oh fer auld lang syne!

sneaks

I’m not really a competitive person. No, really, I’m not. I hate competitive sports. Kids would always pick me last for softball because I tended to daydream. I’d sit on the warm grass in the outfield and daydream, often wishing I had a book to read. I yawn at the thought of watching grown men wear extensive padding and skin-tight uniforms as they fight over a pigskin ball. And, um, well… the drama and excitement of the world cup is completely lost on me (sorry Euro-readers, nothing personal). I’d much rather compete against myself, which is why I’m more of a karate/yoga/tai chi person than a football/soccer(er, football)/racquetball person.

So this morning I’m schvitzing away on the treadmill at the gym. I hate the gym. The treadmill makes me feel like a giant hamster. But it’s right downstairs, and the machines there tell me things like how many calories I’ve burned off, which the lake, pretty as it is, does not. I’m up to level six, thirty minutes a pop. I’ve been gradually working ny way up from level two or so. I figure I’ll slowly work my way up to the highest level—with the biggest gradients and fastest speeds—and then extend my work out to a cool 45 minutes. But that’s a way off… at level six, I feel like my spleen is about to burst.

To keep my mind off the tedium of it all, I’ve got my MP3 player on, surfing the radio stations. Oh yeah! Vintage Janet, now I’m cooking! I pick up the pace and start miming “What have you done for me lately?” Just as I hit the “oooooh oooh ooooh yeah,” in walks this 18 year old on his summer vacation. He’s a skinny little tyke. Aw… he’s probably tiring himself out getting in shape for the ladies. How cute.

He gets on the treadmill next to mine and, without so much as stretching a hamstring, begins to run. And I mean really run. His sneakers are pounding the rubber faster than my lungs can remember to breathe. Holy running shoes, Batman. If this little pisher ran any faster his shoes would be smoking.

Suddenly my thighs feel heavier, my butt feels like jelly, and I could swear I’m developing auntie arms. You know, like when your aging aunt lifts up her great big arms to hug you and thirty inches of flab dangle from what used to be her triceps. Or biceps. Or something. I pretend that the 15 minutes remaining on my treadmill timer are my cooldown period. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I’m moving slower than a tortoise in comparison. Maybe I’ve actually been running for 45 minutes already. At lightning speed. I’m just slowing it down a bit now, yeah. To the tune of Janet.

Jeez. I’ll bet this kid’s never even heard of Janet Jackson. He probably thinks Rhythm Nation is a Native American tribe that reaaaaaaaally likes to party, dude.

Aw Christ. I’m old.

I do my real cool down, slow as molasses.

My birthday is next week. I’ll be thirty three (a less scary number when it’s spelled out, n’est-ce pas?). I’m in—gulp—“my thirties.” When did my twenties recede into the distance like the dusty horizon in a road trip movie? How did I get here, running a mental race with a boy nearly half my age?

Thirty three.

33.

Sigh.

At least the college kids in the elevator still hit on me. “Hey gorgeous,” says my young coffee-complexioned neighbor. Me? Is he talking to me? Shucks. I grin like an idiot and laugh nervously. I’m nearly old enough to be his mother. Doesn’t he know? Maybe he likes older women. Still, how cute. This little pisher made my day.

33. As they say in Yiddish: “wear it in good health.” Yeah, I think I will.

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za’atar

On a recent bright Saturday morning at the Ferry Plaza farmers’ market, I was pleasantly surprised to find large bouquets of za’atar. Star Route Farms grows the herb and sells large bunches of it at the market.

Za’atar is more commonly known as an herby spice mix spiked with sesame seeds. The mix is named after the plant, which is dried and mixed with a variety of ingredients such as sumac, cumin and salt. Traditionally, people in the Middle East have mixed their own za’atar according to family recipes and the local palate. The dried mix is sprinkled on labneh (a sour sheep’s milk yogurt cheese) and on small round flatbreads drizzled in peppery olive oil.

Fresh za’atar is a rare treat. I’ve never seen it in bay area farmers’ markets. It was hard to find the herb even in the markets of the greater Tel Aviv area. Once you get your hands on some, you can use it fresh and dry the rest in the sun. Store it in a tightly sealed jar.

