a few hours, 100 cupcakes later...my freezer is all cupcakes, all the time. Don't try this at home, kids, unless you have a big ol' stand-up mixer. And, preferably, some non-dark muffin pans. Dark pans, it seems, make the bottoms of your cupcakes burn faster, or so said my pal Shar, of Shar's Babycakes, when we were baking 20 dozen cupcakes for a wedding a few weeks ago.
How will these little suckers get iced? Who knows. They're baked, and that's one mountain (of butter & sugar) climbed.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Feed me, Seymour!
My tomatoes love Miracle-Gro! This feels a little like saying "My kids love Big Macs!" (if, you know, I had kids.) But what can I say? I have two tomato plants--Stupice and some kind of cold-loving Russian heirloom cherry--stuck in a couple of pots on the back patio, bought in a fit of farm-longing outside Cole Hardware on Mission Street. There was a big bag of potting soil under the steps behind my house, so I filled up a couple of containers and stuck my little plants in. And there they stayed, stunted and unhappy, doing absolutely nothing. I knew they were sadly in need of some NPK (no new growth, curled-looking yellowish-purple leaves, general ennui), but what to do? The soil was in place, and you can't really amend junky potting soil once it's already in the pot around the plant. So, yes, I copped a quick cheap fix: a spoonful of the blue stuff, dissolved in water, poured over the leaves (foliar feeding!) and into the soil.
Better living through petrochemical byproducts! Just like cake-mix cakes always rise and look perfect, damned if my tomatoes aren't 10x healthier looking just a few days later. They're green, they're growing, they look fat and sassy and they actually have tomatoes on them. And they're looking at me as if they just got a hamburger after two months of olives and soy milk. What were you thinking, they seem to be saying. We needed food! Bad enough you put us out here, with the cold and fog and whiteflies. Then you put us on some no-nitrogen starvation diet?
Of course, they're supposed to get their food from the soil,if it were any good, which clearly it wasn't. I can't blame them; soil is a living thing, and if you leave it in a plastic bag under the porch for years on end, it's not going to be worth much more than the plastic it came in. If I had a real garden, I'd be composting and fish-emulsioning and mulching til the cows came home (yoo-hooo! Bessieeee!!). But for two pots on the concrete, the M-G will have to do.
There are all kinds of metaphors in here, but I'm too written-out to delve into them. Plus, there's the Cupcake Dilemma: in a whimsical moment, I promised my pals M.& D. that I'd make them a wedding cake when they could finally get married legally here (They're longtime gay-marriage activists, and already been been married several times to each other, but we're hoping this time will stay on the books). Now, this promise has morphed into a request for cupcakes for 150. Especially tricky since I'm going to be at Slow Food on Sat and down in Santa Cruz with P. and her family, watching Shakespeare, on Sunday. Which leaves today, tomorrow, and the freezer. I have absolutely no idea how this is going to happen. I'm actually thinking...minicupcakes? Very cute, and well, small! So they could each just get a little dab of icing and sprinkles and be done. We'll see if I can find a million mini-cupcake liners at Safeway.
Also, Arkansas! I'm longing to go back to Eureka Springs, as I've promised to do for a few weeks this sept, but there remains the difficult cash issue. As in, plane tickets=really f'ing expensive these days! Especially going NY-Arkansas, Arkansas-SF. Not sure if I can swing the $700 or so for the plane fare, on top of the $300 or so it will take to stay at the writer's colony for 10 days after my workshops. Seems like a better deal to just come back in a week from NYC on a cheap jetblue fare...ah, what to do.
Better living through petrochemical byproducts! Just like cake-mix cakes always rise and look perfect, damned if my tomatoes aren't 10x healthier looking just a few days later. They're green, they're growing, they look fat and sassy and they actually have tomatoes on them. And they're looking at me as if they just got a hamburger after two months of olives and soy milk. What were you thinking, they seem to be saying. We needed food! Bad enough you put us out here, with the cold and fog and whiteflies. Then you put us on some no-nitrogen starvation diet?
Of course, they're supposed to get their food from the soil,if it were any good, which clearly it wasn't. I can't blame them; soil is a living thing, and if you leave it in a plastic bag under the porch for years on end, it's not going to be worth much more than the plastic it came in. If I had a real garden, I'd be composting and fish-emulsioning and mulching til the cows came home (yoo-hooo! Bessieeee!!). But for two pots on the concrete, the M-G will have to do.
There are all kinds of metaphors in here, but I'm too written-out to delve into them. Plus, there's the Cupcake Dilemma: in a whimsical moment, I promised my pals M.& D. that I'd make them a wedding cake when they could finally get married legally here (They're longtime gay-marriage activists, and already been been married several times to each other, but we're hoping this time will stay on the books). Now, this promise has morphed into a request for cupcakes for 150. Especially tricky since I'm going to be at Slow Food on Sat and down in Santa Cruz with P. and her family, watching Shakespeare, on Sunday. Which leaves today, tomorrow, and the freezer. I have absolutely no idea how this is going to happen. I'm actually thinking...minicupcakes? Very cute, and well, small! So they could each just get a little dab of icing and sprinkles and be done. We'll see if I can find a million mini-cupcake liners at Safeway.
Also, Arkansas! I'm longing to go back to Eureka Springs, as I've promised to do for a few weeks this sept, but there remains the difficult cash issue. As in, plane tickets=really f'ing expensive these days! Especially going NY-Arkansas, Arkansas-SF. Not sure if I can swing the $700 or so for the plane fare, on top of the $300 or so it will take to stay at the writer's colony for 10 days after my workshops. Seems like a better deal to just come back in a week from NYC on a cheap jetblue fare...ah, what to do.
Monday, August 25, 2008
dancing in abundance
Or, in another word, blackberries! Finally walked up to the other side of Bernal Hill, empty yogurt containers in hand, and picked, picked, picked. Many berries were still at the red/sour stage, but I did come home, over 2 days, with a little less than 2 quarts, about enough to make 3 half-pints of jam. This is some high-octane, high-berry-content stuff. And easy--easier!--as pie.
OK, I guess I have to cop to my recent pie-contest experience. I baked, I went, I didn't win. Maybe it was because I chickened out at the last minute, fearing my lard dough was too soft and crumbly, and made a regular all-butter crust instead. Yes, the apples--a mix of gingergolds and gravensteins--were a little soft, but that's early-season apples for you--it's just how they are. Paige and I took the rest of the pie home (after the judges had taken a slice) and I can say, honestly, that it was a really, really nice pie. Not spectacular, but certainly better than the ones I tasted at that same fair, back when I was a judge in 2002. Oh well. We had a lovely time at the fair nonetheless, and I got to chat with the very nice farm manager from Nana Mae, the orchard where I got my gravensteins.
What else? $2/lb heirlooms at the Civic Center farmers' market! Also there: MacDonald Orchards, with $2/lb Pink Pearls, my favorite obscure apple. Cream-colored on the outside, hot candy pink inside, bright and tart. these have a season of about 5 minutes, and make fabulous pink tarts and pink applesauce, so git 'em while you can.
Even better were the jumbo tomatoes and Summer Lady peaches fresh picked (and free!) from the Moraga Farm, a sweet, incredibly productive one-acre farm/garden in, yes, Moraga that's part commercial farm, part community garden. Tomatoes and squash are the farm's cash crops, sold to local fancy restaurants and markets to pay the garden's bills. The rest of the produce goes to everyone--to the locals who help to plant and harvest, to an assisted-living senior facility in the area, an AIDS hospice, a local elementary school, and more. Bartering is the way of the garden. The guy who runs a tree-trimming biz in town came out to the prune the trees earlier this year. His requested payment? Tomatoes. Same with the guys from the nursery. The firefighters who put out a fire at the farm got flats of tomatoes in thanks, too.
Wine works, too. Farmer Al of Frog Hollow Farm donated dozens of peach and nectarine trees, plus the manpower and expertise to get them planted a few years ago. Each spring, he brings a crew of his workers over to help shape the season's vegetable beds. His payment? Some of the (very good) homemade wine that David and the other Moraga farmers make each fall. It's an economy of abundance, especially during this peak of the harvest. Around the full moon each month, friends of the farm come together for a moonlight potluck, anchored around the wood-fired cob pizza oven in one corner of the farm. Pizzas are made, wine is drunk, a farm update is presented, there are dogs and babies, even a campfire.
This time, I got the bright idea to try to bake some peach galettes--with farm peaches!--in the pizza oven. Not such a hot idea, as it turned out, since the oven, heated from below, was just too smokin' hot for this kind of baking. The galettes burned on the bottom before they browned on the top. And the one galette I put aside, for baking later when the oven had cooled off, mysteriously disappeared, seemingly the victim of dough-loving space aliens or a very tidy, intrepid dog, who managed to eat all the raw crust while leaving most of the peaches intact. (Is it too gross to report that I made another galette, using those same possibly dog-licked peaches? And that everyone ate it? Like I said, really hot oven.) But it was (mostly) fun to bake on the fly, even if the disappearing galette did throw me for a loop. Best moment: taking a just-after-dark spin through the tomato plants, candlelit lantern in hand, to smell the roses and tomato leaves, listen to the crickets, and look up at the stars overhead. Abundance, indeed.
**with thanks to Lauren, pastry chef and soon-to-be cookbook author, who introduced me to the farm and all very nice people there**
Foraged Blackberry Jam
I've only ever made this with foraged berries, which usually include a fair number of not-quite-ripe berries, the ones highest in natural pectin. So my jam tends to jell up very easily without lots of extra sugar. If you're using very ripe, sweet berries, you might need a spritz of fresh lemon juice (half a lemon) or a little more sugar for a firm set.
