And I Can Cook, Too

2007-10-09T12:41:00.000-10:00

What's in a Name?

As I launch headfirst into writing my dissertation, one of my main procrastination techniques is to take time out and think about the perfect title for my paper. The focus of the dissertation is the use of food as characters in I Love Lucy, The Beverly Hillbillies, All in the Family, The Cosby Show, Rosanne, Married with Children, Home Improvement, and Murphy Brown. The working title,"Why is it funny when food is out of control?" just doesn't cut the mustard in terms of wit and intrigue, so I turn to you.

All suggestions will be given equal consideration, and the author of the winning title will get dinner, cooked by me at some point in the future, complete with a lovely bottle of South Australian wine.

Come on folks, don't let me down!

2007-10-06T13:00:00.000-10:00

Achoo!

Well, I've spent my week at home, sick in bed, with a cold. But never fear! I'm better now and off to the Adelaide Fairgrounds Farmers Market to purchase local delectables. I'll report back later.

2007-09-30T11:39:00.001-10:00

Pickle me Kumquat!

My housemate Ruth returned home from work yesterday with a very large bag of kumquats given to her by the head of our department. Normally I cheer at the offering of free fruit, but what’s a girl (or two) to do with 2 pounds of kumquats? The obvious answer, “put them in your G&T’s!” is only applicable in a country where I can actually afford the G. That rascal Ruth wisely pulled out some recipe books.

Brandied Kumquats, recipe by Stephanie Alexander

1 lb. Kumquats, whole
1 lb. Sugar
600 Ml. Brandy
1 Vanilla Bean

Place the kumquats in a large, sterilized jar. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise, and with the back of your knife, scrape along the inside of the bean to scrape up all the tiny little seeds that look like bits of dirt. Don’t skip this part! Those tiny little morsels are where all the flavor is, and if you leave them trapped in the pod your finished product won’t be as good! Add the sugar and the brandy to the jar, and stir with a skewer. Don’t worry if the sugar doesn’t dissolve, just continue to stir once a day for the next few days until it does. Label, stick on your shelf, and open in two months.

Pickled Kumquats, recipe by Stephanie Alexander

1 tsp. Salt
600 Ml. water
1 Lb. Kumquats
2 Oz. Sugar
½ Stick, Cinnamon
1 Tsp. Cloves
600 Ml. White Wine Vinegar

Bring the salt and water to a boil, remove from the heat and add the kumquats. Allow to sit for 12 hours. Drain.

Simmer the sugar and spices in the vinegar until the sugar is dissolved. While mixture is simmering, pack the fruit into a hot, sterilized jar. Top with the vinegar mix, and seal. Let sit for two weeks. You can use both the fruit and the syrup. Delicious with duck, chicken, or pork!

2007-09-29T13:44:00.001-10:00

September 29, 2007

Power Outage

When I first moved to Australia, I was still reeling from the Chicago Bears devastating loss to the Colts in Superbowl XLI. (Hey, it was there own damn fault. They failed to show up for the second half of the game). Upon my arrival in Oz, I was informed that living in Larg’s Bay automatically made me a Port Adelaide Power fan. Imagine my delight when the Power made it all the way to this years Grand Final, the Australian equivalent of the Superbowl. Naturally unwilling to simply watch the game from home, my friend Tracy and I found a vegetarian jazz club (more on that later) that was broadcasting the came with the volume down while a quartet vamped to the action on the screen. Tracy and I snagged a comfy leather couch that allowed us a bird’s eye view of both the game and the band, ordered a couple of beers, and got stuck in.