Fresh za’atar has an aroma and flavor somewhat similar to wild oregano, but different. Za’atar has a little more attitude. It’s oregano’s hot-headed cousin. Its scent is a little more heady, its taste a little more powerful. Za’atar goes very nicely with soft cheeses, especially goat and sheep cheeses, as well as hummus. It spices up a roast chicken, along with a little lemon, sea salt, pepper and olive oil. Sprinkle some on sliced heirloom tomatoes in lieu of basil, or add it to cheese kreplach. Gently fry some leaves in olive oil as a sauce for pasta, then top with chunks of cooked chicken or fish and olives with a squeeze of lemon juice. I haven’t tried it, but I suspect it would go well with lamb kebab. It might also enliven a packet of shrimp or fish en papillote.

My favorite use of za’atar—dried or fresh—is on a round of traditional flatbread, warm and redolent with toasted sesame seeds and a thick layer of za’atar mix drenched in strong olive oil.

What do you like to do with za’atar?

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commuter train

There’s nothing so annoying as missing your train. Usually this means waiting for the next one, which in many US cities is no small feat. The schedule is erratic, the trains infrequent. You could wait twenty minutes for the next train. Twenty minutes too late for a meeting? Too bad.

The train arteries themselves are haphazard, as though designed to inconvenience. The streetcar that connects one train system with another is notoriously inefficient. A ten minute ride can take twenty, depending on whether a driver took a day off and forgot to tell the boss or a branch has fallen on the tracks somewhere in the system. Once you disembark from the southbound train system, good luck finding a bus, shuttle, or taxi to bring you to your final destination. Buses run even less frequently than trains, and often in no relation to where you need to go.

What sort of red-blooded, do-it-yourself American rides a train anyway? Americans have historically cherished their right to do as they please with minimal government interference. Formerly the pride of the United States, trains are now viewed as an abdication of that right. Driving a car, you are the captain of your own destiny. Riding a train, you’re at the mercy of arbitrary schedules and the egalitarian nature of public transportation. The guy sitting next to you might conduct noisy business meetings on his cellphone or emit the musty sharp odor of someone who hasn’t bathed in a very long time. But driving a car could mean getting rear-ended, or worse, and more likely, stuck in the molasses flow of traffic that drains the life force drip… by… i n t e r m i n a b l e … drip.

Fifteen minutes to the next train. I scan the magazine stand, a shrine to celebrity. The Economist peeks out from the bottom rack. Scratch that, a shrine to money in all its forms. I queue up instead at the little take-out coffee shop: coffee, scones, sandwiches, bagels all ready to go in time for the train. I get a croissant and line up for the train.

I board early and take a seat near the window. It’s a grey day for June. The sky is dour and frumpy, scowling like a Victorian school teacher. I bite into my croissant, its paper wrapping crinkles. The croissant is buttery with an airy texture, but the dough is a little too dense. It’s not quite as flaky as it ought to be, and it isn’t at all warm. I wonder if some Parisienne across the world eats hastily purchased croissants on the train. Do they sell croissants at the gare? Do people still take the time to sit down for their croissant and café au lait? Looking out the window at the dreary skies, I think of warm, buttery croissant and café au lait as the mid-summer sun rises from its dewy slumber.

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farmer brown

farmerbrown.jpg
Photo by DJ Wallstrom from the Farmer Brown website

I am a sucker for American Southern and Soul foods. Give me fried chicken with hot sauce any time, day or night, breakfast, lunch or dinner. Black eyed peas and rice, cornbread, collard greens with smoky ham hock. I love it all. Just thinking about crispy fried chicken makes me crave it. Our default places for fried chicken tend to be the Lake Merritt Diner and the Home of Chicken n’ Waffles here in Oakland. But recently, we checked out Farmer Brown in San Francisco. Farmer Brown is unique in that the management sources their produce from local African-American farmers, a nice concept, I think. Read more here

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jewish ravioli: cheese kreplach

Gevalt. My shoulders hurt, my back hurts. My triceps are no longer on speaking terms with me, and they’re whispering mutiny to the biceps. Yesterday, I made my own dumplings out of hand-rolled dough without the use of a pasta machine. Now I know what it must have felt like to be a housewife in a 19th century shtetl. All I need is a washboard for the laundry and a roof for my husband to fiddle on as he sings “TRADITION! TRADITION!