4 cups blackberries
1 cup sugar
Mix berries and sugar, and let sit, stirring occasionally, for a couple of hours. Sterilize a couple of 8 oz jars. Pour berries and liquid (sugar should be dissolved) into a heavy pot. Bring to a foaming simmer and let it simmer gently, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon, until berries break down and it looks almost like jam (it should still be a little runny, since it will thicken as it cools, and you don't want it over-thickened and rubbery). Spoon into jars, put on lids, and put in a deep pot with hot water to cover. Simmer 8 minutes, then remove and let cool. Test for seal when completely cool.
OK, I guess I have to cop to my recent pie-contest experience. I baked, I went, I didn't win. Maybe it was because I chickened out at the last minute, fearing my lard dough was too soft and crumbly, and made a regular all-butter crust instead. Yes, the apples--a mix of gingergolds and gravensteins--were a little soft, but that's early-season apples for you--it's just how they are. Paige and I took the rest of the pie home (after the judges had taken a slice) and I can say, honestly, that it was a really, really nice pie. Not spectacular, but certainly better than the ones I tasted at that same fair, back when I was a judge in 2002. Oh well. We had a lovely time at the fair nonetheless, and I got to chat with the very nice farm manager from Nana Mae, the orchard where I got my gravensteins.
What else? $2/lb heirlooms at the Civic Center farmers' market! Also there: MacDonald Orchards, with $2/lb Pink Pearls, my favorite obscure apple. Cream-colored on the outside, hot candy pink inside, bright and tart. these have a season of about 5 minutes, and make fabulous pink tarts and pink applesauce, so git 'em while you can.
Even better were the jumbo tomatoes and Summer Lady peaches fresh picked (and free!) from the Moraga Farm, a sweet, incredibly productive one-acre farm/garden in, yes, Moraga that's part commercial farm, part community garden. Tomatoes and squash are the farm's cash crops, sold to local fancy restaurants and markets to pay the garden's bills. The rest of the produce goes to everyone--to the locals who help to plant and harvest, to an assisted-living senior facility in the area, an AIDS hospice, a local elementary school, and more. Bartering is the way of the garden. The guy who runs a tree-trimming biz in town came out to the prune the trees earlier this year. His requested payment? Tomatoes. Same with the guys from the nursery. The firefighters who put out a fire at the farm got flats of tomatoes in thanks, too.
Wine works, too. Farmer Al of Frog Hollow Farm donated dozens of peach and nectarine trees, plus the manpower and expertise to get them planted a few years ago. Each spring, he brings a crew of his workers over to help shape the season's vegetable beds. His payment? Some of the (very good) homemade wine that David and the other Moraga farmers make each fall. It's an economy of abundance, especially during this peak of the harvest. Around the full moon each month, friends of the farm come together for a moonlight potluck, anchored around the wood-fired cob pizza oven in one corner of the farm. Pizzas are made, wine is drunk, a farm update is presented, there are dogs and babies, even a campfire.
This time, I got the bright idea to try to bake some peach galettes--with farm peaches!--in the pizza oven. Not such a hot idea, as it turned out, since the oven, heated from below, was just too smokin' hot for this kind of baking. The galettes burned on the bottom before they browned on the top. And the one galette I put aside, for baking later when the oven had cooled off, mysteriously disappeared, seemingly the victim of dough-loving space aliens or a very tidy, intrepid dog, who managed to eat all the raw crust while leaving most of the peaches intact. (Is it too gross to report that I made another galette, using those same possibly dog-licked peaches? And that everyone ate it? Like I said, really hot oven.) But it was (mostly) fun to bake on the fly, even if the disappearing galette did throw me for a loop. Best moment: taking a just-after-dark spin through the tomato plants, candlelit lantern in hand, to smell the roses and tomato leaves, listen to the crickets, and look up at the stars overhead. Abundance, indeed.
**with thanks to Lauren, pastry chef and soon-to-be cookbook author, who introduced me to the farm and all very nice people there**
Foraged Blackberry Jam
I've only ever made this with foraged berries, which usually include a fair number of not-quite-ripe berries, the ones highest in natural pectin. So my jam tends to jell up very easily without lots of extra sugar. If you're using very ripe, sweet berries, you might need a spritz of fresh lemon juice (half a lemon) or a little more sugar for a firm set.
4 cups blackberries
1 cup sugar
Mix berries and sugar, and let sit, stirring occasionally, for a couple of hours. Sterilize a couple of 8 oz jars. Pour berries and liquid (sugar should be dissolved) into a heavy pot. Bring to a foaming simmer and let it simmer gently, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon, until berries break down and it looks almost like jam (it should still be a little runny, since it will thicken as it cools, and you don't want it over-thickened and rubbery). Spoon into jars, put on lids, and put in a deep pot with hot water to cover. Simmer 8 minutes, then remove and let cool. Test for seal when completely cool.
Need to Know
Saturday, August 30 in San Francisco
The French-American queer connection presents:
THE ORIGINAL SIN
A night of lascivious and scintillating readings, screenings and performances at the Center for Sex and Culture
Featuring hot local stars and sexy imported babes:
Michelle Tea
Madison Young
Kentucky Fried Woman
Ms. Cherry Galette
Billie Sweet
Lynn Breedlove
Sadie Lune
Wendy Delorme
T.R. Moss
... and surprise guests!
Hosted by Carol Queen
Curated by Wendy Delorme and Corrie Bennett
Show starts at 7pm
1519 Mission St.
San Francisco (Between 11th and South Van Ness)
Tix $8-$15 (sliding scale, natch).
The French-American queer connection presents:
THE ORIGINAL SIN
A night of lascivious and scintillating readings, screenings and performances at the Center for Sex and Culture
Featuring hot local stars and sexy imported babes:
Michelle Tea
Madison Young
Kentucky Fried Woman
Ms. Cherry Galette
Billie Sweet
Lynn Breedlove
Sadie Lune
Wendy Delorme
T.R. Moss
... and surprise guests!
Hosted by Carol Queen
Curated by Wendy Delorme and Corrie Bennett
Show starts at 7pm
1519 Mission St.
San Francisco (Between 11th and South Van Ness)
Tix $8-$15 (sliding scale, natch).
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Osento, 1980-2008
So, the much-loved women's bathhouse on Valencia St is no more. Osento, I just found out, closed on July 31st, after a 28-year run.
I loved Osento. My very first lesbian date took place there, when a girl I'd met at a Queer Nation bar takeover (where a bunch of queers swarmed a het hook-up joint in North Beach) called and asked if I wanted to join her, her sister, and a bunch of their friends for a steam and soak. They were on their way there after dinner, and she thought I might want to come along. I was a little nervous--after all, we'd only talked once, and here she was inviting me to get naked and meet her family and friends. But I was 22, and game, and so I went. And I fell in love--not with her, although we did end up dating for the next 3 months, mostly to drive around Berkeley listening to the Indigo Girls--but with Osento.
It was a funky old Victorian that had been refashioned into a bath house. What had been the parlor now had lockers and a sink with a counter full of water glasses alongside a bowl of lemons, plus a little cutting board and knife so you could make your own glass of lemon water to sip on while you soaked. Behind one door was a tiled shower stocked with Dr. Bronner's liquid peppermint soap; behind the other was a blue-tiled room with a big, deep soaking pool. At night, the lights were soft and hazy, making everyone look straight out of an Ingres painting. And unlike the men's bathhouses, it really was a place for bathing. Although I heard stories of late-night sauna nookie, I never witnessed any; the rules were no sex ("not even with yourself"), and privacy was respected. But if you couldn't touch, you could look: it was a place to experience the myriad beauty of real women.
Whatever your orientation, the sheer variety was reassuring: everyone was different, and there was beauty to be found in every curve. Forget those dopey Dove soap ads; this was a place to see the tattooed rings of a double-women's-symbol inked as a pair of linked handcuffs; to see dreads, scars, huge breasts, no breasts, every kind of variation of taut skin, wrinkled skin, flared hips, skinny legs, women with extravagant curves and spare women straight up and down.
Outside in the garden, there was, originally, a rain barrel full of chilly water for post-sauna plunges (later replaced by a cold plunge pool). There were two round cedar saunas, one with a wooden bucket and ladle inside, for steam, the other dry. The wet sauna was the good one, hot and steamy, with an astringent san francisco smell of eucalyptus going deep into your lungs. Over the saunas was a wooden deck. At one point, an avocado tree grew right up through a hole in the deck, and I would stretch out naked in the sunshine and look up at the ripening avocados hanging down between the leaves, still amazed that I'd found a place in a city where something as exotic as avocados just grew on the trees.
Osento was open every day, from noon to midnight. Anytime you needed relaxation, solace, hot water up to your neck to fight the summer or winter chill, or just a peaceful place to be surrounded by naked women, it was there. The Valentine's Day I locked out of the house by mistake without a coat, feeling sad and sorry and single while everyone else was dining a deux, it was to Osento that I went to warm up my self-pitying self until my roommates got home. When P. and I lived in the same building across the street, we soaked there all the time. I've been with friends, with girlfriends, and by myself, and I always came out softer, cleaner, and happier than when I went in.
Owner Summer is giving up the business so she can retire upstate, to Clearlake, turning the building back into residential units so she can pay the mortgage. According to the Osento website, this is her only option; were another person to take over the business, they'd have to bring it up to current code. This, which would take many, many thousands of dollars in renovations, would by necessity mean turning it into a more upscale, expensive, pampering type of spa in order to make the money back.