For those of you not familiar with Australian Rules Footie, allow me to explain: unlike American football players, 300+ pounds and wrapped in an additional 20 pounds of protective gear, Oz footballers are all built like American quarterbacks – lean, solid muscle, fast, and flexible. Rather than padding, their uniforms consist of tee shirts, sneakers and socks, and rather shocking and somewhat amusing short-shorts. In the game, there are 4 20-minute quarters, and the rules are, as near as I can figure, get the ball through your goal posts by any means necessary. If you have to run while dribbling the ball, go for it. If you have to kick the ball to another teammate, so be it. If you have to run over the opposing teams player by jumping up in the air, landing on his head, and squashing his face into the dirt, that’s what you’ve gotta do. No breaks, no time outs, no instant replays. This game is brutal.

And when I say this game is brutal, I am referring to this Grand Final. Over marinated mushrooms, roasted red pepper, herbed feta, and tasty yet curiously cold rice-stuffed tomatoes, Tracy and I watched as the Power was defeated in a record setting 119 point spread. Crushing.

Oh, and the jazz? It was fun – a unique way to enjoy a game. But I have to say it made it hard to yell at the tv set. All in all the day re-enforced two things I already knew: when you’re watching sports, you gotta have meat, and jazz and football don’t really mix.

But hey, I had fun, and I got a new hat.

2007-09-28T14:14:00.000-10:00

You Say Tomato, I say Tomahto

The Cannibal's Tomato is native to Fiji and Tahiti. Shockingly similar to the plane old Beefsteak tomato, the Cannibal's tomato can be eaten raw or cooked for use in sauce. There is a rumor that the Cannibal Tomato is so named because the sauce was the perfect pairing with human flesh; for obvious reasons I've had a tough time testing that one out.

Look here for tomato art!

http://tombreeding.ifas.ufl.edu/ohhnoo.htm

2007-09-26T13:51:00.000-10:00

Aw, Nuts!

I was recently challenged to elucidate on the etymology of monkey nuts, and advised to keep my head out of the gutter. Head firmly held high (but with a knowing smile on my face) I embarked on my mission. What could this mysterious nut be? As I researched, I visualized exotic edibles found only in the far reaches of Asia used for medicinal purposes to cure lovesickness and male impotence. Exhaustive research and a quick peek in the Cambridge World History of Food at last solved this brainteaser.

The monkey nut (arachis hypogaea) is not a nut at all, but a tuber native to South America. Traces of the monkey nut have been found in archeological digs dating back to 800 B.C. Native Americans utilized the monkey nut by roasting and grinding them into a smooth, oily paste, a practice still employed in modern times. Rich in protein, B vitamins, magnesium, and iron, the monkey nut paste is a major source of nutrition for children across the country. That's right, elusive and ever so bawdy monkey nut is nothing more than your standard, everyday peanut.

So much for curing lovesickness.

2007-09-25T18:14:00.000-10:00

Horsing Around

The Horse Mango is native to Southern Asia. It has a green and yellow peel and a bright orange flesh. Not eaten raw, it is typically used for chutneys and curries. If eaten before it is ripe, the sap will irritate the skin and cause a rash. Which is probably the real reason they cut down the mango tree in my old back yard.

2007-09-24T15:03:00.000-10:00

Foxy!

The fox grape is a variety of berry that is thought to stem from an Old World species of vine known as V.vinifera. Varieties of fox grape include Concord grapes, California grapes, Red Globes, Ruby Seedless, and my personal favorite, Suppernong Grape.

Mankind has been making wine from this species of grape for centuries. It would be fun to travel to the part of the world where wine was first imbibed, but a few of years ago Mr. Bush decided to bomb it.

2007-09-22T14:20:00.000-10:00

Sept. 23, 2007

Better Living Through Chemistry

Ok, the anti-depressants have kicked in and I'm feeling much better.

In other news, I have successfully completed the coursework section of my masters program, and am now in proud possession of a Graduate Diploma in Gastronomy. It is important that we all realize that this means I'm smarter than you. No, not you, Kim, but everyone else. I have officially begun my dissertation, which is on the use of food in American sitcoms. The research is extensive and exhausting. I'll bet none of you even remember the episode of "Lucy" where Lucy tries to smuggle a 25-pound cheese back from Italy by pretending it's her child. See what I mean? Exhausting.