I know, I know. It sounds like hyperbole. But try it, you’ll see what I mean. Making the dough is fun at first. It involves mixing some beaten eggs into a mound of flour with a fork. At a certain point, you dispense with the fork altogether and use your hands. The joy of messiness, the kneading… it’s an adult version of play dough. After letting the dough rest, the rolling begins. If you’ve rolled your own pie crust, you may not think much of this part. Ah, but pasta dough must be thin, thin, thin—like paper, like silk. When you’ve been rolling a while and realize that your dough is still thick as pie dough, you begin to wonder how much longer. You throw yourself into it, using your weight to apply more pressure on the dough. You sweat through your t-shirt. You think “holy cannoli! What was I thinking?” Just when you decide to settle for
thick, lumpy kreplach, you roll just a little longer until the sheet of pasta is smooth and thin as it can get.

But you’re not done yet. You have to cut little circles with an upside down glass, being careful to place the circles as close together as possible so as not to waste too much dough. Then each circle must be brushed with water, filled with filling, and pressed closed. The pressing is an art in itself. The filling can’t be too much or too little, so that it fills the dough just enough without poking out the sides. The edges must be pressed together carefully around the filling without any air bubbles. Then the edges must be brought together, one side brushed with water, and pressed together firmly as though the dumpling is wringing its hands in front of its plump belly. But the dough must be soft and pliable enough that the belly doesn’t burst, spewing its cheesy contents. It’s painstaking work, alternately exasperating and meditative. But the result is that much more luxurious and tasty when you’ve worked so hard to make it yourself.

If you’re short on time and patience for hard labor, you could run your dough through a pasta machine. It’s probably best to run it through the highest to the lowest setting for a really thin, silky dough. You could use one of those plastic ravioli pressing gadgets that works like a waffle iron
, if you don’t feel like pressing the dumplings yourself. You could press the dumplings like kreplach (triangular wontons), or pelmeni (Russian tortellini). I gravitated towards tortellini style dumplings, as I thought they might better keep their shape and hold their filling (those wringing hands tend to hold the stuffing). But traditional kreplach triangles might be easier to make and certainly less time-consuming. (I’ve always felt that the triangular tips of kreplach or wontons are like delicate little pasta fins, the dumplings quietly swimming in your soup.)

I stuffed my kreplach with a cheese filling in honor of Shavuoth, the Jewish festival of the ten commandments. It is traditional to prepare all manner of dairy foods for this holiday, unlike most holidays where meat and fish are the festive foods. Jewish lore has it that the Israelites did not know how to keep kosher, as they hadn’t yet received the ten commandments. So they ate only dairy foods so as not to eat any animals that weren’t sanctioned by the law. (How did they know the law would prohibit the consumption of certain creatures? Good point. But again, this is lore…)

Back in Russia and Poland, Jews would prepare cheese kreplach served with fried onions or a dusting of sugar, sometimes sour cream or perhaps a bit of jam. The name, size and shape of the dumplings might vary depending on the region. I’ve prepared mine with a filling of goat cheese and za’atar, putting a Mediterranean twist on the Eastern European dish. As for toppings, I’ve used fried onions, leftover goat cheese instead of sour cream and plum jam. Yes, all three. The combination of flavors works surprisingly well.

