There Are Signs, and Then There Are Ginormous Blinking Neon SIGNS

I woke up this morning, as I often do, vaguely dissatisfied with my weight-loss efforts (or more correctly, the lack thereof in recent months). It occurred to me that exactly eleven years ago today, on December 31, 1994, I joined Weight Watchers for the thousandth and last time—I say “the last time” because I was finally successful, losing 108 pounds and becoming a lifetime member in January 1998*. (Lifetime members never have to rejoin, even if they gain the weight back.) I toyed with the idea of returning to my old meeting today, since New Year’s Eve seemed to be a good trick that time, but my thoughts quickly skittered over to what to make for breakfast.

And then, while drinking my coffee, I read the paper. What do I find screaming at me from the Times? An interview with Linda Huett, the CEO of Weight Watchers. Fuck. You just can’t ignore a sign like that, can you? OK, it wasn’t exactly screaming—it’s a single column, tucked inside on page 3 of the business section. But for me, it’s as big a sign as I’m likely to get. There’s a noon meeting in Astoria, where I went for all those years, where I made such a big deal here about my previous return, last March. I’m throwing on some clothes and heading over there right now, before I change my mind. Afterward I’ll hit the amazing produce stores in that neighborhood, since these days a vegetable is nearly a foreign substance in our kitchen. (In my defense, because of the surgery I haven’t exactly been cooking a lot, and we did just run out of things two days ago…)

If I can muster the courage, I may even post my miserable weight here. That’s a big IF, mind you, since so many people I know in real life read Words to Eat By… Gulp.


* If you want the full story of my weight and weight loss, read the entries called “The Three Faces of Me.”

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Sesame Twists: A Good Way to Use That Leftover Sour Cream

This’ll be quick, since I’m buried in freelance work and all I’m doing is procrastinating…

Got leftover sour cream now that you’ve gorged on latkes? This recipe, adapted slightly from January’s Gourmet, is just the thing. They’re super-easy, and the end result is tender and soft, with a very mild flavor. To my taste, they’re a little bland for eating straight, but S went back for another several times last night…



Sesame Twists
Adapted from Gourmet
Makes 16

2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1 t. salt
½ t. baking soda
¾ stick (6 T.) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg white, lightly beaten
1 cup sour cream [I used low-fat]
1 large egg, lightly beaten
2 T. sesame seeds, toasted


Put oven racks in upper and lower thirds of oven and preheat oven to 450°F.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in a large bowl. Whisk together butter, egg white, and sour cream in another bowl, then add to flour mixture and stir with a fork until a dough just begins to form (dough will be very moist).

Turn dough out onto a well-floured surface [My Roul'Pat pastry mat came in handy here] and knead gently 6 times. Pat out dough with floured hands, reflouring surface if necessary, and form into a 12-inch-long log.

Cut dough into 16 equal pieces. Roll each piece into an 8-inch-long rope using well-floured hands, then fold rope loosely in half and twist it once, holding both ends of twist.

Arrange twists 2 inches apart on 2 ungreased large baking sheets, pressing ends against baking sheet to prevent unraveling.



Brush tops of twists with remaining egg and sprinkle generously with sesame seeds. Bake until golden, 12 to 15 minutes. Transfer twists to metal racks and cool completely.

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Latkes Worth Stinking Up the House for

Is there any more wanton, more decadent, more soul-satisfying experience than biting into a potato pancake moments from the pan, still so hot it burns your fingers? The crisp exterior, starchy shards snapping, gives way to a sumptuously soft interior, fragrant with onions and a deep, earthy richness. You devour it greedily, shocked at your lust, then lick the glistening oil from your fingertips…

If it’s not clear from the purple prose above, I think latkes are practically a sexual experience. So why do I only allow myself to cook them once each year, during Hanukkah? Well, first of all, S might get jealous. Then there’s the perpetual-diet factor. (Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my return to Weight Watchers. So far, it hasn’t exactly worked out—I stopped attending meetings over the summer—though I still moan about it regularly. Hey, at least I haven’t gained.) But perhaps the biggest reason is olfactory: Once you start frying up potatoes and onions, your home smells for days. Some sort of alchemical reaction happens when the batter hits the pan, which creates an industrial-strength bouquet that persists long after you’ve Fantastiked every kitchen surface. After cooking this year’s batch, I took a shower and washed my hair so the smell wouldn’t torment me in my sleep, but even that did no good—I drifted into slumber with onions dancing in my brain, and before I was fully conscious the next morning, I was already thinking latkes. It’s two days later, and when you walk in our front door, the lingering aroma immediately triggers a desire for greasy, salty, potatoey release.

But here’s the thing: It’s worth it. These puppies are that good. The recipe I use, from Faye Levy's International Jewish Cookbook, is quite pure—aside from the potatoes and onions, there’s only an egg, a dusting of flour, a pinch of baking powder, and seasoning. No matzoh meal, no New World tweaks, just abundant shredded* spuds. Add a little applesauce (or if you insist—shudder—sour cream), and you won’t need sex for at least a week.



Potato Latkes
From Faye Levy's International Jewish Cookbook
Makes about 15 pancakes

4 large potatoes (about 1 ¼ lbs), peeled
1 medium onion (about ½ lb)
1 large egg [I used 2 egg whites]
1 t. salt
¼ t. white pepper
2 T. all-purpose flour
½ t. baking powder
Vegetable oil, for frying [the recipe calls for about ½ cup, but I find that it always takes much more—I suspect because my frying technique ain’t what it should be since I do it so rarely]
Applesauce or sour cream

Shred potatoes and onion, using shredder disc of a food processor or large holes of a grater. Transfer to a colander; squeeze mixture to press out as much liquid as possible [really squeeze hard here—you want this to be as dry as possible so the potatoes will crisp up as soon as they hit the hot oil]. In a large bowl mix potatoes, egg, salt, pepper, flour, and baking powder.