2007-09-08T16:59:00.000-10:00

September 8, 2007

Nothing in Life Is Fair

Which is precisely what my mother would say to whichever one of her four daughters was complaining that a sister was getting some favor that she herself was not receiving. As usual, mother was right.

It is one of the cruelest and unfair truisms in the world that sometimes the very people who are causing all the hurt are the only people who can take it all away.

2007-09-02T21:55:00.000-10:00

"The cookbook is the only product of the human mind altogether above suspicion."

Joseph Conrad

Discuss

2007-08-31T23:39:00.000-10:00

There is only one person in the world who will find the following even remotely funny. But she needs a laugh, and will find it funny enough to make boring everyone else worth it.

"If you want a baked potato, we can do that!"

2007-08-31T14:52:00.001-10:00

August 31, 2007

Bullocks!

This morning with my coffee I enjoyed the smooth deliciousness of a custard apple, a name also applied to the cherimoya and sweetsop, and also know as a “bullocks heart.” This tropical fruit is a native to South America, but is now cultivated in the West Indies, South East Asia, South Africa, and, you guessed it, South Australia. When ripe, the white flesh has custard like texture, and tastes of vanilla, cinnamon, and banana. Some people find the custard apple too sweet, but I think it’s even better than a persimmon.

2007-08-22T12:39:00.001-10:00

August 20, 2007

Two Drinks In One

The rum berry (rumberry) is also know as the orange berry, the guava berry, and my personal favorite, the gin berry. The rum berry is a small edible fruit found in Southeast Asia and India. It is used in Hindu medicine, mostly to relieve bilious disorders and worms, which again makes me wonder why Timmy is asking about it.

On the plus side, it leaves in ones mouth the aftertaste of sharp, spicy gin, so maybe the worm is worth it.

2007-08-19T16:39:00.000-10:00

August 3, 2007

Top Ten Reasons Not To Eat At The Inn At St. Peters Village

10. You will be seated at 7:30 and enjoy listening to the waiter talk to the table next door about their daughter’s soccer teams until you are finally allowed to place a drink order at 7:25.

9. After taking your dinner order but before giving it to the kitchen you will then spend ten more minutes listening to same waiter talk to a different table next door about the weather and whether or not it is going to rain.

8. The amuse bouche will taste overwhelmingly of unflavored gelatin, a phenomenon previously believed to be impossible.

7. You will be asked if you are ready to order wine 20 minutes after you’ve already ordered it.

6. The wine will finally make its way to the table, but it will take five more minutes to find a glass to put it in.

5. Your father’s beer will never come.

4. At 9:30, when you ask the waiter where your dinner is, he will tell you that if he asks about your meals again the chef will throw food at him.
3. When you ask to speak to the manager you will be told that he is busy and will be with you shortly, forcing you to say the word “now.”

2. When your food finally arrives at 10:00, it will be colorless, cold, and flavorless.

1. When the smarmy in absolutely stupid looking “I’m fabulous gay man and what are you going to do about it” glasses food throwing chef approaches your table, he will start the conversation by positively cooing “…and how is table 34 doing tonight?” He will then explain that you waited 2-1/2 hours for your food because his assistant made it wrong and he himself had to re-make it to make sure it was perfect for you. When you tell him that were a chef and it sounded to you like he was passing the buck, he will haughtily ask you why it is you are a chef no more. When you explain that it is because you are at Le Cordon Bleu, he will assume an offended tone, tell you that he is taking full responsibility for the error and what more do you want him to do, and hightail it back into the kitchen.

The Only Reason In The Whole Wide World To Eat At The Inn At St. Peter’s Village

1. There’s rockin good chance it’s gonna be free..

2007-08-19T13:28:00.000-10:00

August 19, 2007

Billy Goat’s Gruff

The Billy Goat Plum, also known as the kaduku and murunga plum, is a bush fruit native to that great land down under – Australia. Eaten by Aboriginals for thousands of years, this bush tucker has the largest concentration of vitamin C of any known plant in the world.

