but rather used it for stock. Another thing I’m still squaring up to.

preference vs. prejudice, or, how I learned to like nuoc cham

Back in the wilds of 2005, when the Swede was new to New York and we were newly married, we used to go to this Vietnamese place up on the Upper West Side called Saigon Grill. Not the most original name or the most original menu – Saigon Grill does a bustling trade in Vietnamese food adjusted for the Jewish New York Palate – but we liked the little free cups of tea and the spring rolls and the experience.

I always ordered this plate called Bo Luc Lac, which basically is a westernized version of sauteed beef cubes (westernized in that the cut of meat is fairly expensive here in New York) on crunchy lettuce leaves, with a tangy dipping sauce alongside that was listed on the menu as “nuoc cham”. I loved this dipping sauce; I’d even eat the delicious vinegar-y carrots right out of the bowl.

At the same time, I maintained my historic aversion to seafood or anything remotely fishy. I would buy anchovie-less Caesar salad dressing. One time, my brother and I ended up at Nobu on someone else’s dime (don’t ask) and I tried every damn piece of sushi and sashimi that came my way and all I could do was swallow it down and attempt a weak smile.  I just didn’t like fish. You can probably see where this is going.

One day at Saigon Grill, the Swede decided to ask the waitress what was in my nuoc cham that I liked so much.

“Fish sauce,” she said brusquely, and kept moving through the restaurant.

The Swede says he could bottle the look on my face and pop it out when he needed a laugh. Fish sauce! I’d been dipping my food in FISH SAUCE? To be fair to me, and the entire panoply of Vietnamese cooking that was before me, I kept eating it. But I never quite got over that moment where I realized that what I thought was a taste bud preference was in fact, completely psychological. I could like something with fish in it. As long as I didn’t know what it was.

A few months ago, this psychological stumbling block reared its head again, even with my newfound adventurousness. I was at a cocktail party and the host had prepared this dish that contained some kind of grain, beans, crunchy onions and sweet raisins, and a whole mess of delicious flavors, topped with crumbled feta and served with pita. I ate it, and liked it so much that I asked her to send me the recipe. She sent me an email the next day with a link to a recipe in the exact same cookstr emails I get every week: it was bulgur with lentils, parsely and raisins. Of course, I’d scanned the same email days before and discounted that recipe – why? – because it had ingredients that I’d never heard of, so surely I must dislike them.

Between the fish sauce and the bulgur dish, I’ve seen time and again that what I think is a preference is, in fact, a prejudice. All I need to do is try things without wondering or worrying whether I like them beforehand. It’s not that easy, of course; last night we went to a Vietnamese restaurant in our neighborhood and the Swede ordered roast pigeon (of course!) and when he offered me a bite, I felt that same no! instinct rear its head. Pigeon! But because of my rule, I forced myself to try it. Well, as it turns out, it was a little salty and gamey for my tastes, but at least I tried it. Four years ago, you would have had to tell me it was chicken for it to even get near my mouth. Change, to paraphrase Mark Twain, can’t be flung out the window but coaxed gently down the stairs*.

And yes, last night’s dinner did include a healthy serving of Nuoc Cham, and I dipped everything in it. Can’t say I’m not learning!

*Although, being a librarian-in-training, I’m not going to link to this quote because I can’t find a verified source anywhere on the web in a cursory search. This is a major problem with quotation indexes on the Web; they don’t point to a source; if you’re like me, that means they might as well be made up.

link

I stumbled across this post on Matt Haughey’s blog (via not martha) and think he’s got a great perspective on the ongoing work of weight loss – or even, once you “get” to where you’re “going” (a flawed analogy to say the least), maintaining a healthy weight range.

I particularly like his point about asking yourself, when faced with an extravagant meal or plate, whether it’s good enough that you’ll remember it in two weeks. Someone remind of that next time I wander near some mediocre french fries.

conquered foods, an introduction

I made a pact with myself back in the early days of 2008. I realized that my pickiness was only going to get pickier, and that unchecked, I would be missing out on a lot of delicious and healthy foods just because I was afraid to try new things. I also realized that if I didn’t conquer this, I’d pass it on to our kids and suddenly I’d have a child that refused to eat noodles because they’ve got holes in, or something, and I’d have no monster to blame but the one in the mirror.

So the pact: if someone offered me something to eat that I’d never tried, I couldn’t turn it down. I had to try it. And then I promptly told everyone I knew about my new rule. This means my adventurous and pranksteriffic friends had a field day with me in 2008; I’ve tried bites off everyone’s plate, everything from snapper to tofu to tripe to kale. Stuff I’d never eaten before, some stuff I never want to eat again.