During Osento's early days, Valencia St was full of women's businesses. There was Amelia's, a dyke bar where the Elbo Room is now. Artemis Cafe (which became Radio Valencia, now Beretta) and Valencia Rose had open mics, comedy and performances. Womyncrafts West, women's bookstore Old Wives' Tales, and more...the street, run down as it was, was a welcoming place for lesbians and feminists and women with and without a "y". Now, with the closing of Osento, the last of the old lesbian-feminist vibe of the street will finally fade.
Moving to SF in 1990, I didn't experience too much of the old Valencia St. Sure, Old Wives' Tales and Womyncrafts West were still there. My then-girlfriend Anne and I snuck out of a party at her house on Guerrero to go to the closing night of Amelia's. I felt way too young, and femme, to fit in with the old-school bardyke crowd there, but we felt we had to honor it, somehow, in acknowledgment of the days when bars like Maud's, Peg's Place, and Amelia's were the only places a lesbian could be out, and where butches weren't "mannish" but sexy women in their own right. I heard about Artemis from another girlfriend, who'd helped to run shows there.
What I did know was the second wave of dyke businesses that opened along the street, like the Lexington Club, a punky dyke bar just off Valencia, at 17th St, and Red Dora's Bearded Lady, a closet-sized cafe and performance space near the notoriously sketchy Valencia Gardens housing projects. Red Dora's was where Michelle Tea and Sini Anderson started Sister Spit, with their weekly writers squeezed up against the muffin counter reading to sweaty overflow crowds. It would get so hot in there that I remember asking the crowd one night if they'd mind if I stripped off my shirt and read just wearing a bra. And Leathertongue Video at 18th St (now denim store Self Edge), which got started at the kitchen table of a house I lived in on 22nd Street. It carried all kinds of kooky videos--the sort of place to have entire shelves dedicated to both Jodie Foster and Bruce LaBruce.
Things are different now, of course. Ellen and Portia's wedding at their $35-mil Beverly Hills mansion is People-magazine fodder (The outfits! The rings! The cake!). My friends are getting a little tired of getting married, in fact. Once-It Girl punkettes have partners, kids, and careers as midwives or yoga teachers. The stores on the street sell fancy coffee and $120 sneakers. I wish I could still go get wet and naked in the middle of day behind an ordinary door on Valencia Street, but times change.
Thank you, Summer, and all the ladies of Osento. It was a good time.
I loved Osento. My very first lesbian date took place there, when a girl I'd met at a Queer Nation bar takeover (where a bunch of queers swarmed a het hook-up joint in North Beach) called and asked if I wanted to join her, her sister, and a bunch of their friends for a steam and soak. They were on their way there after dinner, and she thought I might want to come along. I was a little nervous--after all, we'd only talked once, and here she was inviting me to get naked and meet her family and friends. But I was 22, and game, and so I went. And I fell in love--not with her, although we did end up dating for the next 3 months, mostly to drive around Berkeley listening to the Indigo Girls--but with Osento.
It was a funky old Victorian that had been refashioned into a bath house. What had been the parlor now had lockers and a sink with a counter full of water glasses alongside a bowl of lemons, plus a little cutting board and knife so you could make your own glass of lemon water to sip on while you soaked. Behind one door was a tiled shower stocked with Dr. Bronner's liquid peppermint soap; behind the other was a blue-tiled room with a big, deep soaking pool. At night, the lights were soft and hazy, making everyone look straight out of an Ingres painting. And unlike the men's bathhouses, it really was a place for bathing. Although I heard stories of late-night sauna nookie, I never witnessed any; the rules were no sex ("not even with yourself"), and privacy was respected. But if you couldn't touch, you could look: it was a place to experience the myriad beauty of real women.
Whatever your orientation, the sheer variety was reassuring: everyone was different, and there was beauty to be found in every curve. Forget those dopey Dove soap ads; this was a place to see the tattooed rings of a double-women's-symbol inked as a pair of linked handcuffs; to see dreads, scars, huge breasts, no breasts, every kind of variation of taut skin, wrinkled skin, flared hips, skinny legs, women with extravagant curves and spare women straight up and down.
Outside in the garden, there was, originally, a rain barrel full of chilly water for post-sauna plunges (later replaced by a cold plunge pool). There were two round cedar saunas, one with a wooden bucket and ladle inside, for steam, the other dry. The wet sauna was the good one, hot and steamy, with an astringent san francisco smell of eucalyptus going deep into your lungs. Over the saunas was a wooden deck. At one point, an avocado tree grew right up through a hole in the deck, and I would stretch out naked in the sunshine and look up at the ripening avocados hanging down between the leaves, still amazed that I'd found a place in a city where something as exotic as avocados just grew on the trees.
Osento was open every day, from noon to midnight. Anytime you needed relaxation, solace, hot water up to your neck to fight the summer or winter chill, or just a peaceful place to be surrounded by naked women, it was there. The Valentine's Day I locked out of the house by mistake without a coat, feeling sad and sorry and single while everyone else was dining a deux, it was to Osento that I went to warm up my self-pitying self until my roommates got home. When P. and I lived in the same building across the street, we soaked there all the time. I've been with friends, with girlfriends, and by myself, and I always came out softer, cleaner, and happier than when I went in.
Owner Summer is giving up the business so she can retire upstate, to Clearlake, turning the building back into residential units so she can pay the mortgage. According to the Osento website, this is her only option; were another person to take over the business, they'd have to bring it up to current code. This, which would take many, many thousands of dollars in renovations, would by necessity mean turning it into a more upscale, expensive, pampering type of spa in order to make the money back.
During Osento's early days, Valencia St was full of women's businesses. There was Amelia's, a dyke bar where the Elbo Room is now. Artemis Cafe (which became Radio Valencia, now Beretta) and Valencia Rose had open mics, comedy and performances. Womyncrafts West, women's bookstore Old Wives' Tales, and more...the street, run down as it was, was a welcoming place for lesbians and feminists and women with and without a "y". Now, with the closing of Osento, the last of the old lesbian-feminist vibe of the street will finally fade.
Moving to SF in 1990, I didn't experience too much of the old Valencia St. Sure, Old Wives' Tales and Womyncrafts West were still there. My then-girlfriend Anne and I snuck out of a party at her house on Guerrero to go to the closing night of Amelia's. I felt way too young, and femme, to fit in with the old-school bardyke crowd there, but we felt we had to honor it, somehow, in acknowledgment of the days when bars like Maud's, Peg's Place, and Amelia's were the only places a lesbian could be out, and where butches weren't "mannish" but sexy women in their own right. I heard about Artemis from another girlfriend, who'd helped to run shows there.
What I did know was the second wave of dyke businesses that opened along the street, like the Lexington Club, a punky dyke bar just off Valencia, at 17th St, and Red Dora's Bearded Lady, a closet-sized cafe and performance space near the notoriously sketchy Valencia Gardens housing projects. Red Dora's was where Michelle Tea and Sini Anderson started Sister Spit, with their weekly writers squeezed up against the muffin counter reading to sweaty overflow crowds. It would get so hot in there that I remember asking the crowd one night if they'd mind if I stripped off my shirt and read just wearing a bra. And Leathertongue Video at 18th St (now denim store Self Edge), which got started at the kitchen table of a house I lived in on 22nd Street. It carried all kinds of kooky videos--the sort of place to have entire shelves dedicated to both Jodie Foster and Bruce LaBruce.
Things are different now, of course. Ellen and Portia's wedding at their $35-mil Beverly Hills mansion is People-magazine fodder (The outfits! The rings! The cake!). My friends are getting a little tired of getting married, in fact. Once-It Girl punkettes have partners, kids, and careers as midwives or yoga teachers. The stores on the street sell fancy coffee and $120 sneakers. I wish I could still go get wet and naked in the middle of day behind an ordinary door on Valencia Street, but times change.
Thank you, Summer, and all the ladies of Osento. It was a good time.
Friday, August 08, 2008
pie, and more pie!
Countdown to the pie contest! Got my flour, got my Sonoma Gravensteins (thanks, Bi-Rite!), got my butter, got MY LAAAAAARDDDDDDD....(anyone else singing Porgy & Bess here?). Off to the wilds of San Rafael tonight, jam and pink wine in hand. Keep your fingers crossed for PQ!
And speaking of pie, as we so often are here, you can do a pie class with PQ in September, if you happen to find yourself in Eureka Springs, Arkansas on Sept. 11. I'll be teaching a hands-on pie workshop in the beautiful kitchen at the Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow, followed by a brunch workshop on Sunday, Sept. 14. Will post more info about these soon...
And speaking of pie, as we so often are here, you can do a pie class with PQ in September, if you happen to find yourself in Eureka Springs, Arkansas on Sept. 11. I'll be teaching a hands-on pie workshop in the beautiful kitchen at the Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow, followed by a brunch workshop on Sunday, Sept. 14. Will post more info about these soon...
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
love you like lard, here on the hill
The kind folks at Avedano's on Cortland Street are rendering me some fresh lard for my contest pie...now that's some neighborly service! They also do a nice meatloaf sandwich, kind of a Cali version of a classic Brooklyn meatball-parm sub. Soft, mildly flavored meatloaf, swished with marinara sauce and a slice of provolone, sandwiched in ciabatta bread and grilled in a panini press. Mmmmm. And for dessert, a tiny Fiat square, smooth, creamy-good chocolate with a hazelnut filling. These come from Bologna, and were a fave of mine when I lived there. Almost never seen outside of Italy, so a fun treat...
