an open cupboard

I’ve decided to participate in NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month, the blogosphere’s answer to NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. As you can see from the official Seal of Yoda, this means I will post every day. I think I just had a very small panic attack as I wrote that last sentence. Post every day. Ack! Well, challenges aren’t supposed to be easy. A slight sense of dread is natural (gulp).

But I think the experience will be fun, and maybe I’ll get more comfortable with frequent posting. Frequent posting means setting aside a chunk of time on a frequent basis to actually write something coherent and interesting, in the case of this blog, generally about food. It also means doing food-related things like cooking and shopping at the farmer’s market so as to have the means to actually write about said food-related things. Once the food related activities are complete, said activities have been contemplated, and a post has been written, it’s time for editing, rewriting, re-editing, re-writing, proofing, and finally, posting. I haven’t even gone into the part where I take twenty photos with my horrid little digital camera from hell, none of which come out remotely the way I want. Then I edit the photos and cringe when I finally see them hanging there, looking like forlorn little children wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters.

In some ways, frequent posting, and indeed, blogging itself goes against the way I’ve always written anything. I like to write, revise, write some more, revise, tweak, and write some more until I get more or less what I’m after. This is pretty much the antithesis of blogging, a spontaneous, idiomatic medium often replete with typos (ack!) and clichés (no!). But that’s the beauty of blogging as well, saying what you mean in the moment, in the simplest way, spellcheck be damned.

I think my goals for this month’s little experiment include finding some sort of happy medium between the way I like to write, and the way I’m sometimes afraid to write. I will try to find the middle ground between controlled, endless self-editing and spontaneous typo-laden stream-of-consciousness. And if it isn’t perfect, it isn’t perfect. At least it’s there for you to read, or not.

Another goal is to play around with my camera more. True, I do hate the little ogre. But some smart dude once said that good photos are taken by a good photographer, or something like that. A bad camera has its limitations, but if I keep working at it, I might get some good food photos out of it. I might also post photos of the back yard, if the pasta looks too glossy.

So do stay tuned for more spontaneous writing, photos, and possibly some unrelated notes and thoughts. As I will be posting on a daily basis, just about any topic is fair game. Oh, and please feel free to ask questions or request topics for posting. I’ll do my best to oblige.

Folks, thank you for reading!

P.S. Big tip o’ the hat to Jen from Life Begins at Thirty for posting about NaBloPoMo.

Allow me to introduce you to my dealer: Bittersweet Café, readers, readers, Bittersweet Café. Bittersweet is a chocolate shop and café in Oakland and San Francisco. It’s a cozy place to have a cup of coffee, or satiate your chocolate craving.

While many chocolate shops concentrate on truffles and confections, Bittersweet offers a wide selection of high quality chocolate bars. The bars at Bittersweet are displayed on shelves, according to category and ascending levels of cocoa solids. First the white chocolate bars (really just vanilla-flavored cocoa butter), then the milk chocolate, the flavored chocolates (Mayan style, ginger, lavender, etc.), the dark chocolates, and the hardcore baking chocolates. I like a good dark chocolate truffle now and then, but I prefer a bar with a high percentage of cocoa solids for everyday consumption. I like my chocolate intense and flavorful, not necessarily sweet, so I usually head straight for the dark and baking sections.

Among my favorite bars:

• Hachez Premier Cru, 88%—A creamy-textured, slightly berry-like chocolate that’s fun to eat.
• Domori Puro, 100%—Very intense, dark and strong, almost coffee-like in flavor. A little goes a long way, half a square is usually enough for me. Although this bar has no sugar, it’s still a little sweet and delicious on its own. This is the kind of chocolate you want to eat slowly while sitting in your favorite chair and maybe sipping a cognac. Actually, skip the cognac. Who needs cognac when you have chocolate this good?
• Santander Dark, 70%—A smooth, creamy bar that tastes of kahlua, but contains no coffee liqueur.
• Dolfin Noir 88% de Cacao—An intense, yet smooth bar. I particularly like the tobacco pouch packaging, no fiddly foil to gently open only to rip to shreds when you try to re-package the rest to save for later.