Turn on oven to lowest setting—warm or 200 degrees. Line cookie sheets with two layers of paper towels and set aside.

Heat oil in a deep, heavy 10- to 12-inch skillet. For each pancake, drop about 2 T. of mixture into pan. Flatten with back of a spoon so each cake is about 2 ½ to 3 inches in diameter. Fry over medium heat about 4 to 5 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and crisp. Turn carefully with 2 pancake turners so oil doesn’t splatter. Cook until crisp on other side, then drain well on prepared cookie sheets. Stir potato mixture before frying each new batch. If all the oil is absorbed, add a little more to pan.

Serve hot, accompanied by applesauce (yum) or sour cream (yuk).

NOTE: These reheat well. If you’ve got leftovers (and we did, since there were only two of us), put them in a paper-towel-lined, air-tight container in the fridge. Reheat in a single layer on cookie sheets in a 450 oven—or if you’re just heating a couple, do what I do and pop them on a tray in the toaster oven on 300 for about 5 minutes. Perfect!



* Shredding is my one real tweak to the recipe—Faye calls for grating the potatoes, but I don’t care for that texture. This is a perpetual source of discussion in my family: Some prefer the mushier, more hunka-hunka pancakes that come from grated spuds, while others (like me) like the more delicate, more elegant, more pure result of shredding.

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Cookshop: Another Birthday, Another So-So Dinner

For my birthday, I like to pick a restaurant we wouldn’t normally go to—one that’s gotten good notices and promises a memorable meal. The danger in choosing somewhere new over a reliable favorite, of course, is that you can never be sure of what lies ahead. Last year, we celebrated my birthday at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, and it was disappointing. This year, it was Cookshop, and while disappointing is too strong a word to use here, with one small exception the food didn’t leave me desperate to return anytime soon.

I thought I’d played it right this time—as I’ve said before I love Five Points, Cookshop’s older sibling; both New York magazine and Bruni gave Cookshop the thumbs-up, bloggers seemed to be excited by it, and two friends who’d already eaten there raved (normally I wouldn’t put much stock in Bruni, but since he was one of several I took it as a good sign). Of course, in retrospect, I realize I should’ve dug a little deeper. Turns out the bloggers were mostly lukewarm, and aside from a few dissenters, Chowhound was downright negative. (Strangely, there's not that much about it on egullet.)

My birthday fell at the tail end of the NYC transit strike, when service hadn’t yet been restored. Lucky for us, we’ve got a car, so we decided to drive in—and in what I took to be a very good sign, traffic wasn’t bad and we Kojaked a parking spot right out front (that's a blurry S, unlocking the door, in the picture up top). We entered the restaurant twenty minutes early for our 8:00 reservation, buoyant, even jubilant, at our good luck, which continued when we were seated right away. And at a sweet corner table, on a cozy red banquette—clearly, the reservationist had paid attention when S said it was his wife’s birthday. The room was humming with energy, all good, with people celebrating the holidays, passing gifts back and forth, clinking glasses. Such promise, such anticipation… Large, loft-like windows put Tenth Avenue on display (not so sure that’s a good thing, since across the street was a parking facility with cars stacked like Matchboxes, but during the day the light must be spectacular). And the service, I must say, was impeccable. Not too intrusive, not too distant, enthusiastic but never pushy.

So: The food.

Honestly, part of the reason it’s taken me a few days to write this up is that it was so, what’s the word, okay. It started out well, with a plate of fried spiced hominy off the “snacks” menu. A pile of barely-greasy jumbo corn niblets, tinged with red from their light, peppery coating, arrived on a sheet of brown paper, with a wedge of lime alongside. These had come highly recommended, and rightly so. A hint of sweet corn, a dose of spice, and the tang of the lime… plus let’s face it, how can anything that’s deep-fried not be at least a little good? S and I devoured them, our forks fighting for the last crispy nugget. Unfortunately, this $5 nosh was the highlight of the meal.

My appetizer was the beet salad with mizuna in tahini dressing. Perhaps fifteen baby beets, red and gold, circled a pile of greens coated in a thick sauce. The beets themselves seemed to be unadorned, and tasted like beets. I’m all for clarity of flavor, and I love beets, but these were just boring. The beets I roast at home excite me more. As for the salad, it had about a quarter-cup more dressing than it needed. Mizuna is an assertive, bitter green, and drenched in all that white goo I could barely taste it. I didn’t finish this dish—it just wasn’t worth the calories, which is an odd thing to think about a salad.

S’s dried beef and persimmon dish, off the snacks menu, was equally bland. It was a beautiful plate, with three small, thin slices of rosy beef arrayed next to glistening, golden mounds of persimmon, but neither element had any discernable flavor. A shrug-worthy dish at best.

Entrees were a little better—S had the lamb, which was served three ways: a small chop, a sausage patty, and some thinly sliced section of the animal (the menu didn’t specify, and we couldn’t tell), with gorgeous roasted cipollini onions and insanely rich mashed yukons. This wasn’t a huge winner, but S did stop mid-sentence to announce “That was a really good bite,” while eating the chop. He then went on to postulate about the lamb it came from—“It must have been a very cute, small, woolly lamb,” since its meat was so tender. The other two preparations, though, were less swoon-worthy.