Hey, it's one-dollar ice cream day at Maggie Moo's! rocky road, here I come...that is, until I can get up to Picco Pizzeria, in Larkspur, for their supposedly awesome soft-serve.
What else? Free wild plums from the share-the-love garden-freebie box outside of Heartfelt, also on Cortland. Unapologetically rich and wonderful oyster stew, perfumed with pernod, at Hog Island Oyster Bar in the Ferry Bldg. Way more vegetables (carrots, onions, and celery, mostly) than would ever be allowed to mingle at Grand Central's Oyster Bar, but v. tasty nonetheless, and they keep you from feeling like you're downing a straight half-pint of cream. Alas, just as I sat down, they ran out of the bitchin'-looking, spicy grilled octopus and padron pepper appetizer. Watermelon agua fresca from La Taqueria, and a carne asada taco with avocado...always, always delish. Ollalieberry pie and seafood chowder (with a stock base, and rice, rather than cream and potatoes) at Duarte's in Pescadero, then ollalieberry picking at Phipps, home of white peacocks and every kind of dried bean ever.
Hey, it's one-dollar ice cream day at Maggie Moo's! rocky road, here I come...that is, until I can get up to Picco Pizzeria, in Larkspur, for their supposedly awesome soft-serve.
What else? Free wild plums from the share-the-love garden-freebie box outside of Heartfelt, also on Cortland. Unapologetically rich and wonderful oyster stew, perfumed with pernod, at Hog Island Oyster Bar in the Ferry Bldg. Way more vegetables (carrots, onions, and celery, mostly) than would ever be allowed to mingle at Grand Central's Oyster Bar, but v. tasty nonetheless, and they keep you from feeling like you're downing a straight half-pint of cream. Alas, just as I sat down, they ran out of the bitchin'-looking, spicy grilled octopus and padron pepper appetizer. Watermelon agua fresca from La Taqueria, and a carne asada taco with avocado...always, always delish. Ollalieberry pie and seafood chowder (with a stock base, and rice, rather than cream and potatoes) at Duarte's in Pescadero, then ollalieberry picking at Phipps, home of white peacocks and every kind of dried bean ever.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Pie Contest!
OK, pie bakers, prove your mettle! The annual Sebastopol Gravenstein Apple Fair is coming up this weekend, and you know what that means: Apple Pie Contest!! Getting me some Sonoma county apples (as required, in a completely un-enforcible but honorable rule) and some happy-pig lard, and keeping a close eye on the kitchen scale, so I don't screw up this time. P., who lives out near Novato, just where the subdivisions give way to cows, will be my escort to the land of country twang and apple fritters. And hey, no pressure, just because I won the Grand Champion ribbon upon my first entry a few years ago. But really, this is an awesomely fun little country event, definitely worth a visit, especially for families. Pies have to be turned in by 11am, judging takes place around 2pm, on Saturday, Aug. 9. See you there!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
thunderstorms, gazpacho, free pudding
Thunderstorms! Rain is teeming down here, lightning flashing on this dark and stormy Brooklyn afternoon. It's peaceful, actually, since I haven't heard rain in the summertime for a while. K. doesn't want to leave the house while it's pouring, so we're browsing through the Times, doing the crossword, eating microwaved chocolate-chip cookies (since her oven doesn't really work, and I'd made the cookie dough before realizing this) and contemplating take-out vietnamese noodles. But if the rain stops, it's onto the R train to see the new film of Brideshead Revisited, since it would take more than a little rain to stand between me and dissipated, self-torturing English types in 1920s haircuts. Not that anything could really beat the 1980s BBC miniseries (Jeremy Irons! Anthony Andrews with a teddy bear! Nude sunbathing, in Venice!)
Pizza at Grimaldi's was, as usual, exactly the right thing, eaten elbow-to-elbow off red-checked vinyl tablecloths. Before seeing Laurie Anderson's show at the gorgeous Rose concert hall (part of Lincoln Center, in the fancy slate-gray mall that is the Time-Warner Center), we tried to have dinner at Jack the Horse, a nice bar and restaurant on a leafy stretch of Hicks St. Except that after waiting in vain for our dinners for 30 minutes, we finally tracked down the waiter, who blithely informed us that our order had been lost--in a place where maybe 6 tables were occupied, the chef was chatting with the table next to ours, and half the wait and kitchen staff were standing around with nothing to do. So we split, grabbed a sandwich at the deli on the corner, and ran for the subway. And now this place will forever be known to us as Jack the Ass. After the show, we stopped in at Epices du Traiteur, off Columbus, for a big golden fan of brik (fried phyllo, stuffed with egg and tuna), peach gazpacho, and chopped mediterranean salad.
On Saturday, we took a breezy spin around the East River on the Pioneer, a 1880s ship turned schooner. Very peaceful to be out on the river with nothing but the splash of waves and the slap and creak of billowing canvas sails overhead. Best part: going right under the Brooklyn Bridge, so that we could look up and see the underside of the bridge--a rare perspective. Then, in keeping with the maritime theme, I dragged K. up to The Mermaid Inn, a favorite little seafood joint on 2nd Ave, which takes its theme seriously--goldfish crackers on the bar, fish-info placemats, little mermaids on the matches. Keeping with the fruit-gazpacho theme of the weekend (hey, it's 89 degrees, with humidity!), I got the watermelon gazpacho, which was a little too sweet, but had cute tiny watermelon balls and lots of lovely blue crab. Then fab fresh sardine filets, sans the usual head, tail, and backbone, with pineapple bits, a mango-ish sauce (I think) and thinly sliced cukes, radishes, and onions with vinegar, reminiscent of what NYC delis used to call "health salad". To save on table-malingerers, Mermaid doesn't offer dessert. Instead, you get a demitasse of free chocolate pudding to send you on your way.
Pizza at Grimaldi's was, as usual, exactly the right thing, eaten elbow-to-elbow off red-checked vinyl tablecloths. Before seeing Laurie Anderson's show at the gorgeous Rose concert hall (part of Lincoln Center, in the fancy slate-gray mall that is the Time-Warner Center), we tried to have dinner at Jack the Horse, a nice bar and restaurant on a leafy stretch of Hicks St. Except that after waiting in vain for our dinners for 30 minutes, we finally tracked down the waiter, who blithely informed us that our order had been lost--in a place where maybe 6 tables were occupied, the chef was chatting with the table next to ours, and half the wait and kitchen staff were standing around with nothing to do. So we split, grabbed a sandwich at the deli on the corner, and ran for the subway. And now this place will forever be known to us as Jack the Ass. After the show, we stopped in at Epices du Traiteur, off Columbus, for a big golden fan of brik (fried phyllo, stuffed with egg and tuna), peach gazpacho, and chopped mediterranean salad.
On Saturday, we took a breezy spin around the East River on the Pioneer, a 1880s ship turned schooner. Very peaceful to be out on the river with nothing but the splash of waves and the slap and creak of billowing canvas sails overhead. Best part: going right under the Brooklyn Bridge, so that we could look up and see the underside of the bridge--a rare perspective. Then, in keeping with the maritime theme, I dragged K. up to The Mermaid Inn, a favorite little seafood joint on 2nd Ave, which takes its theme seriously--goldfish crackers on the bar, fish-info placemats, little mermaids on the matches. Keeping with the fruit-gazpacho theme of the weekend (hey, it's 89 degrees, with humidity!), I got the watermelon gazpacho, which was a little too sweet, but had cute tiny watermelon balls and lots of lovely blue crab. Then fab fresh sardine filets, sans the usual head, tail, and backbone, with pineapple bits, a mango-ish sauce (I think) and thinly sliced cukes, radishes, and onions with vinegar, reminiscent of what NYC delis used to call "health salad". To save on table-malingerers, Mermaid doesn't offer dessert. Instead, you get a demitasse of free chocolate pudding to send you on your way.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tea Time--NOT!
UPDATE: Well, that was a bust! I schlepped over the river and down to Union Square in my cute pink dress, only to find a dark, empty bar with cavernous scaffolding outside, a couple of women with a blender filling tiny plastic cups with tea smoothies, a guy on the corner handing out free tea, and nothing else. Even the PR flack there admitted there was nothing for me to do. So after several conference calls with Lipton and Ogilvy being briefed about the product, about a million emails, and too many minutes on the hell-hot platforms of the 2 and 4 trains, I flipped around on my kitten heel and left. What a giant waste of time! So, skip this, and hey, make your own iced tea. Much better, cheaper, and less sweet. Save your sugar for PIE! And note to self, and all others: don't shill for a fat corporation unless they're paying you real cash.
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Want to meet the Pie Queen? And quench your thirst with some nice chilly iced tea on this hot summer afternoon? I'll be at the Union Bar at 200 Park Avenue South near 17th St just off Union Square, in Manhattan today, from around 11am to 3pm. There's a promotion going on for Lipton's new Pure Leaf bottled iced teas, so there will be free tea samples and tea smoothies and tea cocktails, all kinds of tea-related festivities going on. Not to mention the usual farmers' market around the corner.
Why will the PQ be there? Because someone at Lipton (owned by corp giant Unilever) via ad agency Ogilvy thought it would be a snappy marketing idea to get some of those kooky bloggers the kids like so much to do some promoting--for free!--of their product. Yup, they did send me (via K.) 54 bottles (4 1/2 cases! sheesh! luckily K. has an elevator to her fifth-floor apt) of tea for sampling and recipe-testing, but otherwise PQ's not getting paid.
Which, in retrospect, seems a little dumb. Why would I want to promote a corporate product for anything but cash? (Ok, I do repeatedly sing the praises of the microplane grater and the jam-jar lifter here for free. But that's evangelism, and better kitchen living through invention, not shilling.)