And lo, I found some winners! Believe it or not, aside from all the tripe, there are a half-dozen foods that I’ve added to my repertoire in the last year that I’m no longer afraid of, and some I even cook on a regular basis. More than anything, it’s meant I’m less afraid of menus or recipes with ingredients unknown, because I know some of them now.

Like asparagus! Remind me to tell you how much asparagus I eat now. Preview: a lot.

So I’ll be posting here a lot about foods that I’ve been previously unable to approach with a ten-foot pole, which, lo!, I am now eating. Recovering Picky Eaters should feel free to pass on trade secrets. Like, how do I make myself like zucchini?

quack! further adventures in new food

During our weekend visit to Rhode Island just past, my parents had planned to take us out to dinner to one of my mom’s favorite places, but she wasn’t feeling well. So they offered to treat us to dinner out, just the two of us, wherever we wanted.

My parents live in this adorable part of Providence that – although they rarely take advantage of it – is eminently walkable. The park across from their house hosts the Hope Street Farmers Market and a ten minute walk finds you sipping coffee and eating a croissant at Seven Star Bakery. The Swede and I settled on dinner at Chez Pascal, the little French bistro down the street that my parents had yet to try. Chez Pascal did not disappoint.

The Swede ordered the escargots a la bourguignonne to start, and I ordered the heirloom tomato salad, which came with an eggplant caponata on top and crispy chunks of lightly fried cheese. He had the hock-eye salmon for his main course, and I had the roast young duck with buttered fava beans. We finished with a trio of french custards for him and a trio of yummy chocolates for me.

People who love all the food I just mentioned, let me hand-hold you through the following list of things I ate or ordered that I’d never eaten before and had no idea what they’d taste like: the caponata on my salad, the duck itself (I know I’ve had duck but I’ve never ordered it for myself), the fava beans, two bites of the Swede’s salmon and one whole garlicky escargot.

And of course every bite of every plate was delicious. Even the salmon, although I didn’t get enough of a sense of the fish on its own so I’m not sure whether I can add it to “food I like now”.

Since starting my quest, over a year ago, to try new foods, that dinner marked a turning point, where I happily ordered things I’ve never tried before with a completely new-found confidence that I’d probably like them and they’d probably be delicious. When I started, I was only brave off other people’s plates. The Swede even said, after we’d ordered and I’d pointed out that I’ve never had duck, “maybe I should have ordered something you know you like, so we could trade in case you don’t like the duck.”

But he needn’t have worried! And the thing is, I wasn’t worried either. For the first time since my experiment started, I wasn’t worried whether my picky taste buds would foil me again. I think the turning point is that it’s no longer psychological; I’m starting to trust that if I try something, and don’t like it particularly, that’s okay – I gave it a fair shake. I’m no longer discounting things in my head before giving my taste buds a chance to vote.

Above and beyond all these little milestones, what really counts is, I like duck! So much, in fact, that I may never go back to chicken again.

dog days

I had a busy day, considering it started with some tummy unpleasantness (chicken pot pie from Citarella, what was wrong with you!) and a bit of a whiny lie-in. Once I dragged myself out of bed, having already begged off today’s work at my internship, I realized I wasn’t feeling all that bad anymore, and decided to embark on a chores bender of epic proportions.

I did ALL our laundry (four loads, four hours, four flights of stairs), spray-painted a poster frame that’s been needing a darker coat, fixed some patches on our baseboards that had gotten chipped, that sort of thing. I was a busy girl! I had a quick lunch of chili but other than that, it was up and down stairs, lugging laundry, being diligent and productive.

By the time I’d dusted my hands of all this, with no small sense of accomplishment, I felt like I hadn’t done anything… you know… fun! yet today. So I got on my trusty bike, and decided to brave the street bike lane down 7th avenue, and see how far I could go. I’ve been testing the shallow end on the whole “biking in the street with crazy Brooklyn drivers” thing lately, but I felt the confidence I needed today, so I strapped my helmet on and away I went! It was a stupidly hot day but by 7:45pm, it was starting to cool down as the sun dipped below the bay and the street lights started to turn on. Sure enough, I got thirty blocks down 7th avenue when a Baskin Robbins caught my eye.

Now, if I had my druthers on ice cream parlors, it’d be a Laboratorio del Gelato and we’d live in the West Village – then again, I’d have to bike through West Village traffic! – but we don’t, so Baskin Robbins it was. And let me tell you, after thirty minutes and thirty blocks, I got my kiddie cone of French Vanilla and I sat on the concrete border of the charmless parking lot and I LOVED it.