Instead of ordering fish, as I normally do when we eat out, I was inspired by the chill of the evening and our festive, warm mood to try the beef short ribs, served with grits and fried onions. It was my birthday, and I wanted something hearty and heart-warming. I’ll say this for it: the portion was huge. When the waiter placed it in front of me I immediately thought I’ll never finish this. And I didn’t, but not so much because I couldn’t—it turned out to be approximately 50% fat. What meat there was tasted fine, beefy, but not inspiring. The grits were, like S’s mashed potatoes, shockingly rich—so much so that I didn’t really enjoy them. Overall this was a dish that I suspect other people like just fine, but left me unmoved. As predicted I didn’t finish it, but not because it was too much food; it just didn’t compel me to keep eating.

Even dessert was fine, but nothing more. While reading the menu I so wanted to flip for something, but none of the offerings excited me very much. Finally S and I settled on the chocolate layer cake with peppermint stick ice cream, which arrived with lit candle on top (very sweet—they really did pay attention when S made that reservation). I blew it out—if you’ve been reading here lately you can guess what I wished for—and we dug in. It was chocolatey. It was cakey. It was chocolate cake. The ice cream was pretty damn yummy, studded with chunks of candy cane, but not enough to save the day. Like so much else we’d eaten that night, dessert was indifferent.

All in all, I liked Cookshop. I liked the vibe, I liked the service, I liked the room. I just wish I’d liked the food more. It’s conceivable that, if we were in the neighborhood, we’d go back to sit in the bar and eat some fried spiced hominy over a drink, but I’m not sure I feel the need to return for dinner.

And next time, I think we’ll go somewhere we already know and like for my birthday. I’m tired of starting my next year on a vaguely disappointing note.

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Christmas Morning Coffee Cake

The holiday spirit has eluded us this year. Because of my surgery, we missed both S’s family Christmas get-together and my own family’s Hanukkah one. We didn’t even bother with a tree, which longtime readers will realize is kind of a big deal for this Christmas-loving Jew. S and I exchanged our gifts last night—we’re both eager types, and he grew up opening his Christmas gifts at midnight—so when I woke up this morning it felt pretty much like any other day. Not so unusual for me, perhaps, since Christmas really is just another day, but I felt bad for S. I wanted him to have something special. Which of course translates into food.

I pulled out my go-to baking book, The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion, and checked the inside front cover. It’s such a massive tome, and filled with such good things, that I’ve taken to recording on the endpapers the results of the recipes I’ve tried. Apparently we really liked the Classic Cinnamon-Nut Coffee Ring on page 95—all I’d written about it was “WOW!” On the page itself, I’d scrawled “Yum,” and made some notations about tweaks to the original recipe, mostly for lightening purposes. Less butter and oil, and more non-fat yogurt. Egg whites instead of whole eggs. Splenda for half the sugar. I also added dried cherries to the nut-chocolate filling, which gave it a lovely tart-sweet flavor. Perfect. This was a Christmas morning recipe, for sure.

The smell while it’s baking is incredible—it takes nearly two hours from the time you pull the flour out of the cabinet until you finally take that first bite, and man is it hard to wait that long. But the end result is absolutely, completely worth it: tender, cinnamon-scented cake, golden brown crust, and nearly decadent filling, and not too too many calories. I dare you to eat just one piece.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah, everyone.



Cinnamon-Cherry-Pecan (and Chocolate) Coffee Ring
Adapted from The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion
Serves 18

Cake:
Nonstick cooking spray
4 T. butter, at room temperature
¼ cup vegetable oil
½ cup sugar
½ cup Splenda (or just use a full cup of sugar)
4 large egg whites
1 large egg
1 t. ground cinnamon
Scant 1 T. vanilla extract
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
2 t. baking soda
1 ¼ cup yogurt or sour cream [I used nonfat yogurt]

Filling:
½ cup chopped pecans or walnuts [I used pecans]
½ cup chocolate chips
½ cup dried cherries
½ cup Splenda or sugar
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 t. cinnamon
3 T. butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 350. Spray a 9- or 10-inch bundt or tube pan with nonstick cooking spray and set aside.

For the cake:
In a medium-sized mixing bowl, beat together the butter, oil, and sugar/Splenda until fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the salt, cinnamon, and vanilla and beat until evenly incorporated.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Add the flour mixture to the butter-egg mixture alternately with the yogurt or sour cream, mixing on slow speed just until blended.

For the filling:
In a small mixing bowl, combine all the remaining ingredients. [Don’t do what I did and forget the butter! I realized it about two minutes after the cake went into the oven, so I quickly pulled it out and drizzled some of the butter on top of the dry filling…]

Put it together:
Spoon half the cake batter into the prepared pan. Smooth the batter to level it and sprinkle on two-thirds of the filling. Top with the remaining batter [an offset spatula comes in really handy here] and sprinkle with the remaining filling.

Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean. 9-inch pans will take the longer time to bake. Remove the cake from the oven and let it cool in the pan for 15 minutes. Turn out onto a wire rack. Cool it completely, then sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar before serving, if you’re feeling fancy.

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The 40th Birthday Present Only a Husband Can Give

At midnight S walked into the bedroom grinning and bearing carefully-wrapped gifts. I saved the big one for last, tearing off the paper like a 4-year-old (I’m a bit over-the-top about birthdays, I think because mine comes so close to Christmas). Inside was a woven hamper. “It’s a fertility basket!” S said excitedly.