However, K.'s been enjoying the tea, and she's a tried-and-true, Southern-born sweet tea lover. So far her favorite is the red fruit-flavored rooibos tea, followed by the white tea with tangerine. Also in the line-up: plain old black tea that's unsweetened, thank you, which is a hard, hard type of cold tea to find, as all of us unsweet-tea lovers know. As far as I've ever been able to find, Tejava is the only fairly common unsweetened tea out there, and it's more health-food store than kwiki-mart. What else? Green tea with honey, and a sweetened black tea with lemon.
All of these, except the unsweetened black tea, are sweetened with sugar (cane and beet) not the usual h/f corn syrup, and don't have any weird chemicals in them. Interestingly, you might think the redbush (rooibos) tea is extra-healthy for you, what with the blueberry & pomegranate touted on the label. But nope, as the bottle will tell you if you look hard, there's no actual blueberry and pomegranate juice in the tea, just "natural fruit flavors." Thanks, New Jersey!
(Yes, PQ grew up in Jersey. Which meant high school chemistry class involved mixing things in test tubes to make liquids that smelled exactly like banana, or grape, or sour-apple chewing gum. That's my home state, providing better living through chemistry, candy-aisle division.)
Well, how do they taste? Well, K. says they're pleasant and refreshing, without that weird puckery too-much-citric acid flavor that mars most bottled tea. Even without the corn syrup, though, they're plenty sweet for a non-soda-drinker like moi. There's about 27 grams of sugar per 16-oz bottle, or a little over 6 teaspoons. Probably more than you'd put in your own made-from-scratch tea, but less than a can of soda, which have about 38-48 grams per 12-oz can, on average.
Anyway, much as I like a nice iced tea, I can't really drink it, since the caffeine gives me a debilitating rebound headache the next day. Much better: iced peppermint tea, watermelon agua fresca, or limeade with mint (what Valencia Street's Luna Park dubs a 'nojito'), especially with a little salt added, Vietnamese-style.
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Want to meet the Pie Queen? And quench your thirst with some nice chilly iced tea on this hot summer afternoon? I'll be at the Union Bar at 200 Park Avenue South near 17th St just off Union Square, in Manhattan today, from around 11am to 3pm. There's a promotion going on for Lipton's new Pure Leaf bottled iced teas, so there will be free tea samples and tea smoothies and tea cocktails, all kinds of tea-related festivities going on. Not to mention the usual farmers' market around the corner.
Why will the PQ be there? Because someone at Lipton (owned by corp giant Unilever) via ad agency Ogilvy thought it would be a snappy marketing idea to get some of those kooky bloggers the kids like so much to do some promoting--for free!--of their product. Yup, they did send me (via K.) 54 bottles (4 1/2 cases! sheesh! luckily K. has an elevator to her fifth-floor apt) of tea for sampling and recipe-testing, but otherwise PQ's not getting paid.
Which, in retrospect, seems a little dumb. Why would I want to promote a corporate product for anything but cash? (Ok, I do repeatedly sing the praises of the microplane grater and the jam-jar lifter here for free. But that's evangelism, and better kitchen living through invention, not shilling.)
However, K.'s been enjoying the tea, and she's a tried-and-true, Southern-born sweet tea lover. So far her favorite is the red fruit-flavored rooibos tea, followed by the white tea with tangerine. Also in the line-up: plain old black tea that's unsweetened, thank you, which is a hard, hard type of cold tea to find, as all of us unsweet-tea lovers know. As far as I've ever been able to find, Tejava is the only fairly common unsweetened tea out there, and it's more health-food store than kwiki-mart. What else? Green tea with honey, and a sweetened black tea with lemon.
All of these, except the unsweetened black tea, are sweetened with sugar (cane and beet) not the usual h/f corn syrup, and don't have any weird chemicals in them. Interestingly, you might think the redbush (rooibos) tea is extra-healthy for you, what with the blueberry & pomegranate touted on the label. But nope, as the bottle will tell you if you look hard, there's no actual blueberry and pomegranate juice in the tea, just "natural fruit flavors." Thanks, New Jersey!
(Yes, PQ grew up in Jersey. Which meant high school chemistry class involved mixing things in test tubes to make liquids that smelled exactly like banana, or grape, or sour-apple chewing gum. That's my home state, providing better living through chemistry, candy-aisle division.)
Well, how do they taste? Well, K. says they're pleasant and refreshing, without that weird puckery too-much-citric acid flavor that mars most bottled tea. Even without the corn syrup, though, they're plenty sweet for a non-soda-drinker like moi. There's about 27 grams of sugar per 16-oz bottle, or a little over 6 teaspoons. Probably more than you'd put in your own made-from-scratch tea, but less than a can of soda, which have about 38-48 grams per 12-oz can, on average.
Anyway, much as I like a nice iced tea, I can't really drink it, since the caffeine gives me a debilitating rebound headache the next day. Much better: iced peppermint tea, watermelon agua fresca, or limeade with mint (what Valencia Street's Luna Park dubs a 'nojito'), especially with a little salt added, Vietnamese-style.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
no sleep til brooklyn
Humidity, thunderstorms, Grimaldi's pizza: all on the horizon! Yes, I'm making a flying visit back to Brooklyn come tomorrow. And while I'm there, I'll be doing this crazy thing, this thing that earned K. a delivery of 54 bottles of iced tea...this thing that makes ex-NYTimer Regina Schrambling (she of the many, many murky blind items hating on just about everyone in the food industry) think I'm a desperate bottom-feeding fame whore. Or not even a whore, since whores, by definition, get paid!
But more on that later...right now, many deadlines, and 1/2 a flat of lovely Albion strawberries to turn into jam, or at least something jam=like that can be put into the freezer until my return.
To look forward to, though: homemade ricotta from Salvatore Bklyn, the view from the Promenade at night, outdoor movies in Dumbo, not having to wearing a (fake) fur coat in July, lemon italian ice from Court St Pastry, croissants from Almondine, lunch with my old pal Lily B., coffee with B., saying hi to the folks at Hudson Valley Farm over at their Greenmarket stand (where I sold biodynamic sauerkraut and organic cheese in the snow last winter), and of course time with K., now a full-fledged New York working stiff, Blackberry, Brooks Bros. shirts and all.
But more on that later...right now, many deadlines, and 1/2 a flat of lovely Albion strawberries to turn into jam, or at least something jam=like that can be put into the freezer until my return.
To look forward to, though: homemade ricotta from Salvatore Bklyn, the view from the Promenade at night, outdoor movies in Dumbo, not having to wearing a (fake) fur coat in July, lemon italian ice from Court St Pastry, croissants from Almondine, lunch with my old pal Lily B., coffee with B., saying hi to the folks at Hudson Valley Farm over at their Greenmarket stand (where I sold biodynamic sauerkraut and organic cheese in the snow last winter), and of course time with K., now a full-fledged New York working stiff, Blackberry, Brooks Bros. shirts and all.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Kitchen Stupidity, Vol. II
Welcome back, folks, to this week's installment of Kitchen Stupidity! Today's guest, two-time winner of the Burnt Potholder Award: PQ, again, and her brand-new kitchen scale. Oh, she's so excited, 'cause weighing ingredients is so much more accurate than measuring them, especially when your kitchen only has a 1/2 cup measure so every time you need a cup of flour, you have to measure it twice.
Boy, I was going to be great, weighing out my perfect 10 oz of flour for my nice lattice-crust peach pie. Except that for some reason, I ever-so-carefully weighed out 16 oz of flour, yes, a full pound, which is more like 3 cups than the 2 cups I needed. But, natch, I was still imagining that I was dealing with 2 cups, so I blithely mixed in proportions of butter, salt, and ice water that were all wrong (as in, way too tiny.) This is when you should listen to the little voice of experience inside your head. The one saying, Why does this dough need so much extra water? Why is it sitting there like a lump of granite on the counter after chilling? Why is it so dense and heavy? Why did a mere 2 cups of flour (or so I thought) make so much dough?
Because I am an idiot. Of course, I did not have the wrong-measurement epiphany until the pie was in the oven. I could have whipped it out, scraped all the fruit and goo out into a bowl, scrapped the dough, and started again. But I didn't, and I'm just hoping that somehow, even not-buttery-enough crust will be redeemed by really good fruit (frog hollow, yippee) and LOTS of ice cream. Embarrassing, though...some pie queen I am.
The proportions, as they should have been:
10 oz flour (2 cups)
1 tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
13 tb butter
5-6 tb ice water
Boy, I was going to be great, weighing out my perfect 10 oz of flour for my nice lattice-crust peach pie. Except that for some reason, I ever-so-carefully weighed out 16 oz of flour, yes, a full pound, which is more like 3 cups than the 2 cups I needed. But, natch, I was still imagining that I was dealing with 2 cups, so I blithely mixed in proportions of butter, salt, and ice water that were all wrong (as in, way too tiny.) This is when you should listen to the little voice of experience inside your head. The one saying, Why does this dough need so much extra water? Why is it sitting there like a lump of granite on the counter after chilling? Why is it so dense and heavy? Why did a mere 2 cups of flour (or so I thought) make so much dough?
Because I am an idiot. Of course, I did not have the wrong-measurement epiphany until the pie was in the oven. I could have whipped it out, scraped all the fruit and goo out into a bowl, scrapped the dough, and started again. But I didn't, and I'm just hoping that somehow, even not-buttery-enough crust will be redeemed by really good fruit (frog hollow, yippee) and LOTS of ice cream. Embarrassing, though...some pie queen I am.