Although it is entirely edible, and still harvested in some Aboriginal communities, the Billy Goat Plum is now most often used in cosmetics, in fortified drinks, and for alternative medicine. On a more or less interesting side note, Billy Goat Plum Essence is purported to cure self-loathing, shame, and disgust. It is also rumored to alleviate sexual revulsion, which makes me wonder why Timmy is asking about it…

2007-08-18T21:21:00.000-10:00

August 17, 2007

Visions of Beach Plums Dance in My Head

Also known as a “shore plum”, a beach plum is an edible fruit native to the America Northeast. It has been found on the coastline of Canada’s New Brunswick all the way down to Virginia. For reasons unknown, the plant loves normally unsustainable soils like sand dunes, hence the name. Like the common plum, the fruit can be red, purple, or yellow, and ranges in flavor from very tart to very sweet. It is often used to make jelly.

One place that the beach plum used to be common is Cape May, New Jersey, where someone who can cook, too, recently spent a week vacationing.

2007-08-18T14:04:00.001-10:00

August 3, 207

Just Peachy

A friend recently asked “What the bejesus is a donut peach anyway?” At the time I was feely cheeky, and responded in kind. I’ve since had some time to calm down.

A donut peach, also known as a Saturn peach, is a white peach that is originally from China. It began being grown in the U.S. in the 1800’s, but all but disappeared when industrialized farming standardized fruits and vegetables to be picked young and transportable. Its recent resurgence makes it an “heirloom” fruit. It has a tiny little pit and much less acid that it’s cousin, the common yellow peach, and therefore is sweeter.

Oh, and if you punch the pit out with your thumb, it looks like a donut. That is also a peach.

2007-08-18T14:02:00.001-10:00

August 2, 2007

Practically Perfect In Every Way

Want to improve on my already perfect Dijon-Truffle Mac? Add a lobster!

2007-08-17T14:39:00.001-10:00

August 1, 2007

Say Cheese!

My friend Kim has survived four months on Fake!Mars in part by providing edible meals for herself and her crew. One of her clever discoveries was her ability to make homemade cheese. I decided that if Kim, PHD, Pilot, Fake!Mars Scientist, Artificial Intelligence Expert, and part-time NASA employee could do it, so could my seven year old niece. I purchased a beginners cheese making kit from New England Cheesemaking Supply, bought a gallon of whole milk, instructed Frannie to pull a stool up to the kitchen stove, and we were off. We started by dissolving 1/2 teaspoons of rennet in a cup of water. We then poured a gallon of whole milk into a large stockpot, added 1-1/2 teaspoons of citric acid, and turned on the heat. We needed the milk to come to 88 degrees, and after explaining to Frannie what happens when milk gets to hot and comes to a boil, she was insistent that we check the temperature every 45 seconds.

She is one bright kid. The milk heated a lot fasted than I expected it to, and we quickly stirred in our rennet water and set the timer for 8 minutes. During those eight minutes, the curds separated from the whey and our mozzarella had begun.

We sliced the curds into chunks and, using a slotted spoon, transferred them into a bowl. We then pressed down on the curds to release more whey, and drained it off. We then went through a series of re-heating and re-pressing the curds until they had congealed into one large lump and were starting to resemble cheese. It was time to pull. Treating the curds like taffy, we stretched and pulled them until they transformed into a shiny string of mozzarella. We then kneaded the string into a ball and submerged it into ice water to cool. A resounding 45 minutes after turning on the heat, our mozzarella was done.