Tucked inside were a variety of foods, all inspired by research S had done online and in my stack of unread fertility books (over the last few months I bought everything I could find, but I can’t seem to make myself read them—it’s like admitting defeat, somehow). There was peanut butter (vitamin E, zinc, magnesium, and iron—though one of the books says that peanut butter should be avoided since it depletes calcium) and pumpkin seeds (vitamin E, zinc, and thiamin), dried apricots (vitamin A and iron), sesame crackers and bars (zinc and vitamin E), raspberry tea (good for the uterine), olive spread (not sure what that’s for, but it’s yummy!), and black cohosh supplements (a Native American remedy, though there’s conflicting info about its effectiveness/advisability).

The timing for this gift was pretty perfect—yesterday I walked 7 miles (hello, transit strike?) to my post-op appointment with the surgeon, and she gave me the thumbs up to start trying again. Given that good news, we had a little fertility picnic in bed last night (and no, that’s not a euphemism—we actually sampled some of the snacks!).

Coming from anyone else, this gift would have provoked tears and self-pity. Coming from my husband, it reminded me yet again how incredibly lucky I am. I waited ten years for him to enter my life—from the time my first marriage ended—and I’m so glad I did. Yeah, my age is probably the reason we’re having trouble getting pregnant, but I’d rather be childless with S than parenting with anyone else.

And in other good news, it sounds like the transit workers might be returning to work. Cookshop, here we come!

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STRIKE!

Does it make me a bad person that the NYC transit workers just went on strike and all I can think about is how we'll make it to Cookshop on Thursday? It's my fortieth birthday, goddammit, and I want a freaking fabulous meal without a buncha tsuris getting there!

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Christmas Marzipan at Fortunato Brothers

Yesterday’s recovery walk took us to Fortunato Brothers bakery, one of the handful of old-school Italian holdouts near Williamsburg’s Graham Avenue. Their pignoli cookies and tarts are out of this world, and it has become my go-to place for gelato in warmer months. Something like $1.75 for a small—with two flavors—makes it one of the city’s top sweet steals. I get a kick out of the clientele sitting at the small café tables, too, and the girls behind the counter—all those hardcore Brooklyn-Italian accents; it’s like walking into a time capsule.

Every year at Christmas time, Fortunato Brothers gives over a section of the floor to a giant display of hand-shaped marzipan treats, everything from adorable peaches with sugary fuzz to faux pizza and squid. It’s worth a trip just to see—the abundance is truly breaktaking. How many hundreds of hours did it take to make all that? It calls forth images of elderly Italian ladies hunched over a kitchen counter, pinching off hunks of marzipan, rolling them carefully, adding dimples and ridges, and carefully painting each one with food coloring.









We picked out a small assortment of fruits, plus a head of garlic because it was so darn cute and realistic, and brought them home. Ain’t they purdy?





Unfortunately, when it comes to eating the almond paste goodies, that's where the pleasure ends. Anticipating a new taste sensation, we cut open one of the cherries and ate a little. The dough is extremely sweet, with only a mild almond flavor, and the outer edge was a bit crusty from sitting out on display. Definitely a treat for the eyes, but for the stomach, meh. Not so much. We’ll leave the remaining fruits pristine, on display in a bowl.

This marzipan is the only thing I’ve had from Fortunato Brothers that I wouldn’t be thrilled to try again, so I’d still recommend the place highly. Go and visit the bakery, ooo and ahhh over the marzipan, buy some for decorations if you must. But when it comes to eating, enjoy the baked goods and the gelato, sip the espresso, and stay away from the faux food.



Fortunato Brothers bakery is located at 289 Manhattan Ave., at the corner of Devoe St., in Williamsburg.

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Today’s Small Pleasure: Modicana Chili Chocolate

As I dip my toe into the pool of life post-surgery, I find that the thing I look forward to most each day is my little perambulation around the neighborhood. Each time I head in a different direction, and each time I’m capable of walking a little further without tiring. And after yesterday’s treat, I’ve decided to allow myself one small indulgence each time when I return home.

Today’s stroll took me to the post office, where thank god I only needed to use the stamp machine, since the line was nearly out the door. When I finished there I still felt quite energetic, and as it was lovely and sunny and even a little bit warm this afternoon I decided to take a side-trip to the Bedford Cheese Shop. I don’t like cheese,* but I love the Bedford Cheese Shop. The staff is amazingly knowledgeable (and friendly), and there’s a wit to the place that I find tremendously appealing. The tags on the cheese displays are a hoot, incongruous and sometimes unabashedly political—for example, on one of several types of pecorino, it says something like “There are as many pecorinos as there are assholes in the Bush administration.” But as much as I love reading the labels, I really go there for the non-cheese stuff. They’ve got a judiciously edited assortment of goodies for the food-obsessed, things like walnut oil from France and Niman Ranch bacon (which I’d never buy, being a formerly kosher chick and all, but I’ve eaten it in restaurants and it’s mighty fine indeed). Whoever’s running this place really knows what he’s doing.

Sitting demurely at the register was a small stack of intriguing, kraft paper-wrapped chocolate bars. Simple red twine attached a small hang tag: “Casa Don Puglisi Chocoslab: Chilli. Pure chocolate from Modica. Produced in Modica by means of an old cold working.” Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m a sucker for rustic, subtle packaging (talk about your reverse psychology). This unobtrusive little fellow absolutely begged to be picked up, if only because the word “chocoslab” was so provocative. There were just three ingredients listed on the hang tag’s reverse: cocoa paste, cane sugar, and chili. Purity. Sexy.