The proportions, as they should have been:
10 oz flour (2 cups)
1 tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
13 tb butter
5-6 tb ice water
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bake them pies!
You know how much the PQ loves a pie social, and here's one that'll use your pie-baking powers for good. At the Women's Building (18th and Guerrero, in SF) this Sunday, July 13th, two nice folks named David and Colleen are baking up a storm for a Pie Social fund-raiser for Equality California, and you can, too!
They're raising money to help defeat the mean-spirited Prop. 8 that's on the ballot for November. You know, the one that wants to prevent gay people from getting matching napkins and towels as wedding gifts. The deal here: you come, you give them money ($20-$50, sliding scale), they give your money to Equality California, and in exchange, you get all the pie you can eat, baked by your friends and neighbors. If you bake and bring a pie, entrance to this pie-filled wonderland is just $12 (although you can, of course, give more).
That Obama bake sale in Bernal raised a whole lotta cash, so high hopes for this one, too. I wish it could be outside--in Dolores Park, say--to get the walk-by traffic like the ever-fabulous Brooklyn Pie Social, but do your best. Pies for social change, si!
They're raising money to help defeat the mean-spirited Prop. 8 that's on the ballot for November. You know, the one that wants to prevent gay people from getting matching napkins and towels as wedding gifts. The deal here: you come, you give them money ($20-$50, sliding scale), they give your money to Equality California, and in exchange, you get all the pie you can eat, baked by your friends and neighbors. If you bake and bring a pie, entrance to this pie-filled wonderland is just $12 (although you can, of course, give more).
That Obama bake sale in Bernal raised a whole lotta cash, so high hopes for this one, too. I wish it could be outside--in Dolores Park, say--to get the walk-by traffic like the ever-fabulous Brooklyn Pie Social, but do your best. Pies for social change, si!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
shake your peaches
Ran into the (vegetarian-but-persuadable) Red Meat Ranger and her consort, Papa Sueno, at the farmers' market this morning, and they had fabulous news. Not just that RMR was making dinner for Shar and Jackie, and that I could join them, provided I showed up with a homemade pie made with my Frog Hollow Farm Suncrest peach bounty, but that RMR's cabaret-performance trio, Pussy Tourette, would be reuniting for (at least) one fantastic performance, on the main stage at this year's Folsom Street Fair.
If you were trashy enough in the mid-90s to see them, you know what I mean. If not, watch and be amazed. Lyrics definitely NSFW, so use the headphones.
Very exciting! And to follow, peach pie photos!
If you were trashy enough in the mid-90s to see them, you know what I mean. If not, watch and be amazed. Lyrics definitely NSFW, so use the headphones.
Very exciting! And to follow, peach pie photos!
Monday, June 30, 2008
cooking demo on tuesday
Come down to the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market on Tues., July 1 between noon and 1pm, and see the PQ make her infamous, moan-inducing pomegranate figs, with peach and pluot variations. Yes, I'll be spreading the word about pomegranate molasses, my favorite condiment, and will even be making my own by boiling down Twin Girls Farm's fresh pomegranate juice. At the outdoor kitchen under the arcade, three demos at 12, 12:30pm, and 1pm. More info on the market here. If I can get some proscuitto from Boccalone in which to wrap the figs, life will be complete.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
apricot jam!
Homemade jam on homemade bread...such is the satisfaction of this early-summer morning in June. A day without the chocolate mines! Yes, I've given up my retail gig, so no more hour-long bus jaunts up to the Marina, hurrah. Instead, I'll be teaching down at Stanford as part of their Continuing Studies program, writing for various magazines, and doing some marketing copy for various places, including...Frog Hollow Farm! Yes, the source of some of the best peaches & nectarines in the Bay Area.
And to prove it, I got my hands on a bunch of their much-touted (well, that would be touted by me in particular, in the July issue of San Francisco magazine) Golden Sweet apricots, a beautiful red-blushed, truly golden variety that's juicy without being mushy, sweet and silky with none of that pasty quality that afflicts so many lesser apricots. I meant to buy a scale and carefully, carefully measure the weight of the fruit, the weight of the sugar, etc., but alas, I didn't.
What I did was pit and chop the fruit, probably into rough eighths, dump on what looked like the right amount of sugar--enough to dust heavily and begin to bury at least the top of the mound, plus a little more--mixed it up, covered the bowl (ceramic or glass, not metal) and let it sit at room temp for most of the day. Before going to bed, I scraped the softened, pulpy fruit and now-dissolved sugar into a wide pot, added the juice of a lemon, and brought it up to a foaming, frothy boil, stirring frequently, for 5 or 6 minutes. Then, the whole mess back into the bowl, covered with a towel and left on the counter again.
In the morning, it looked close to jam already.
Got my jars sterilized by boiling them for 10 minutes in a big deep pot. One of these days, I'm going to get me one of those fabulous little jar-lid lifters, just a magnet on the end of a stick that lets you pick up the flat lids one by one out of the hot water they're standing in. Seems like you wouldn't need a specialized tool for that, but the jar lids like to stick together and the water's hot, and it becomes an annoying matter of poking around with slippery tongs, a butter knife (to separate the stuck-together lids) and burnt fingers. Again, it's also very useful to have a wide-mouth funnel (for filling jars), a clean gardening-type glove (for holding hot jars, since potholders are too bulky), and jar-lifting tongs (which are convex-shaped, to hold the hot jars firmly when you're putting them in and pulling them out of the hot water).
So, I poured the now-almost-jammy apricot goo into a pot and brought it up to a simmer again. Stirred frequently to keep it from "catching", or sticking and burning on the bottom of the pan. Unless you're using heavy-duty copper--the best material for jam-making--or high-quality enameled cast iron (like Le Creuset), your pot will probably have a hot spot or two where sugary things will like to stick and burn. Stir, stir, stir, with your favorite wooden spoon.
I like to keep one cutting board and one wooden spoon just for sweet things, just because I worry about some latent garlic-and-cumin flavor getting transfered from the depths of a spoon usually used for making tomato sauce or black-bean chili, or from a oniony cutting board.
So, it doesn't take long til the jam looks like jam. The apricot chunks break down and get translucent, so you can see the veining in the fruit. When you tip a spoonful horizontally and let the mixture run off the side of the spoon, the last few drops gather in a couple of sticky clumps that run together. They're supposed to run off together in a sheet--this is called "sheeting" or the "sheeting test"--but mine has never done this. If two drops more-or-less come together and fall off looking sticky and jamlike, I'm content.
Basically, it's jam when it looks like jam. Apricots have a reasonable amount of natural pectin, so they'll thicken easily. I do like a soft, spoonable jam, though, that's nowhere near as set and bouncable as commercial products. So maybe 10-15 minutes for the final simmer, not more. You want to keep that fresh-fruit taste, not boil it to death.
Turn off the heat, take your jars out of the water and put them on a clean towel on the stovetop, and fill to within 1/4 inch of the top. Wipe the rims with a paper towel or clean dish towel dipped in hot water. Add lids and screwbands, and return to the big pot of hot water (you may have to scoop out some excess water). Bring back to a simmer and let the jars bump along for 8 minutes or so. Take out the jars, place them back on a clean towel on the stovetop or counter, and let them get stone-cold undisturbed. You'll hear the reassuring sucking sound--a kind of slurp-pop--of the vacuum seal setting as the jars cool.
The amount of apricots I had--and alas, I have no idea of the weight, although I'm guessing maybe 3 or 4 lbs--made 2 1/2 pints. That's the thing about making jam without a lot of sugar--you get a small yield of gorgeous, intensely flavored product, since you're not extending the fruit with loads of sweetener. I put the two sealed jars in the pantry, and then stashed the half-filled jar in the fridge for me.
And then today at breakfast I spread a spoonful on a slice of whole-wheat oatmeal bread, baked last night, and it was heaven. A heaven I won't be able to exactly reproduce, since I didn't measure anything, but a heaven nonetheless. Obviously, what's more important than exact measurements is the technique. Lots of sitting around, and minimal cooking, seems to be the ticket. Basically:
1. Wash, pit and cut up fruit.
2. Put in a glass or ceramic bowl, add sugar, stir well and cover.
3. Let sit 6 to 8 hours, stirring occasionally.
4. Stir well, add juice of a lemon, bring to a boil for 5 or 6 minutes, stirring frequently.
5. Into a bowl, cover, let sit 6 to 8 hours.
6. Simmer until fruit is translucent and mixture is thick and jammy.
7. Pour into sterilized jars, process in water bath, let cool.
That's it. No pectin, no thermometer, no worries.
High-acid products, like fruit jams and jellies, are not hospitable to serious bacteria, so you can't give anyone botulism from your homemade jam. As long as you keep everything tidy and clean as you go--sterilize your canning jars, use clean towels and clean spoons, no double-dipping--you'll have a product that can be safely stored, unopened, in the pantry for several months. If you don't have made-for-the-purpose canning jars, you can use clean, repurposed jam or mayonnaise jars. Just note that they won't vacuum-seal, so you should fill them, let them cool to room temp, and then store them in the fridge. Low-sugar jams are more perishable once opened, so use them within a month.
And to prove it, I got my hands on a bunch of their much-touted (well, that would be touted by me in particular, in the July issue of San Francisco magazine) Golden Sweet apricots, a beautiful red-blushed, truly golden variety that's juicy without being mushy, sweet and silky with none of that pasty quality that afflicts so many lesser apricots. I meant to buy a scale and carefully, carefully measure the weight of the fruit, the weight of the sugar, etc., but alas, I didn't.