2007-08-15T11:56:00.000-10:00

July 31, 2007

Drowning Aunt Kristin

With forty-seven children in tow, Sister Megan and I figured the best was to keep them all occupied was to take them to the pool and throw them in. The two oldest had recently passed varying degrees of swimming tests and were more than capable of fending for themselves in the water. The 3-year old was fiercely independent and able to fend for himself in water wings. That left the 11-month old, who for some ridiculous reason pretended that she didn't know how to swim, and insisted on being constantly held. For reasons I can't explain, the scene often looked like this:

2007-08-13T09:02:00.001-10:00

July 30, 2007

I Got Crabs

On our adult’s night out in Cape May, we’d tasted a dish of Lemongrass-Crab Soup that was simply to die for. Naturally I thought I could do better. A quick trip to Newark, Delaware’s fabulous yet confusing Asian-Mexican market yielded the necessary ingredients, and of course I proved myself right.

Lemongrass-Crab Soup

12 oz. Lump Crab Meat
4 tbsp. Lemongrass, minced
1 Sweet Onion, sliced very thin
3 Cloves, garlic, minced
1 tbsp. Ginger, minced
6 Green Onions, white and green parts, sliced and divided
2 Qt. Chicken Stock
12 oz. Clam Juice
Drops Fish Sauce
Salt and Pepper
8 oz Rice Vermicelli
1 tbsp. Butter

Fill a large bowl with hot water and submerge the rice vermicelli. In a large stockpot over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the onion and the white part of the green onion and sauté until the onion is translucent. Add the lemongrass, garlic and ginger and sauté for two minutes more. Add the chicken stock and clam juice and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer. Add a few drops of fish sauce. Taste. If you like, add a few more drops of fish sauce. Do not under any circumstances add fish sauce by any more than a few drops at a time! Fish sauce is very strong, and in the words of my brother-in-law, if you add too much you will die! Shortly before you are ready to eat, remove the vermicelli from the hot water and add it to the soup. Add the lump crabmeat and stir. Simmer for 5-10 minutes. Top with the green part of the green onion and serve.

Divine, darling, simply divine.

2007-08-13T07:41:00.001-10:00

July 30, 2007

It’s All Greek To Me

In addition to salmon, Megan had zucchini, onion, red bell pepper, tomatoes, and a bag of frozen meatballs. I noticed that she also had flour and butter on hand, and I developed a plan. “Whatcha making?” Megan asked as I sautéed the vegetables and deglazed the pan with a little balsamic vinegar. “Moussaka.” I told her. “Where’s the eggplant?” she asked. “Well, it’s not exactly moussaka, it’s more like a mock-saka.” At dinnertime we didn’t care what it was called. We just ate it.

Mocksaka

1-1/2 lbs. Frozen Meatballs
2 Tbsp. Olive Oil
1 Zucchini, medium diced
1 Sweet Onion, medium diced
1 Red Bell Pepper, Medium Diced
1 12-oz can Diced Tomatoes
2 Tbsp Tomato Paste
3 Cloves Garlic, minced
¼ C Balsamic Vinegar
½ stick Butter
1/2 C. Flour
2 C. Milk
Nutmeg
Salt and Pepper

Brush the bottom of a large baking dish with olive oil. Line the bottom of the dish with the meatballs. In a large pan, sauté the zucchini, onion, and bell pepper in the remaining olive oil until the onion is translucent. Add the garlic and sauté for one minute more. Add the tomato paste and the tomatoes, including the tomato liquid. Allow to simmer until the liquid is almost completely reduced. Add the vinegar and stir to deglaze the pan. Allow to simmer until the vinegar is almost completely reduced. Pour the mixture over the meatballs.

In a separate pot, melt the butter and add the flour. Whisk to form a paste, and allow to cook for 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Whisking, add the milk a little at a time. Allow to come to a rapid simmer (do not boil!) to thicken. Taste, and add nutmeg, salt and pepper as desired. Layer on the top to the meatballs and vegetables. Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 40 minutes, until meatballs are heated through.