Turning the bar over, I found an even more promising label:



It reminded me of an “antique” Sicilian chocolate I’d bought at Zingerman’s once, the likes of which I’d never seen anywhere else. Crumbly and crunchy with sugar crystals, I still think about that chocolate years later. Could this be a similar confection?

It wasn’t cheap—$5 for a 3.5 oz bar—but since I haven’t been out much lately I haven’t exactly been burning through cash. It was time for a splurge! I made my purchase and hurried home—well, as much as it’s possible for me to hurry these days. Currently I’m one of those slow-moving pedestrians New Yorkers like me generally hate.

When I got to my apartment, I opened the wrapper carefully, as one would a piece of fine china. Inside the kraft paper, which looked hand-folded, was a parchment paper lining, also hand-folded. And the bar itself: solid as a marble slab, and yet fragile as an ancient painting, freckled with a gossamer layer of reddish blooms. For a few moments, I simply admired its beauty and breathed in that heavenly aroma.



Eventually, of course, I had to taste it. With my trusty paring knife I cut off one corner, and it crumbled under my touch, as frail as a ruin. In seconds I’d created a small pile of rusty-brown rubble. I felt a bit like an archaeologist, disturbing a brick that’s been disintegrating from within for centuries. But since it was my intention to destroy my prize by eating it, I didn’t mind at all. I licked my finger to pick up a dose of chocolate dust, then put it in my mouth. Oh. My. It was goooood. The chocolate itself was bitter, with crunches of sugar for punctuation; the chili suggested heat rather than insisting upon it, then lingered. This had none of the creaminess we expect from chocolate in this country—it was brittle, it was delicate, it was ethereal.

It was beautiful.



The Cheese Shop had a cinnamon variety, too. Maybe on tomorrow’s walk I’ll retrace my steps…




*Well, that’s not 100% accurate. I’ll never, ever eat a piece of cheese plain, but cheese in other things can sometimes be pretty darn good. Like salty parmigiano reggiano in a salad, or fresh mozzarella on a crisp slice of pizza, or sharp cheddar in a not-too-goopy mac and cheese… You get the idea. Every rule has its exceptions.

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Mostarda: Good for What Ails You

My surgery was a week ago today, and slowly but surely I’m emerging from the trough of pain and discomfort. Really, with the exception of Monday, when I thought for sure the surgeon had scattered X-Acto blades inside my belly, it hasn’t been too bad. Each day has been progressively better—it still hurts, but much less. I expect that by this time next week I’ll be riding the subway and behaving much like a normal human being (good thing, too, since that’ll be my fortieth birthday—I’d hate to think I might still be a patient by then).

In the meantime, though, little things are making me feel better: The enforced down time has given me a chance to finally plow through the daunting stack of food magazines next to the bed. Wayne, our UPS man, has brought several care packages from family and friends, flowers, cookies, Zingerman’s. And now that I’m feeling strong enough, I’ve taken a few walks in the neighborhood—it’s amazing how downright exhilarating frigid air can be when you’ve been cooped up for days on end.

Today I combined all those nice little things to make another, really great thing: On my afternoon stroll I picked up some pizzette, a flat pizza-like bread from the local Italian bakery, and when I got home I cracked open one of my Zingerman’s treasures, a jar of pear mostarda. I’ve been reading about this condiment for some time now in various foodie places, but never tasted it: It’s a sweet-spicy mixture of candied fruit, in this case very thin slices of pear, preserved in a sugar syrup that’s been dosed with mustard oil. It looks an awful lot like chunky jam, but the aroma is distinctly mustardy, as is the kick when you taste it. I tore off hunks of the bread, carefully arranged slices of pear over them, drizzled some of the syrup, and showered lacy shards of parmigiano reggiano onto the sticky surface.

Oh. My. God. This is crazy good stuff, my friends. S and I wolfed down our snack, moaning with pleasure and licking our fingers, and raced back into the kitchen for another round, this time with the addition of a little cracked black pepper. Even better! The sweetness of the pears, the heat of the mustard, the pungent saltiness of the cheese, the chewy, oily bread… Sigh. I don’t mind if I never leave the apartment again, as long as we’ve got mostarda, bread, parmesan, and black pepper. The jar’s half gone already, and already I’m getting depressed at the prospect of a day without.

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Happy 103rd, Little Gram!

I'm guessing you probably can't read the text of this article, but it's all about S's great-grandmother. Little Gram turns 103 today!

She's the only person I know who's still kicking past 90, and she's one of my favorite people in the world. When S and I had been dating for less than a year, I went with him to a family celebration. It was the second or third time I'd met everyone, but I was still nervous. Little Gram treated me like an old friend--like a good friend's granddaughter, in fact--and kissed me several times before telling me quietly "I don't really know you yet, but I love you." This tiny little woman--she comes up to just above my elbow--welcomed me in such a genuine way I nearly cried. I was ready to marry S after that.

I'm a little weak now from the Colon Blow, or else I'd write more. Last night ended up being pretty eventful, complete with call to 911. The lesson: don't take a whole Ambien on a truly empty stomach. Mom, if you're reading this, everything's fine now. We're off to the hospital in about two hours. I just can't wait for all this to be over already. It's not so much the not eating (although I'd kill for a piece of white bread right now) as it is the weakness, the shakiness, the headache. It's become quite unpleasant, and I know the worst is yet to come. If I'm collapsing under the pressure of this, imagine how I'll handle actual surgery!

Think good thoughts for me, please.