It sure helped that I knew I was working off the 200 calories with my bike ride, and that a delicious gourmet chicken ceasar salad was on the menu for dinner. Maybe this goes a ways towards making up for those chicken nuggets I accidentally ate for lunch yesterday. WHAT! It was raining buckets and the place was two doors down and no jury in the world would convict me.

success!

One of my long-standing food issues is that I’m picky (surprise) about what to take to work for lunch. This is compounded by the fact that I work at a small non-profit movement studio, and we don’t have a fridge. I finally splurged on an office microwave for myself, and in the winter, I can usually get by bringing in soups and stews and chilis made at the weekend. But in summer, I’m at a loss for brown-bagging ideas.

My problem is, I’m not a huge fan of sandwiches. I admire the Swede, who diligently makes himself sandwiches every morning, throws them in his bag with an apple and maybe a yoghurt, and presto! Lunchtime, at a couple bucks a day.  But sandwiches, for me, are only delicious if they’re lovingly crafted with crazy artisanal breads, delicious fresh ingredients – you know, ‘wichcraft type stuff. And far be it from me to slap that together on a weekday morning.

But! Today marked a triumph. Yesterday the Swede suggested I pick a recipe that I wanted to try and he’d make it for me (I’ve been nursing some awful sinusitis for the past week and was sternly ordered to rest on the couch). So I poked around some old faithful websites and found this black bean and corn salad on Cooking Light, and he agreed to make it for me.

I will admit I was a little nervous; bell peppers are one of those veggies I’ve come to only recently, and I’m still shy around them. The Swede chopped up all these bright peppers, an onion, a jalapeno, and tossed it with black beans and corn and garlic and lime juice and lots of other goodies and threw it in the fridge.

This morning, I served myself one and a half cups in tupperware, topped it with leftover shredded chicken from last night’s gourmet chicken ceasar salad (it’s amazing what making your own croutons can do for  a salad) and a hearty handful of Jack cheese. I’m a big believer in adding a nice fat to any salad to make it more filling, and Jack is a perfect smooth accompaniment to all those bright crunchy ingredients, right?

RIGHT. It was so delicious, I inhaled it at my desk ten minutes ago. The corn was crunchy and the beans were creamy and garlicky, the tomatoes and the peppers were crunchy, and the lime-y dressing really made everything tangy and sparkly. And of course, cheese made it better. Doesn’t cheese make everything better?

So the good news is, I’ve found a lunch food I like, that’s easy to throw together on a Sunday night and should keep through the week! Wonders, they will never cease. Now to find a couple more to round out my repertoire before I get sick of this delicious bowl of spicy, crunchy (healthy!) goodness.

why we’re here

When I was a little kid, my family would drive all around Greece, visiting relatives and seeing the sights. It’s a long-standing joke in my family that I only ever ate the spaghetti bolognese.

I’ve always been a picky eater. I have a knee-jerk reaction to trying new foods, which is that I probably won’t like it and it sounds weird and why is it green? Everyone knows this about me. And then I went and married the guy who, when faced with a daunting menu full of unknowns, will order exactly the thing he’s never heard of.

Me: You’re ordering WHAT? It’s not even in English. But I think that means “rabbit brains”.
the Swede (not his real name, just his favorite vegetable): Yes. I’m ordering that. Brilliant.
Me: Don’t you want to ask the waiter what’s in it?
the Swede: That would spoil the fun.

This actually happened, at the local Chinese in our soon-to-be-new neighborhood. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen years as a half-native Texan, refusing to try guacamole because it’s green. GREEN! I also swore off broccoli because it feels like I’m eating tiny trees. Honestly!

So what happens when a picky eater (me) and an adventurous eater (the Swede) get married and start cooking together? They eat a lot of penne a la vodka with garlic bread, is what. In fact, when I think about our first apartment, that’s what it smells like. It’s not that I’m a boring cook, mind you. It’s just that when your repertoire is limited to starches, tomato sauces, and the spare chicken breast, well… it’s a lot of penne a la vodka with garlic bread.

Which brings me to the second part of why we’re here – V a.l. P w/ GB isn’t particularly healthy. Not when all you eat is that or similar. So of course, a curvy girl my whole life with terrible food habits? I gained some weight.

Let me stress here that I don’t think I’m fat, and I won’t use the word. I think I have a fair bit of weight to lose and I know I’ve done it before and I know I’m doing it now. I’m not going to spend a lot of time haranguing over points (although we are a WW household and I’m happy to supply points for meals I suggest) or bemoaning things like swimsuits or mirrors. I’m a Type-A person; it’s easy to get bogged down in the small stuff and this is the big picture here.

But I will be focusing on losing weight in the short term, so that I can focus on living a healthy life in the long term. And finally figuring out whether I like broccoli or not, damnit.