2007-08-12T14:38:00.001-10:00

July 29, 2007

Chef Frannie

Sister Megan’s husband was out of town for the week, and I was staying at her place in Delaware to help out with her forty-seven kids. One of the few ways I knew that I could be of assistance was to assume some responsibility for mealtimes. We raided the freezer and constructed a menu for the week that utilized things she had on hand. Sunday was Salmon night, and much to my surprise, my 7-year-old niece was keen to pitch in. She pulled a stool up to the counter, and as I supervised she slathered a one pound salmon filet with olive oil, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, painted on blue cheese dijon mustard, and topped the whole thing with seasoned bread crumbs. We popped it in a 350 degree oven for 20 minutes, and it was done. Delicious!

2007-08-11T06:06:00.001-10:00

July 28, 2007

Mr. Celery, Revisited

Last year, my two year old nephew could talk of nothing but Mr. Celery, the mascot of his favorite sports team, the Wilmington Blue Rocks. This year said nephew, another year older and another year wiser, has abandoned his constant chatter of celerycelerycelerycelerywoohoo!, to more sophisticated dialog including phrases like “Daddy we go Blue Rocks?”, “No! Blue Rocks not home! Blue Rocks Away!”, and my personal favorite, “Daddy look! Mr. Celery is a kite! Go Blue Rocks!” When I heard there was a home game this Saturday night, naturally I couldn’t wait to get tickets. Shortly after we were seated, my brother-in-law received a phone call from his good friend the food and beverage manager of the stadium. Moments later we were seated in a skybox and the waitress was taking our orders. While we were waiting for our hot dogs and beer, there was a knock at the door. We opened it, and in walked two Hooters Girls carrying a large bucket of tennis balls. “Would you like to buy launcher balls for a dollar?” they asked. We asked them to explain. We were informed that at the end of the game, multiple hula-hoops would be placed on the field. We would then be instructed to throw our launcher balls as hard as we could, and if one of our balls landed in a hoop we would win a nifty prize. “Is this for any benefit other than the Blue Rocks?” I inquired. “Yeah, it’s for the Children’s Hospital.” Hooter number one replied. “Which one?” my sister asked. “The children’s one.” Hooter two confirmed. I reasoned that although the odds of any one of us actually getting a ball to the field from the sky box were remote at best, we could at least revel in the joy of hitting total strangers on the back of the head, and we each purchased a couple of balls. We enjoyed next few hours watching the Blue Rocks show the Indians just what a Blue Rock is made of (Woo Hoo!), and at last it was time for the hula-hoops. After laughing as my niece and nephews launched their balls as far as their little arms could muster (about 2 and ½ feet) I sent my first ball soaring over the railing. And promptly smacked a woman in the first row. As she rubbed the back of her head and looked around to spot her assailant, I sent my second ball flying. And promptly smacked the same womans son in the back of the head. Unlike his mother, the son was unconcerned where the ball came from. He simply picked it up and tossed it on toward the field. Where it promptly landed in a hula-hoop. And won me a nifty prize.

2007-08-10T18:00:00.000-10:00

July 27, 2007

What’s Leftover

When the whole clan gathers, it’s a crowd. In the interest of avoiding any one person feeling like the scullery maid, my mother, sisters, and I each pick a night that it is our turn to cook. Usually we each take the opportunity to show off, but last year I ended up last in the rotation, and rather than bring more groceries into the house was asked to figure out a meal based on what was leftover from the week. Little did I know a tradition was being born. Last years leftovers were fairly cut and dry – lots of vegetables, loads of garlic, and ample salady things. Everyone’s reading pasta here, right? This years leftovers were a slightly larger challenge. The list looked like this:

Green Beans
Blueberries
5 Bags of Bread Heels and Squashed Hamburger Buns
Flat Leaf Parsley
A tupperware of something White, Sweet, and Runny
Butter
½ Pint Heavy Cream
½ Can Smoked Almonds
¼ Bottle Peach Schnapps
Heel of Parmesan Cheese
Half squeezed lemons and limes
Garlic
A Shallot
Olive Oil Flavored Cooking Spray