In addition to bars, Bittersweet offers all manner of chocolate goods and knick-knacks, such as wooden gift boxes filled with a variety of chocolates, books about chocolate, CDs by a band called the Bittersweets, drinking chocolate and cocoa, and cocoa butter chapstick (”chocolate for your lips”).

Of course the requisite t-shirts bearing the store’s logo are fetchingly displayed as well.

Once you’ve picked out your take-home goods, you can order a hot drink and a little something to go with it.

My favorite drink is the Bittersweet:a hot drinking chocolate prepared without milk. Rich, smooth, and not too sweet, the Bittersweet is truly a balm for the soul on a cold day. I can never finish it at one go, as it’s so intense. I often refrigerate the remainder and eat it later as a sort of chocolate pudding.

Bittersweet’s excellence in all things chocolate is only exceeded by their friendly, knowledgeable staff. Every employee I’ve spoken to at Bittersweet knows their chocolate, and is thoughtful enough to consult a fellow staff-member if they don’t. Most employees enjoy sampling the goods, so they can guide you in choosing a bar that suits your tastes. One staffer once took the time to explain the rules of thumb in finding chocolates produced without the abominable use of slavery (cocoa grown on family-owned plantations, cocoa grown in South America as opposed to certain regions of West Africa).

I especially appreciate the staff’s accommodation of my picture-snapping today. I really do try to be unobtrusive, but people eventually notice that you’re the only idiot in the shop taking pictures of chocolate. They were enthusiastic when I told them about the Food Destinations chocolate blogging event and we started talking a bit about foodblogging. When I commented on both baristas’ lovely henna-painted hands, I got into an interesting conversation about the ancient Egyptian art of henna hand painting with new employee and henna artist Silvana. That’s just the kind of place Bittersweet is.

Bittersweet Chocolate Café
5427 College Avenue (two blocks south of Rockridge BART Station)
Oakland, CA 94618
(510) 654-7159

Opening Hours:
Sunday through Thursday 9am to 7pm
Friday 9am to 9pm
Saturday 9am to 9pm

Food destinations #3: My Favorite Chocolate Shop

Recnetly spotted at the local highfalutin’ fancy food shop: Organic light corn syrup by Wholesome Sweeteners. Let’s parse this disturbing phrase, shall we? Organic, meaning grown according to particular standards regulating the use of pesticides and artificial fertilizers, etc. Light corn syrup, meaning a highly processed liquid derived from corn, also linked to the global rise of diabetes and obesity. True, the scientific community is still debating whether or not corn syrup is any worse than ordinary sugar. Nonetheless, corn syrup is a highly refined sweetener with no nutritional value. It is anything but natural and wholesome:

Produced in large manufacturing facilities scattered mostly across the flat, golden expanse of the American corn belt, high-fructose corn syrup is not a product that anyone could cook up at home using a few ears of corn. The process starts with corn kernels and takes place in a series of stainless steel vats and tubes in which a dozen different mechanical processes and chemical reactions occur — including several rounds of high-velocity spinning and the introduction of three different enzymes to incite molecular rearrangements.

The enzymes turn most of the glucose molecules in corn into fructose, which makes the substance sweeter. This 90 percent fructose syrup mixture is then combined with regular corn syrup, which is 100 percent glucose molecules, to get the right percentage of fructose and glucose. The final product is a clear, goopy liquid that is roughly as sweet as sugar. (New York Times, July 2, 2006)

Sure, organic light corn syrup may be produced with no pesticides, artificial fertilizers, or GMO corn. But it’s so far removed from actual corn that its culinary and nutritional values are seriously suspect. As a general rule, highly processed foods tend to be either unhealthy or unsavory, or both. A cookie made with partially hydrogenated soybean oil does not compare to a cookie made with butter. One tastes of sawdust, and the other has a tender, buttery crumb.

What’s the point of manufacturing an organic sweetener from organic corn if the sweetener itself is at best, a highly processed non-food, and at worst a poison? Corn syrup has no business being organic.

This is Keiko, a Japanese fortune cat or maneki neko. Keiko lives on top of my computer monitor. She’s always pleased, as you can tell from the happy expression on her little cat face, and she’s always politely beckoning or waving, depending on how you look at it. Keiko does not shake off her cute little red collar, and doesn’t mind wearing a bell. In short, she’s the perfect cat.