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Colon Blow Update

It’s 3:00 now and to say the day’s been uneventful would be an understatement. It’s freaking boring as hell! I’ve been taking in gallons of clear liquids, in the form of water, chicken broth, jello, and a popsicle. Out of desperation I went for a walk in the shockingly cold sunshine, and took note of every bakery, pizza place, Thai restaurant, and Italian deli in the vicinity. The highlight until now took place two hours ago, when I consumed my first official dose of Colon Blow—the Fleet Phospho-soda Ginger-Lemon Oral Saline Laxative. When I read the instructions a few days ago, I conveniently missed the fact that you don’t just mix 1 T. with 8 oz of ginger ale or something similar, you do that three times in 20 minutes! It didn’t taste too horrible—mostly I was aware of a salty aftertaste, which I’m still experiencing now (yeah, that’s what the word “saline” means)—but taking it in 24 oz of ginger ale, well, I’m not used to all that carbonation. Let’s just say the silence was broken by the sweet melody of my burps for quite a while afterwards.

In another two hours I’ll take more laxatives, in pill form, leading up to this evening’s grand finale at 9:00 (drum roll, please): The enema. Really looking forward to that.

Oddly enough, I don’t feel all that hungry. The chicken broth really seems to be helping. And I heard from the hospital—I’m due in at noon tomorrow. Nothing by mouth after midnight tonight—not even water—until I hit the recovery room. Unless this suddenly gets much, much worse, I have to say the Colon Blow experience has been more about anticipation and fear than actual discomfort.

(Naive, aren’t I? The, um, shit hasn’t even come close to the fan yet. Stay tuned...)

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Let the Colon Blow Begin

Today is my pre-op Colon Blow, so in an effort to distract (read: torture) myself I thought I’d provide some running commentary (read: self-pity) on the day’s events. No, I won’t be taking my laptop with me into the bathroom, but I will be recording my thoughts—and perhaps, hallucinations—as the day progresses and I get further and further from that last tasty morsel of real food.

What you see above is my “Light Meal” as defined by the guidelines in my Fleet Prep Kit #3: The instructions say I can have one boiled or poached egg or some skinless chicken or fish, one slice of white toast—no butter, and an 8 oz can of Ensure. Since that didn’t sit particularly well with me (and I’m pretty sure I understand the rationale for the specifics), I modified it in the following ways: I hate egg yolks (yeah, I know, picky picky) so I had two whites instead, and I fried them without added fat in a nonstick pan instead of boiling. I haven’t eaten white bread in years—even under these circumstances I couldn’t bring myself to buy a loaf. What would we do with the rest of it? Instead I picked up some plain English muffins—similar calorie count, and not a whole grain in sight. It’s virtually the same thing, and I figured that by the end of this long and gruesome day it’ll all be cleared out anyway. And there was no way in hell that I was going to drink one of those canned Ensure shakes—just the thought made me gag—so I subbed a glass of pulp-free OJ (which is on the Approved Clear Liquids List). That’s probably my worst offense: the Ensure has 6 grams of fat and 250 calories, compared to zero fat and 150 cals in the OJ. I’m guessing this means I’ll be hungry earlier, since fat helps slow digestion and makes you feel full longer. Oh, well! I suppose you’ll be hearing me whine a little sooner.

As for the taste of dry-cooked egg whites on dry English muffins: Well, there ain’t much to speak of. I don’t generally use a lot of fat in cooking anyway, and I eat my toast with just a whisper of butter, but eliminate that greasy goodness completely and you’ve created a joy-free eating experience. And when egg whites get cold…well, let’s just say I ate it faster than I probably should have.

I’ve laid in lots of “goodies” to ease me through the day: lemon Jell-o (since red & purple varieties are contraband), yellow and orange popsicles, more OJ, and of course my homemade chicken soup. Tune in frequently to see just how loco this Colon-Blowing blogger gets…

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PSA: The Food Blog Awards 2005

Yesterday I got an email from my mom with a link to the Weblog Awards, and all she had to say about them was "Why is there no food blog category?" (And she added a few dozen extra question marks, just for emphasis.) Before I could even craft an adequately thoughtful response, Kate at the Accidental Hedonist announced the opening of nominations for the second annual Food Blog Awards!

Words to Eat By was a finalist last year for Best New Blog, and it was quite a thrill--I'd only been blogging for a few months back then, so any little bit of recognition was sweet. The whole enterprise is rewarding, in fact--personally, I love the idea that the we food blogs are somehow a world unto ourselves. Having our own awards is homey and friendly and fun.

The nominations are open to everyone, not just bloggers, so if there are any food blogs that you read and love, click on through to the Food Blog Awards and nominate away! You'll see a list of categories, and when you click through you can name your favorites in the comments section of each one. Nominations close on December 16, so time's a wastin'...

Now, off to think about who I'll nominate... So many to choose from...

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Oh My Once, Oh My Twice, Oh My Oh Chicken Soup with(out) Rice

As part of my Olympian preparations for Wednesday’s torture (leading up to Thursday’s entirely different torture), I made a big pot of chicken soup over the weekend—clear broths being one of the few things I’ll be allowed to ingest, I thought it would be better to have some high-test homemade stuff on hand. It’s incredibly easy to make, but I don’t often bother since it takes hours and, well, I’m lazy. The canned stuff works fine for me, most of the time. While I’m in training for a day of extreme self-pity, I figured I’d do a little something nice for myself in the meantime.