Other traditional ways to serve kreplach include frying them with onions, or boiling them and then serving them in soup. Kreplach can be stuffed with potatoes, beef, chicken liver, or a combination of beef and pork if you want to make Ukrainian pelmeni (a non-Jewish cousin of the traditional kreple). You could alternatively make a sort of kreplach lasagne, layering sheets of fresh pasta with filling and toppings. How do you like your kreplach?

cheese kreplach for shavuoth

for the filling:
10 oz. soft goat cheese (chevre), or other cheese of similar consistency
5 stalks fresh za’atar, or other fresh herb such as dill, parsley, chives, oregano
salt and white pepper to taste
1 small egg

for the dough (adapted from a recipe in the NY Times):
1 3/4 cup all purpose flour
2 large eggs
lukewarm water, if necessary

for the topping:
goat cheese or sour cream or smetana
1-2 diced onions
butter
good plum jam (should be a little loose—I used June Taylor’s Elephant Heart plum conserve)

Preparing the filling:

  • In a large bowl, crumble in the cheese.
  • Hold the top of a stalk of za’atar with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. With the thumb and forefinger of the other hand, gently slide your fingers down the stalk, catching the leaves as they fall. Repeat for the remaining stalks. (This works for oregano as well, but any of the other herbs should simply be finely chopped.)
  • Rip or chop the za’atar and throw it into the bowl of cheese.
  • Season to taste with salt and white pepper. Taste and correct seasoning. Add a beaten egg and stir to combine.

Making the dough:

  • On a large, clean flat surface (a wooden table would be good), make a hill of flour. Form a well in the center of the hill.
  • Beat the eggs lightly and pour them into the well. Begin mixing the flour into the eggs with a fork.
  • At some point, you’ll want to use your hands to mix the egg and flour. If the mixture appears dry, add a little lukewarm water (say 1 or 2 tablespoons). My dough was moist with just the egg.
  • Knead the dough well, then let sit covered with a bowl or plastic wrap for 30 minutes.

Rolling the dough:

  • Separate the dough into two parts, leaving one portion under the bowl. Take the other half and begin to flatten and stretch it a bit with your hands.
  • Flour your surface and start rolling. You can use a pasta machine for this part. Roll the dough into an oblong shape rather than a circle. Be sure to move your dough frequently so that it doesn’t stick to the surface. Flour your surface just enough to keep the dough from sticking. You can patch any holes or cracks.
  • Roll until you can’t roll anymore, and then roll a bit more. You want to get your dough as thin and smooth as possible. Remember, the pasta will absorb water and expand when cooked. Feel the thickness of your dough and try to imagine what it might taste like when cooked. If it tastes like a mouthful of dough, you need to keep rolling.
  • When finished rolling, you might want to sprinkle a little water on the dough if it looks a bit dry.

Cutting the dough:

  • Use a glass with a 3 inch diameter to cut circles of dough. Use a dull knife to help cut the dough if necessary. Try to minimize the space between each circle of dough so as to avoid excess scrap dough.
  • When finished cutting the circles, collect the scraps and mush them into a ball. Place the ball under the bowl of resting dough.

Filling and shaping the dumplings:

  • With a barely damp pastry brush, brush one circle with a little water, mostly around the edges.
  • Place about a teaspoon of filling in the center of the circle.
  • Bring one end of the dough over the other in a half circle sandwich of dough and filling. Use your fingers to press the edges of the dough from one edge of the semi-circle to the other, while gently smoothing out any air bubbles along the edge of the filling. Dance your fingers along the edges again to get a good seal.
  • You can stop here, or you can continue folding the edges tortellini style. To do this:
    • Brush a little water on one tip of the semi-circle.
    • Then gently wrap the tips over your forefinger, the wet tip under the dry one.
    • Use your thumb to squeeze the tips against your forefinger, sealing them together.
    • Remove your forefinger, and gently squish the tips the other way (vertically).
  • Place the dumpling on a lightly floured plate. (I used two plates for my dumplings, simply to avoid the hassle of stacking them on top of each other, in case they stuck.)
  • Repeat for the remaining dough circles.
  • Take out the second piece of dough and follow the rolling, cutting, filling and shaping instructions. You can ball up and roll out the scraps too, or slice them into jagged, randomly shaped noodles. These can be cooked briefly before boiling the kreplach. Drain and slather with butter for snacking on while the kreplach cook.