This is Sheba—my living breathing cat—completely occupied by her favorite activity: eating. The photo is blurry because Sheba tends to move her head around so as to strategically position her mouth directly above the tastiest morsel of cat food. While noisily scarfing down her food, Sheba purrs loudly and talks (”mer!”). Being a cat, Sheba has no lips, but I swear I hear lip-smacking when she eats. After five to ten minutes of “purr-chomp-chomp-lip-smack-purr,” Sheba says “mrew?” and hastily dashes out the cat door. She comes back for dinner, announcing her presence with several dramatic, open-mouthed cries of “Mraaaaaaaw!” while she runs as fast as she can toward the food dish. The loud yet plaintive “Mraaaaaaaaaaw” also serves to remind her humans to fill replenish the bowl with fresh kibble, in case they’ve forgotten.

After dinner, if it’s cold outside, Sheba will stick around and allow her humans to pet her, but not to pick her up. When she’s had enough petting, Sheba grabs the petter’s hand with her teeth. This is her way of saying “you’re messing up my gorgeous, velvety fur, which I’ve just preened, by the way! I feel like hunting now and your hand reminds me of a mouse.” Any human who continues petting her does so at his own peril.

If it’s warm outside, Sheba will promptly leave the house in search of amusing outdoor activities such as claiming random yards as her territory, batting bugs with her paw, and possibly directing a pitiful “Mraaaaaaaaaw” at unsuspecting neighbors in search of handouts.

When she’s tired, Sheba comes back home for bedtime. She’ll curl up under the covers and pet her humans with her paw. She’ll snooze and purr for a few hours. Then she’ll make sure I’m asleep, and use my favorite upholstered chair as a scratching post. By the time we wake up, Sheba is gone. At least until breakfast.

On my way back from New York, I found myself wandering around aimlessly during a stopover at the Dallas airport. It was one of those stopovers that is long enough to drive a person to boredom but not quite long enough to actually exit the airport and walk around the city. Having experienced the hydrogenated plastic that is domestic US airline food—the pleasure of which you are often required to pay extra—I decided to look around the airport for something a little more appetizing that I could take with me on the flight. Sandwiches aren’t yet seen as a security threat in the world of airport security, so I figured I could safely carry on a little bite of something or other.

The Dallas Fort Worth International Airport is an interesting place. Every five minutes a stern, yet friendly recording announces that “any jokes about security may result in your arrest.” And nowhere, but nowhere, can you find a fresh vegetable of any kind. Sure, there is the prerequisite smoothie stand selling half gallon sugary fruit drinks that could sustain an African village for a month. But there is not a single leafy green to be found, and believe me, I checked the sandwiches at Starbuck’s. Nada.

So I looked over my options. Starbuck’s, Popeye’s, Chilli’s, Pizza Hut, Taco Bell. Given a choice of boring franchise food, what do you eat? Why, whatever’s local, of course! And what’s local in Texas? Barbecue! Off I went to Dickey’s BBQ, just left of Popeye’s in Terminal C.

In keeping with what I can only assume is a Texas tradition, Dickey’s offers no vegetables to speak of, unless they’re doused in mayonnaise, deep-fried, or battered and deep-fried. But then, you don’t go to a barbecue joint for a salad.

I bought two barbecue sandwiches: the slow-cooked brisket and the spare ribs. The brisket sandwich consisted of an ordinary hamburger bun with a big ol’ honkin’ slab of meat bathed in barbecue sauce. For the second sandwich, two large sets of ribs were placed in a bun, forming an enormous pork seesaw with a flimsy bun fulcrum. Eegads! Naturally, Dickey’s packs a substantial wad of napkins along with your foil-wrapped sandwich.

I ate the brisket sandwich on the plane. The sauce was pretty good, with a nice balance of sweetness, tanginess, and spice. The meat was tasty, and still somewhat red on the inside, but it was missing something. A little too dry, perhaps. Still, I was grateful to eat a decent lunch, considering that the airline’s “chicken BBQ” meal was pretty much inedible (and since when do Texans barbecue chicken?). I saved the rib sandwich for my arrival at home, to be shared with A. Naturally, A was pleased. The sandwich was very good, best enjoyed at home where you can eat large, messy barbecued ribs that leave your taste buds happy and your face shiny with fat and sauce. Barbecue is an impolite food by definition. You may as well embrace the chaos, just use the napkins when you’re done.