What I did was pit and chop the fruit, probably into rough eighths, dump on what looked like the right amount of sugar--enough to dust heavily and begin to bury at least the top of the mound, plus a little more--mixed it up, covered the bowl (ceramic or glass, not metal) and let it sit at room temp for most of the day. Before going to bed, I scraped the softened, pulpy fruit and now-dissolved sugar into a wide pot, added the juice of a lemon, and brought it up to a foaming, frothy boil, stirring frequently, for 5 or 6 minutes. Then, the whole mess back into the bowl, covered with a towel and left on the counter again.
In the morning, it looked close to jam already.
Got my jars sterilized by boiling them for 10 minutes in a big deep pot. One of these days, I'm going to get me one of those fabulous little jar-lid lifters, just a magnet on the end of a stick that lets you pick up the flat lids one by one out of the hot water they're standing in. Seems like you wouldn't need a specialized tool for that, but the jar lids like to stick together and the water's hot, and it becomes an annoying matter of poking around with slippery tongs, a butter knife (to separate the stuck-together lids) and burnt fingers. Again, it's also very useful to have a wide-mouth funnel (for filling jars), a clean gardening-type glove (for holding hot jars, since potholders are too bulky), and jar-lifting tongs (which are convex-shaped, to hold the hot jars firmly when you're putting them in and pulling them out of the hot water).
So, I poured the now-almost-jammy apricot goo into a pot and brought it up to a simmer again. Stirred frequently to keep it from "catching", or sticking and burning on the bottom of the pan. Unless you're using heavy-duty copper--the best material for jam-making--or high-quality enameled cast iron (like Le Creuset), your pot will probably have a hot spot or two where sugary things will like to stick and burn. Stir, stir, stir, with your favorite wooden spoon.
I like to keep one cutting board and one wooden spoon just for sweet things, just because I worry about some latent garlic-and-cumin flavor getting transfered from the depths of a spoon usually used for making tomato sauce or black-bean chili, or from a oniony cutting board.
So, it doesn't take long til the jam looks like jam. The apricot chunks break down and get translucent, so you can see the veining in the fruit. When you tip a spoonful horizontally and let the mixture run off the side of the spoon, the last few drops gather in a couple of sticky clumps that run together. They're supposed to run off together in a sheet--this is called "sheeting" or the "sheeting test"--but mine has never done this. If two drops more-or-less come together and fall off looking sticky and jamlike, I'm content.
Basically, it's jam when it looks like jam. Apricots have a reasonable amount of natural pectin, so they'll thicken easily. I do like a soft, spoonable jam, though, that's nowhere near as set and bouncable as commercial products. So maybe 10-15 minutes for the final simmer, not more. You want to keep that fresh-fruit taste, not boil it to death.
Turn off the heat, take your jars out of the water and put them on a clean towel on the stovetop, and fill to within 1/4 inch of the top. Wipe the rims with a paper towel or clean dish towel dipped in hot water. Add lids and screwbands, and return to the big pot of hot water (you may have to scoop out some excess water). Bring back to a simmer and let the jars bump along for 8 minutes or so. Take out the jars, place them back on a clean towel on the stovetop or counter, and let them get stone-cold undisturbed. You'll hear the reassuring sucking sound--a kind of slurp-pop--of the vacuum seal setting as the jars cool.
The amount of apricots I had--and alas, I have no idea of the weight, although I'm guessing maybe 3 or 4 lbs--made 2 1/2 pints. That's the thing about making jam without a lot of sugar--you get a small yield of gorgeous, intensely flavored product, since you're not extending the fruit with loads of sweetener. I put the two sealed jars in the pantry, and then stashed the half-filled jar in the fridge for me.
And then today at breakfast I spread a spoonful on a slice of whole-wheat oatmeal bread, baked last night, and it was heaven. A heaven I won't be able to exactly reproduce, since I didn't measure anything, but a heaven nonetheless. Obviously, what's more important than exact measurements is the technique. Lots of sitting around, and minimal cooking, seems to be the ticket. Basically:
1. Wash, pit and cut up fruit.
2. Put in a glass or ceramic bowl, add sugar, stir well and cover.
3. Let sit 6 to 8 hours, stirring occasionally.
4. Stir well, add juice of a lemon, bring to a boil for 5 or 6 minutes, stirring frequently.
5. Into a bowl, cover, let sit 6 to 8 hours.
6. Simmer until fruit is translucent and mixture is thick and jammy.
7. Pour into sterilized jars, process in water bath, let cool.
That's it. No pectin, no thermometer, no worries.
High-acid products, like fruit jams and jellies, are not hospitable to serious bacteria, so you can't give anyone botulism from your homemade jam. As long as you keep everything tidy and clean as you go--sterilize your canning jars, use clean towels and clean spoons, no double-dipping--you'll have a product that can be safely stored, unopened, in the pantry for several months. If you don't have made-for-the-purpose canning jars, you can use clean, repurposed jam or mayonnaise jars. Just note that they won't vacuum-seal, so you should fill them, let them cool to room temp, and then store them in the fridge. Low-sugar jams are more perishable once opened, so use them within a month.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
opera & bake sales
OK, the pie! It's great! Maybe I overdid it with the tapioca--it's a little jellylike, not gooey-juicy the way I really like. But the fruit tastes great, and the lattice crust is cute as a button, even without the little $5 pinking-wheel roller that cuts your pastry into neat serrated strips. This is a state-fair pie, no doubt about it. Going over to Jen's for tea and pie later, and pix will follow.
[2 hours later....Ooops. Well, there was tea, and Jen's daughter was there, and before you know it, most of the pie was gone. So no pictures, alas, but maybe I'll make another one for the O.O.O. (see below)on Saturday...]
What else can you do this weekend, besides bake pie? (Yes, Hooverville Orchards will have more sour cherries at the Alemany Market. I bought about 2 lbs, which seemed just right for my pie pan.) You can come up to Bernal on Sat. morning for the Obernal Obakesale Obama, Move On.org's little sweet-treat fest, starting at 10am. Sign up here if you wanna bake or work; otherwise, just come and buy. I'll probably be there, forcing people to choose (again!) between brownies and blondies.
Go out to AT&T Park (yes, the baseball stadium) and see a live simulcast of SF Opera's Lucia di Lammermoor, on Friday evening. A mad scene, at third base! Opera and hot dogs! Actually, Peter Meehan, who does the $25 and Under column for the NY Times, recently got the prime gig of visiting dozens of ballparks to eat their food. Our fair city got top billing, thanks to a super Dungeness-crab panini, eaten by Meehan's ladyfriend with a split of champagne. He, having guyness to uphold, had an Anchor Steam, and the other half of her sandwich.
Or, just eat cherries!
State Fair Cherry Pie
You don't need a cherry pitter for this pie, since sour cherries are soft and squishy enough so that you can just pop the pits out between your thumb and forefinger. You do, however, need real sour pie cherries, a completely different animal than sweet cherries. In general, sour cherries are small and juicy, with a clear pale red skin and a yellow-to-translucent flesh. If you've ever had cherry pie, even diner pie, you know what they taste like. The advantage of making your own pie is, of course, that you can keep the sugar and gel to a minimum, so that you actually taste real fruit, not just goo. Perfect with vanilla ice cream. Also, I've reduced the amount of tapioca from the original 1/4 cup I used, so this should be just right.
Crust
2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar
14 tbsp (1 stick + 6 tb, or 7 oz) butter, chilled
5-7 tbsp ice water
Filling
2 lbs sour cherries (the weight is before they're pitted)
2/3 cup sugar
2 tbsp granulated or instant tapioca (like Minute brand, in the red box--look for in the baking aisle, or next to the Jell-O)
1/2 tsp almond extract or 1 tbsp Amaretto
pinch of cinnamon
Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Cut in butter, rubbing bits between your thumb and fingertips until you have lots of flat nickel-sized bits. Keep tossing the flour as you rub to keep the whole mix nice and light. Remember, light touch=light pastry. Once it looks like dry oatmeal flakes, drizzle in the water. Lightly stir with a fork or a chopstick, adding more as needed, until you can squeeze together a handful. Pat into two rounds, wrap in plastic or pop into a ziploc bag and chill for at least an hour.
Pit your cherries and mix with tapioca, sugar, almond extract and cinnamon. Set aside (a nice 10 minute soak will help the tapioca to start dissolving.)
Roll out your pie crust, line the pan (a 9" pan works well), and pop the pan back into the fridge while you roll out the second crust. Cut second round into even strips.
Preheat oven to 425F. Take your bottom crust out of the fridge, pour the cherry mixture (including juice) into the crust. Now, the fun part! Just like peanut-butter cookies must have that criss-cross fork pattern on top, cherry pie must have a lattice. (Makes sense, since cherries are juicy and the lattice helps with the evaporation so you have pie, not soup.)
Lay the longest strips in a cross over the middle of the pie. Now take another strip and lay it next to the first one, lifting the crossing strip so that it's the opposite--either under or over, depending. Keep doing this, lifting strips as necessary, so that you get a "weave" effect--one strip over, one strip under, etc. Now press the edges together around the outside and flute nicely. OK, I promise I'll do explanatory pix on the next go-round, since it's MUCH easier to show than tell. Brush with egg wash (1 egg mixed with 2 tsp water) if you want to get shiny and fancy.
Pop in the oven for 10-15 minutes, then turn down heat to 375F. Bake another 25-30 minutes, until crust is golden brown and juices are thick and bubbly (good to put a baking sheet underneath,to prevent smoking juices on the oven floor.). Cool on a rack for several hours so that pie juices can congeal properly. But do eat the day it's baked for optimum crust-crispness.