Cooking the dumplings:

  • In a large skillet, melt some butter and fry the chopped onions on a medium to low flame until golden brown.
  • Boil heavily salted water for the dumplings. When the water is boiling gently, tip the plates of dumplings into the pot.
  • Agitate the pot lightly so that the dumplings don’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Cook until the kreplach float to the top.
  • Remove the kreplach with a slotted spoon, draining the water.
  • Top with fried onions, cheese or sour cream, and finally plum jam.

Serves 2-4

I picked up some great pasta making techniques from a class given by the inimitable Omnivorous Fish. Useful links here and here.

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dim summiny dim summiny dim dim summee…

dimsum

Steamed buns are as yummy, as yummy can be.

Well now I’ve done it. For the duration of this post I’ll be hearing Dick Van Dyke prattling on in the worst Cockney accent this side of the big pond.

Have you ever gone out for dim sum, only to be utterly confused by the large selection of options? Have you wondered what a “shrimp slice” might be? Or a black sesame seed bun (hint: it isn’t served under a burger)? So do I.

Here’s a little vlog about the basics of dim sum, over at Well Fed on the Town.

Enjoy!

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sixty

sixty

Today marks the 60th year of the existence of the State of Israel. Having lived there for twelve years, I must admit I kind of miss the place. Where else can you get freshly baked pita bread off an assembly line at the bakery section of the supermarket? Or falafel in pita with “hummusaladchips?” (always offered as a one word question), tehina, and fiery hot sauce.

To read more about the festivities, here’s a list of relevant links:

Happy Israel Independence day!

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what is it? it’s…

pots and pans

… downtown San Francisco modeled in stainless steel pots and pans. If you read the Ethicurean you probably figured that out. The metal model is an installation by artist Zhan Wang at the San Francisco Asian Art Museum. The piece includes clever details such as forks and spoons for piers, and graters, barbecue forks, and tongs for the Golden Gate Bridge.

This installation was of particular interest to me, as I’m currently reading “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles: Adventures in the World of Chinese Food” by Jennifer 8. Lee. The book begins as a fascinating look at the origins of the fortune cookie—a ubiquitous fixture in American Chinese restaurants almost entirely unknown in China. The story, however, takes myriad twists and turns, weaving a multi-threaded narrative of Chinese-American history.

Lee covers various aspects of the Chinese-American experience, including the Chinese Exclusion act of 1882 and the huge underground industry of human trafficking that is the foundation of many Chinese restaurants in America. I’m not sure whether I slept through this particular topic in American history class, or if it figured as a terse sentence or two in my high school American history book (much like the Holocaust—one of the most hideous chapters in recent history was condensed into a paragraph and a photo). The Chinese Exclusion Act was unique in that it banned an entire race from immigrating to the United States and becoming U.S. citizens. Moreover, it denied citizenship to Chinese people already living in the United States at the time. The act remained in effect with amendments until 1943 when it was finally repealed. The 61 years of the Exclusion Act were brutal for Chinese people in America. Chinese Americans were unable to integrate into American society, and often forced to live in ghettos. San Francisco’s Chinatown—today considered a quaint destination by tourists and residents alike—was once a tiny little neighborhood in which Chinese Americans were forced to live.

The passing of the Exclusion Act was motivated by workers and laborers who resented the Chinese immigrants lured by the Gold Rush and work on the Transcontinental Railroad. Convinced that the Chinese were taking their jobs, some workers even went so far as to perpetrate pogroms upon Chinese people.

In 1885, an anti-Chinese rally in Seattle set a deadline for all Chinese to be out of Washington Territory by November 1. Two days after the deadline, residents conducted a giant raid against Tacoma’s Chinatown, where the merchants, who were less transient than the laborers, had remained. Doors were kicked down, bodies were dragged, people were herded like wayward cattle.

The same year, miners in Rock Springs, Wyoming, conspired to drive their Chinese competition out, attacking their settlement with guns and fire. As Chinese miners tried to escape the burning wooden shacks, their attackers forced them back into the flames. Some who fled into the mountains were later eaten by wolves. At least twenty-eight people died.