Here’s a little snack I put together the other day:

1 ginger biscuit or ginger snap
a shmear of almond butter
2 little squares of dark chocolate with ginger bits

• Shmear almond butter on cookie, top with chocolate. Eat with a glass of milk or tea.
• Optionally, toast (if you can wait that long), and spread the melted chocolate over the almond butter.

It’s like an open-faced s’more, but not quite. This little number combines the best features of the dessert genre—it’s richly chocolatey, creamy, nutty, and crunchy. Sweet, but not too sweet, with a sharp bite of ginger that awakens the palate. In a word, delightful. You could use regular chocolate, particularly if you don’t like your chocolate to wear sexy footwear.

Autumn has arrived, sort of. One day it’s rainy, the next sunny. It’s too cold for t-shirts, but not cold enough for sweaters. Such is the schizophrenic nature of the weather in California. If it were honestly cold in these parts, a hot bowl of fresh beans would be the perfect vehicle for taking the bite off the chill. But alas, a dish such as Boston baked beans is simply overkill. What to do?

Cook the last of the summer tomatoes with the first of the autumn beans. Throw in some sharp goat cheese to spike the sweetness of the tomatoes, and a handful of greens for color and contrasting texture. The result is a warming, yet light stew, alive with both delicate and strong flavors.

I used the remainder of a local bucheron I found at the bottom of the cheese section in the fridge. Bucherons harden with age, and their flavor sharpens dramatically. As is usually the case, I just used whatever I happened to have on hand. You could use another goat cheese, good old parmigiano reggiano, or Västerbotten, if you’re so inclined.

cranberry bean stew

1 c shelled cranberry or other large, fresh beans
water to cover
4 sprigs fresh thyme
olive oil
5 small tomatoes, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled
about 3-4 oz. of a hard goat cheese, or other strong-flavored cheese, chopped or grated
handful of fresh spinach, chopped into coarse ribbons

• Place the shelled beans in a small pot or saucepan and cover with water. Add the thyme sprigs and bring to the boil.
• When the water has boiled, adjust the flame to a low simmer and cover the pot. Simmer until beans are tender but still al dente.
• Remove thyme sprigs and drain excess water. Place pot on a low flame, and pour in some olive oil, about half a tablespoon.
• Add about half of the chopped tomatoes to the pot and stir.
• Crush the garlic into the pot, season to taste with salt and pepper, and stir.
• Add the cheese and stir.
• Cover the pot and simmer, stirring occasionally.
• When the tomatoes have melted down into a sauce, add the remaining tomatoes. Cover and simmer to soften the tomatoes slightly.
• Add the spinach ribbons and stir. Taste and correct seasonings, then turn off the flame.
• Serve with a drizzle of olive oil.

Serves 2

Wandering around Chinatown one evening, I happened upon the Feast of San Genarro, a noisy street fair on the cusp of Chinatown and Little Italy. I’d heard that the Feast of San Gennaro was once a charming event celebrating the Neopolitan heritage of the residents of Little Italy. Sadly, the festival is now a kitschy spoof of its former self. Throngs of people wander from one identical street to the next, surrounded by a mass of vendors all noisily hocking the same cannolis, calzones, and irritating pop music. It all looked so commercial, I didn’t even feel like eating a cannoli. Who knows, the cannolis might have been good. On the other hand, they may have been just as bastardized as the Feast.

On I went, away from Little Italy and into Chinatown. A lot of stores were shut, but many restaurants and some markets were still open. I walked into what I thought was a hole-in-the-wall food shop, which, like Mary Poppins’ bag, turned out to be a quite an extensive Chinese market that was much bigger on the inside that it looked on the outside.

The market is basically a long, wide aisle, stretching from one street all the way through to its parallel. Either end has a take-out section with food rivaling that of any local restaurant. The left aisle has a series of meat, seafood, and confectionary counters, while the right aisle is filled with cured meats and fresh and frozen produce, meat, and seafood. Naturally, I couldn’t resist photographing as much as I could. There’s something satisfying about capturing on flashdisk the smoked duck legs for which you’re lusting. Though not quite as satisfying as actually consuming said foods.