[2 hours later....Ooops. Well, there was tea, and Jen's daughter was there, and before you know it, most of the pie was gone. So no pictures, alas, but maybe I'll make another one for the O.O.O. (see below)on Saturday...]
What else can you do this weekend, besides bake pie? (Yes, Hooverville Orchards will have more sour cherries at the Alemany Market. I bought about 2 lbs, which seemed just right for my pie pan.) You can come up to Bernal on Sat. morning for the Obernal Obakesale Obama, Move On.org's little sweet-treat fest, starting at 10am. Sign up here if you wanna bake or work; otherwise, just come and buy. I'll probably be there, forcing people to choose (again!) between brownies and blondies.
Go out to AT&T Park (yes, the baseball stadium) and see a live simulcast of SF Opera's Lucia di Lammermoor, on Friday evening. A mad scene, at third base! Opera and hot dogs! Actually, Peter Meehan, who does the $25 and Under column for the NY Times, recently got the prime gig of visiting dozens of ballparks to eat their food. Our fair city got top billing, thanks to a super Dungeness-crab panini, eaten by Meehan's ladyfriend with a split of champagne. He, having guyness to uphold, had an Anchor Steam, and the other half of her sandwich.
Or, just eat cherries!
State Fair Cherry Pie
You don't need a cherry pitter for this pie, since sour cherries are soft and squishy enough so that you can just pop the pits out between your thumb and forefinger. You do, however, need real sour pie cherries, a completely different animal than sweet cherries. In general, sour cherries are small and juicy, with a clear pale red skin and a yellow-to-translucent flesh. If you've ever had cherry pie, even diner pie, you know what they taste like. The advantage of making your own pie is, of course, that you can keep the sugar and gel to a minimum, so that you actually taste real fruit, not just goo. Perfect with vanilla ice cream. Also, I've reduced the amount of tapioca from the original 1/4 cup I used, so this should be just right.
Crust
2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar
14 tbsp (1 stick + 6 tb, or 7 oz) butter, chilled
5-7 tbsp ice water
Filling
2 lbs sour cherries (the weight is before they're pitted)
2/3 cup sugar
2 tbsp granulated or instant tapioca (like Minute brand, in the red box--look for in the baking aisle, or next to the Jell-O)
1/2 tsp almond extract or 1 tbsp Amaretto
pinch of cinnamon
Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Cut in butter, rubbing bits between your thumb and fingertips until you have lots of flat nickel-sized bits. Keep tossing the flour as you rub to keep the whole mix nice and light. Remember, light touch=light pastry. Once it looks like dry oatmeal flakes, drizzle in the water. Lightly stir with a fork or a chopstick, adding more as needed, until you can squeeze together a handful. Pat into two rounds, wrap in plastic or pop into a ziploc bag and chill for at least an hour.
Pit your cherries and mix with tapioca, sugar, almond extract and cinnamon. Set aside (a nice 10 minute soak will help the tapioca to start dissolving.)
Roll out your pie crust, line the pan (a 9" pan works well), and pop the pan back into the fridge while you roll out the second crust. Cut second round into even strips.
Preheat oven to 425F. Take your bottom crust out of the fridge, pour the cherry mixture (including juice) into the crust. Now, the fun part! Just like peanut-butter cookies must have that criss-cross fork pattern on top, cherry pie must have a lattice. (Makes sense, since cherries are juicy and the lattice helps with the evaporation so you have pie, not soup.)
Lay the longest strips in a cross over the middle of the pie. Now take another strip and lay it next to the first one, lifting the crossing strip so that it's the opposite--either under or over, depending. Keep doing this, lifting strips as necessary, so that you get a "weave" effect--one strip over, one strip under, etc. Now press the edges together around the outside and flute nicely. OK, I promise I'll do explanatory pix on the next go-round, since it's MUCH easier to show than tell. Brush with egg wash (1 egg mixed with 2 tsp water) if you want to get shiny and fancy.
Pop in the oven for 10-15 minutes, then turn down heat to 375F. Bake another 25-30 minutes, until crust is golden brown and juices are thick and bubbly (good to put a baking sheet underneath,to prevent smoking juices on the oven floor.). Cool on a rack for several hours so that pie juices can congeal properly. But do eat the day it's baked for optimum crust-crispness.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
can you bake a cherry pie? damn skippy you can
All you cherry pie bakers, get thee down to the Alemany Farmers' Market (down near Alemany Blvd, by Crescent and Peralta at the southeastern base of Bernal Hill)RIGHT NOW. Hooverville Orchards has fresh Montemorency cherries, aka sour cherries, aka pie cherries, for sale at $4.50/lb. Also some damn fine lookin' Bings for a buck less. I've got 2 lbs in my fridge right now, which means tomorrow, I'll be living up to my Jersey-diner heritage and baking cherry pie. Pix and recipe to follow!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
cherry season!
You really haven't lived til you've heard War's Low Rider pounded out on a cowbell, a violin, and a washtub bass. That was last night, downstairs in the secret garden behind Bernal's Wild Side West bar, where impromptu jams can break out at any minute. I had just come home to change out of my new coral-colored sundress--because even a June afternoon is too windy for sundresses up here on the hill--when my roommate called to say music was happening at the Wild Side. Put on jeans and the trusty red leather coat and scooted on down there, for $5 wine and a group of friendly folks noodling away on guitars and slide whistles. Much fun had by all, and this seems to happen all the time, especially on sunny Sunday afternoons.
So, what are you doing with your cherries? I've been hunkered down, waiting for the Brooks (which were selling for an astounding $9.99/lb at the Real [-ly expensive] Foods near the chocolate mines in the Marina last week. Organic, from Frog Hollow, sure, but still, $10! For Brooks! Damn!) to be replaced by Bings. The dark, sweet fatties are just starting to come on, and promise to be heavenly, as always. Looking forward to scoring a few bags of cherry goodness at the Alemeny Market this Saturday. And if anyone has real sour cherries, well, a cherry pie will certainly be forthcoming. Yum!
It's Shifra's belated 40th b-day party this weekend, so another round of the eggless-spelt carrot cake (mashed bananas, the secret ingredient) may be in order. I'm also curious about barley flour, a paen to which was posted by the soon-to-be-in-California Bakerina recently. Buying avocados on Mission St the other day, I found bags of Peruvian barley flour, which I may have to experiment with, if only because of how delicious it smells while baking, according to the very trustworthy Bakerina.
Now, back to writing, as I'm on the very, very home stretch of a sassy new cookbook, coming out this fall from Manic D Press. 5 more recipes to go...
So, what are you doing with your cherries? I've been hunkered down, waiting for the Brooks (which were selling for an astounding $9.99/lb at the Real [-ly expensive] Foods near the chocolate mines in the Marina last week. Organic, from Frog Hollow, sure, but still, $10! For Brooks! Damn!) to be replaced by Bings. The dark, sweet fatties are just starting to come on, and promise to be heavenly, as always. Looking forward to scoring a few bags of cherry goodness at the Alemeny Market this Saturday. And if anyone has real sour cherries, well, a cherry pie will certainly be forthcoming. Yum!
It's Shifra's belated 40th b-day party this weekend, so another round of the eggless-spelt carrot cake (mashed bananas, the secret ingredient) may be in order. I'm also curious about barley flour, a paen to which was posted by the soon-to-be-in-California Bakerina recently. Buying avocados on Mission St the other day, I found bags of Peruvian barley flour, which I may have to experiment with, if only because of how delicious it smells while baking, according to the very trustworthy Bakerina.
Now, back to writing, as I'm on the very, very home stretch of a sassy new cookbook, coming out this fall from Manic D Press. 5 more recipes to go...
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
incredibly dumb things you do in the kitchen
Ok, help me out here. Surely all you kitchen-savvy types do really, really stupid things when no one but the cat is watching. Please share!
Why? Because I just exploded a hard-boiled egg all over my kitchen, that's why. Even worse was not realizing what I'd done for at least 20 minutes after said egg had exploded. Yes, I heard the poof-thwump of the egg chunks hitting the floor at high velocity, but I just figured my roommate had come home, put popcorn in the microwave, and had all the corn magically pop at once, boom.
Honestly, such was my thought process, and I should be condemned to a life of takeout pizza and Grape-Nuts just for that. it wasn't until the house began to smell like something burning on the stove that I recalled putting on an egg to simmer, oh, an hour or so ago. And then I remembered how yes, an egg will indeed explode if exposed to dry heat--the kind of heat you get when you let your pot boil dry for a long time. So, no hard-boiled egg for me, and lots of shell on the floor. Small rationalization: many deadlines, and typing madly on multiple projects! But still.
Damn. And you?
Why? Because I just exploded a hard-boiled egg all over my kitchen, that's why. Even worse was not realizing what I'd done for at least 20 minutes after said egg had exploded. Yes, I heard the poof-thwump of the egg chunks hitting the floor at high velocity, but I just figured my roommate had come home, put popcorn in the microwave, and had all the corn magically pop at once, boom.
Honestly, such was my thought process, and I should be condemned to a life of takeout pizza and Grape-Nuts just for that. it wasn't until the house began to smell like something burning on the stove that I recalled putting on an egg to simmer, oh, an hour or so ago. And then I remembered how yes, an egg will indeed explode if exposed to dry heat--the kind of heat you get when you let your pot boil dry for a long time. So, no hard-boiled egg for me, and lots of shell on the floor. Small rationalization: many deadlines, and typing madly on multiple projects! But still.
Damn. And you?
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