This is the method I learned at ICE, but I called my mom beforehand and her recipe, the one I grew up on and still savor at all Jewish holidays, is essentially the same—although she tells me she’s stopped skimming in recent years, since it’s just for us family and the skimming doesn’t serve any real purpose except making it pretty and clear. (I realized after the fact that my mom’s recipe usually includes fresh dill, so you might want to consider adding some.)

Once you’ve got the broth, you can use it in practically anything. The classic chicken noodle soup is a no-brainer, and it’s easy to vary that with the addition of soy sauce, ginger, and scallions, say, for a Chinese inflection, or a little chipotle in adobo, avocado, and crisped strips of corn tortillas for a southwestern suggestion. (I’d leave out cilantro, since it’s evil, but if you insist go right ahead.) The night I made the broth, I used it as the base for a quick and inauthentic pasta e fagiole with canned white beans & tomatoes, elbow macaroni, garlic, and herbs. We’ve been grooving on that for two days already. And I’m dying to try to make canja, which is a Brazilian chicken soup with lemon, rice, and mint—but since I’m not allowed to eat any kind of solid food on Wednesday, I’ll hold off on that until next time.

Chicken Soup
Serves as many as your pot will allow

3 lbs chicken parts, cut up [I used inexpensive chicken backs, $.19/lb at the grocery]
3 carrots, peeled, whole or halved
3 ribs celery, whole or halved, with leaves
1 parsnip, peeled, whole or halved
1 turnip, peeled, whole or halved
1 onion, unpeeled, whole
Bouquet garni with 10 peppercorns, parsley stems, 1 bay leaf, thyme or dill
Cold water
Salt



Put the first 7 ingredients (through bouquet garni) into your largest pot—one with tall sides is best since the liquid will evaporate slower. Cover with cold water by several inches, and set over moderate heat. Bring to a boil, and lower to a simmer.



Skim off any scum that appears for about 10 minutes, or until it is no longer produced. Do not let water boil or scum will become reincorporated into the stock.


[Cats love soup scum. Who knew?]



[Hey whaddya know? In typing this up, I just realized I didn’t follow the instructions properly! It says to put just the chicken in the pot at first, and add the vegetables & bouquet garni after the skimming is complete. I’ve been making it this way for years, apparently incorrectly. Next time I’ll have to try that—if you do, let me know how it turns out.]

Simmer 4+ hours. If it looks like you’re losing too much liquid, go ahead and add a little more if it’s during the first half of the process—I did, and it turned out fine. Add salt at the very end, otherwise as it boils down it could condense and become too salty.


[It ain’t pretty, but it sure is tasty!]

Pour stock into a strainer, mashing down solids to get out all the juices. [I didn’t mash very hard, since one of my favorite comfort foods is the limp, overcooked mix of vegetables straight from the soup pot.]


[A pot of gold, I tell ya]



Degrease the stock—I’ve used all of these methods at various times and all work well:
• Chill, then discard the fat that congeals on top
• Put in a degreasing cup and let it sit until fat floats to the top. Pour it out from the bottom, being careful not to let the grease through the spout.
• Lower strips of paper towel onto surface of slightly cooled stock; grease will coat paper and turn it translucent. Continue with fresh strips until grease is gone.

This will hold in the fridge for 2-3 days (re-boil it if you’re going to hold it longer, or it will turn sour), or almost indefinitely in the freezer.

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On Surprise Parties, Fat Pants, and a Little Something Called a “Fleet Prep Kit”

On Monday S wandered into my office, sat down on the futon, and motioned for me to join him there. He put his arm around me, and gently broke the news: My surprise 40th birthday party was canceled. Since I had no idea he was planning anything (see: surprise party), the announcement that it wasn’t happening was, well, surprising. It was the second jolt I’d had that day. The first was a bit bigger: after meeting with a surgeon that morning, she scheduled me to have a laparoscopy next Thursday. (The surprise party would have been just two days later, hence the cancellation.)

It appears that I’ve got endometriosis. Female Trouble. I won’t go into gory detail here since it’s not germane (y’know, this is a food blog, not an episode of Nip/Tuck), but the surgery itself is supposed to be relatively minor, outpatient. Hopefully it’s going to clear up the enduring mystery of why I’m not getting pregnant and—even more hopefully—make pregnancy more likely.

(Note to readers: If you’re squicked out by this kind of chitchat, feel free to browse my site index instead of reading this entry—I hear there are some very delicious dessert recipes…)

In a weird way, I’m looking forward to the lap. We’ve been TTC (that’s Trying to Conceive, if you’re lucky enough not to know) for fifteen months now, with little to no explanation for why things aren’t working. I’ve been seeing an RE (reproductive endocrinologist—a fertility doc) since April. I’ve taken Clomid, the wonder drug that made me wonder why I was having an emotional meltdown over a stubbed toe. Injectible meds: check. IUI (intrauterine insemination—the advanced turkey baster method): check. I’ve peed on dozens of sticks—OPKs (ovulation predictor kits) and pregnancy tests both. (My, there are a lot of acronyms in the strange land of infertility…) No baby, and no reason why. Now, finally, after all this time, they may have found a reason. The lap will a) confirm the diagnosis and b) treat the condition. If I wake up from the anesthesia and those two things have happened, that will be enough for me.

Heck, who am I kidding? At this point two pink lines on a pregnancy test is the only result that will be enough. But first things first. Surgery.