Fresh bao at the deli counter. I believe these are stuffed with shrimp.

The deli section between the fish and meat counters offers “beef tendon balls,” meatballs, “fishballs,” and “fish meat bean curd” balls.

Dainty fresh fish fillets and steaks at the fish counter (I wonder what the “silver fish” tastes like?).

Prawns, shrimp, and very large fish.

Raw and fried chicken feet.

Honeycomb tripe. According to Wikipedia, this might be steamed and served with spring onions and garlic sauce, for example.

These preserved duck feet bunches are in the cured meat section of the store.

Preserved quail in the cured meat section with butchers hanging out behind the meat counter.

Smoked duck legs, smoked bacon, and Chinese sausages.

The sign says “Preserved Duck Head” but they look more like duck necks.

Scrumptious looking goodies ready for take-out.

I’m really curious as to what exactly a turnip cake tastes like. Is it savory? Sweet? I probably should’ve just bought one and put it in my carry-on.

Lotus seed buns, red bean buns, and muffin-looking rice cakes in the bakery section.

Here are some links to some food-related stories and content I’ve been looking at recently:

• Short films on food from the Media that Matters Film Festival (by way of Slow Food)
• 10 restaurants around the world worth the cost of the plane ticket, by the late R.W. Apple (by way of Rebecca’s Pocket)
• The dilution of organic standards by agribusiness (not quite news, but a good reminder nonetheless: by way of mercola.com)
• A list of sustainable agriculture links (by way of mercola.com)

Upcoming events in the San Francisco Bay Area:

• Litquake Lit Crawl: Writers on Food and Wine, Saturday October 14, 8:30pm-9:30pm. The San Francisco literary festival includes a lineup of foodwriters at Laszlo Bar, MCed by Shuna of Eggbeater (by way of Eggbeater)
• Food for Thought: Filmmakers Lilach Dekel and Rod Bachar travel 15,000 miles over 5 months to document where exactly their food comes from (sponsored by commonwealth.org, to be screened in San Jose on November 8)

I was recently amused to see a lulav and etrog on display at the Berkeley Bowl. Apparently, you can order them from a guy at the produce section and buy them along with the rest of your groceries.

The lulav and etrog are symbols used in the Jewish celebration of Sukkot, or the Feast of Tabernacles. The lulav and etrog consist of a citron, a ripe palm frond, a myrtle branch, and a willow branch. Each element of the Four Species, as they’re called, represents a different type of Jew. Like Voltron, the Four Species are bound together to create a greater whole, representing the entire Jewish nation. Traditionally, the lulav and etrog are blessed and then gently shaken in four directions, representing the presence of the divine in the four corners of the earth.

My fondest memories of Sukkot are of eating in the sukkah. A sukkah is a sort of temporary hut built outdoors, with a roof typically made of palm branches. The idea is to re-create the huts in which the Jews lived as they traveled the desert between Egypt and the promised land. The sukkah must have a roof that is sparse enough for dwellers to see the stars at night. Ideally, you’re supposed to live in the sukkah for seven days, meaning eating, sleeping, hanging out. For children, this is great news. Any child who loves building forts and camping has a field day, or rather seven field days, during Sukkot.

But nothing is quite like a candle-lit holiday dinner in a sukkah. The palm frond roof rustles in the breeze, and the stars peek through as you enjoy your dinner. The air is permeated by the perfume of the branches, the sweet smell of challah dipped in honey, and the fragrant etrog which is carefully wrapped in a long lock of flax and laid to rest in its own little etrog box.

At the end of the holiday, the sukkah is dismantled and saved for the following year, the sukkah decorations are put away, and the palm fronds lie beside the trash bins awaiting garbage day.

But the etrog isn’t thrown out. Unlike lemons, citrons don’t rot. Instead, they shrivel and harden, which only intensifies their lovely fragrance. An old etrog might find itself snuggled in a sweater drawer. In a Sepharadi or Mizrahi home, etrogs might become etrog jam.

If you can find citrons in your area (try next week, after the holiday), you might want to try making etrog jam, especially if you’re a marmalade enthusiast. Citron jam has a particular flavor of its own. It’s Sukkot in a jar.