But the most lurid tale was the Snake River Massacre of 1887. The water in Hell’s Canyon in Oregon ran red with blood as more than thirty Chinese gold miners were killed and mutilated by a group of white men who had conspired to steal their gold and force the Chinese out. Three killers were brought to trial. Not one was convicted…

That Chinese Americans survived such brutal oppression is remarkable. Despite the Exclusion Act, “in the half century from 1870 and 1920, the number of Chinese restaurant workers surged from 164 to 11,438, even though the total number of Chinese employed declined.”

Why was there suddenly an entrepreneurial explosion of restaurants, and why, of all small businesses, did laundries survive?

Cleaning and cooking were both women’s work. They were not threatening to white laborers.

Viewing Wang’s installation with Lee’s book in mind makes his cookware cityscape all the more powerful. The woks, tongs, trays, pots, chopsticks all seem to represent a city supported by so many Chinese Americans who are otherwise invisible. The people who built the railroads, ran the laundries, lived in cramped conditions; the people who cook kung pao chicken and walnut prawns, serve hungry diners, sweep floors, send money home to husbands, wives, children, parents—they’re all here. Like each piece of kitchenware in the exhibit, they too are an integral part of this city.

Quotes from Jennifer 8. Lee’s book “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles: Adventures in the World of Chinese Food.”

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what is it?

Just a bunch of pots and pans, or something else?
Can you guess what this is?

pots and pans

pots and pans

pots and pans

pots and pans

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two years old

apple cardamom yogurt cake

A slice of cake for you, dear reader, in honor of an open cupboard‘s second birthday.

Two years ago today I posted an ironic ode to the high cost of organic food in the form of a silly riff on a famous poem by Robert Frost. Nothing much has changed since then. The price of rice has spawned riots and my relatives tease me for spending seven dollars on an occasional bottle of organic milk (but it’s from grassfed cows who listen to classical music and read poems by Robert Frost!). I’m still fascinated by the San Francisco local, organic food scene with its bounty of decently produced high quality food—the freshest, most beautiful, delicious vegetables and fruit it has been my pleasure to consume.

I owe the farmers’ markets my gratitude for opening up my taste buds to the earthy sweetness of heirloom tomatoes. Having eaten store-bought hothouse tomatoes back when I lived in Israel, I never much liked the fruit, except the exceptionally fresh ones I used to buy at the shuk (open market) . Similarly, bell peppers were a sort of tasteless filler in stir fries until I tried the peppers grown by Happy Quail Farms. I’ve also discovered foods that have quickly become my favorites: pimientos de padrón, stinging nettles, chocolate mint, mountain spinach. Thank the gods for all the dedicated farmers who produce such excellent food that is so much fun to eat.

I only wish that more people could enjoy the beautiful bounty of the farmers’ markets. Most of the consumers I see at the various farmers’ markets near my home tend to be middle class and upper middle class Americans. On occasion, I’ll see a poor student buy a few dollars’ worth of vegetables.

True, programs such as the Chez Panisse Foundation’s Edible Schoolyard and the People’s Grocery do a lot to bring people closer to good, sustainably raised food. But there are still so many others who simply cannot afford to eat well. In an area where average families drive two SUVs and live in half-million dollar homes, this boggles the mind.

In the coming months the gulf between those who eat well and those who cannot will swell, affecting many middle income as well as lower income people. The question is, what are we going to do about it? As “we” is usually an elected official (insert quip about political ineptitude here), let us instead ask ourselves “what am I going to do about it?” If every one of us asked ourselves that question, maybe we could get closer to an answer. Wouldn’t that be great? And what will our collective cupboard look like in another two years?

Thank you for your curiosity, and your stick-to-itiveness for coming back here even when I was slow to post. Thank you for putting up with my sometimes bumbling photos and the occasional silly lark. Thank you for spurring me on (even if you didn’t know you did). An extra special thank you to my friend Sylvia, for urging me to write about food in the first place (and to Jerry, for having such an insatiable appetite for dining out). And to my husband A for reading and eating and, when prompted, providing honest constructive criticism.

L’chaim! To another two years!

– shelly –

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