Acting on the counsel of a friend who’s had the procedure, yesterday I stopped at Old Navy and bought two pairs of fat pants—soft, stretchy ones with drawstring waistbands, a size bigger than I’m currently wearing. As part of the surgery, my abdomen will be inflated with carbon dioxide, and apparently it can take a few days to deflate. Plus there’ll be some sort of bandage on my belly, so there’s the no-rub factor. Now, for most of you buying a size larger than usual is probably no big deal. But for me it was positively traumatic: In my quest to lose even a little bit of the weight I gained in 2004, I’ve refused to allow a larger size into my closet, for fear that it would signal acceptance. Instead, I’ve simply been uncomfortable in my clothes for a full year. Right now the vast majority of my pants are gathering dust on their hangers—I no longer even consider trying them on, just to see. Instead, I squeeze into the five pairs that do fit, barely, and wear my shirts untucked. Sometimes I get a stomachache just from the compression. Did I mention that I’ve been doing this for a year? Clearly, this stubbornness hasn’t spurred me to lose the extra weight, but at least I’m aware of it every freaking second I’m clothed.

This is why the thought of buying fat pants was troubling: I was afraid that if I brought them home, I’d soon gain enough additional weight that they’d actually fit. But since everything I own right now is already tight, not buying something would’ve meant going bottomless for a few days post-op. Not a pretty thought. So I sucked it up and bought two pairs of XL sweats—and was secretly relieved that I didn’t need the 2X, which was the first thing I tried. Still haven’t taken the tags, off, though. I guess I’m fantasizing that I’ll be able to return them afterwards—how disgusting would that be?

The thing that’s scaring me most in all of this is the preparation for the surgery. On Wednesday, I’m to use something called a Fleet Prep Kit #3—yes, Fleet as in enema. The kit itself contains a liquid laxative, a pill laxative, and an enema. A better name for it might be Super Explosive Colon Blaster Pack. The instructions are:

8AM Eat a light meal (a single egg or a small portion of chicken or fish, a piece of white toast—no butter, and an Ensure shake, plus any items from the “clear liquids diet list”)

9AM Drink at least 8 oz from the “clear liquids diet list”—water, lemonade, strained fruit juices without pulp, clear broth, coffee or tea (without milk), plus any of the following that are not colored red or purple [they don’t explain the color restriction, and I find it oddly amusing]: Gatorade, carbonated and non-carbonated soft drinks, Kool-Aid, Jell-O, and ice popsicles.

10AM Another 8 oz clear liquids

11AM Ditto

12PM Lunch: clear liquids only [scuse me, but where’s the lunch in my lunch?]

1PM Take Fleet Phospho-Soda Solution [There’s a small bottle of laxative that’s supposedly ginger-lemon flavored. I’m to mix 1 T. with 8 oz of cold clear liquid and guzzle it down. Sounds like an absolute treat, after all the garden-variety clear liquid I’ll be drinking.]

2PM Yet another 8 oz clear liquids

3PM Uh-huh

5PM Take 4 Fleet Bisacodyl Tablets [These are small orange pills, which I assume are yet another form of laxative.]

9PM Use Fleet Bagenema [The highlight of the day, I’m sure!]

After midnight Wednesday I’m to have nothing at all until after the surgery. Can you see why I’m a little nervous about this? At the same time as I’m not eating solid foods after 8AM, I’ll be dosing myself with a variety of pharmaceuticals intended to empty my body of any and all waste. Just when I'll be most nervous, most in need of a Teddy Graham to sate my anxiety, it will all be taken away. It’s really not going to be a very pretty day. And did I mention that I have trouble making it past 4PM on Yom Kippur without a snack?

Yeah, overall this is not the ideal strategy for a woman with disordered eating habits and a bad case of body dissatisfaction. But if it gets me one step closer to holding my newborn in my arms, well, sign me up.

And who knows, maybe I'll lose a few pounds.

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Have You Eaten at The Queen’s Hideaway Yet?

I was just over at this Greenpoint gem, chatting with the chef-owner, Liza Queen. Now that the weather’s turned cold (and the greenmarket offerings are slimming), she’s been having a lot of fun with sturdier, heartier fare. And she’s got two big developments: First, they now accept reservations! That’s big news since waits were approaching 90 minutes on weekends. And second, they’ve finally gotten their liquor license. As of now, they’re serving wine (which will be, typical of Liza’s way of thinking, largely from small and organic vineyards); next week beer joins the fray. If you haven’t been there yet, I urge you to check it out for yourself—Liza and her crew do some pretty amazing things with relatively humble ingredients. Here’s last night’s menu, if you’re curious—it changes every day, but she tells me tonight’s will be similar:

Mains:
• Chicken stewed & smoked w/plum tomato, pasilla pepper & achiotte, with house flour tortilla, crema, & lime $13
• Oyster stew with slightly smoked cream, tarragon, dill, & watercress topped with Barat cheese crackers $14
• House cured corned beef braised with Guiness, capers, & horseradish with cabbage/potato pudding $14
• Spinach & ricotta ravioli with butternut squash puree, braised leeks & toasted chestnuts $13

Apps/Sides:
• Pearl onions caramelizes with duck stock, wine, butter, & parsley $5
• Mixed greens with Cato Corner blue cheese, smoked walnuts & pomegranate/shallot dressing $6
• Millicent’s irregular biscuits with wildflower honey & butter $4
• Sauteed cauliflower with pinenuts, ricotta, & a little bit of cranberry/quince relish $5
• Black-eye pea/poblano fritters with Hideaway hot sauce $5

Desserts:
• Pecan custard pie $5
• Apple pie $5

P.S.:
• Mulled cider $3

The Queen’s Hideaway is at 222 Franklin St., near Green St., Greenpoint, Brooklyn. 718.383.2355.

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