I weighed my options. “Can I buy some seafood?” I asked my mother. She allowed scallops. The menu looked like this:

Scalloped Scallops
Green Beans Amandine
Blueberry Crush

Scalloped Scallops (for 15)

5 Lbs. Sea Scallops
All the leftover bread in the house and some tortillas that have been crushed too small for dipping
A barely used bunch of parsley
All the leftover garlic
A heel of parmesan cheese
Olive Oil Flavored Cooking Spray
Salt and Pepper to Taste
Butter
Slices of lemons and limes

In a food processor, mini-chopper, blender, or just using your knife, chop the bread, tortilla chips, parsley, garlic, and Parmesan cheese into fine, seasoned breadcrumbs. Season with salt and pepper. Spray the bottom of a large baking dish with the cooking spray. Divide the breadcrumbs into thirds. Line the bottom of the baking sheet with the first third. Add the scallops in a single layer placing them very close together. Tell your mother you knew that baking dish wasn’t big enough. Discover that it is the only baking dish in the house. Cover the layer of scallops with another third of the breadcrumb mixture. Add another layer of scallops. Squeeze them all very tightly together to make them fit. Top with the last third of the breadcrumbs. Melt a stick of butter in the microwave, and drizzle on top. Bake at 375 for about 20 minutes, or until done. Serve with slices of lemons and limes.

Green Beans Amandine (for 15)

6 lbs. Green Beans
1 Shallot
½ can Smoked Almonds, crushed in a food processor, blender, or with a knife.
½ stick Butter

Tell you mother to string the beans. While she is doing that, thinly slice the shallot. When your mother finishes all the beans and two gin and tonics, toss the beans into the largest pan or wok you can find with about 1 cup of water. Bring the water to a boil, and steam the beans, turning periodically, until the water has almost completely dissolved. Add the shallot and the butter. Allow the rest of the water to dissolve and the butter to melt. Add the almonds, and stir to coat. Taste, and add salt and pepper as necessary.

Blueberry Crush (for 14 because your nephew doesn’t like blueberries)

About a quart of Blueberries
¼ bottle Peach Schnapps
½ pint Heavy Cream
A tupperware of something sweet, white, and runny.

Put the tupperware of something sweet, white, and runny on the counter to bring to room temperature. Using a hand mixer or a whisk, whip the heavy cream until stiff peaks form. Chill. In a food processor, blender, or with a knife, crush the blueberries. Add the peach schnapps. Prepare to fold the blueberry mix into the whipped cream and remember that there are children in the family. Put the blueberries in a pan on the stove and bring to a simmer. Simmer for about 20 minutes to evaporate all the alcohol. Put the pan in the freezer to chill. Take the whipped cream out of the fridge, and using a rubber spatula fold in the something sweet, white, and runny. When the blueberries are completely chilled, fold them into the whipped cream. Serve it in wine glasses to the grown ups and plastic dishes to the kids. Simply grin when your sisters announced their plans to conspire to ensure that next years leftovers are impossible to pair.

2007-08-10T05:41:00.001-10:00

July 26, 2007

Martini Madness

It was “adult kids night out” in Cape May. My mom and dad took charge of their grandchildren, and the sibs, spouses, and I were off for dinner. We went to the Martini Grill, famous for its drinks but chosen for the Lemongrass Crab Soup. We were seated, and sister Megan promptly asked for the drink menu. “We’ve left the children at home.” she excitedly told the waiter. “Congratulations!” he replied, “I hate children!” We took a good long look at the martini list and promptly decided to drink our way though it. We started with a Red Door, with pomegranate juice, The Hunk, with pineapple liquor, a Dirty, with blue cheese stuffed olives (causing sister Megan to shout “My taste buds have instantaneously matured!”), a Blue Lagoon, with Blue Curacao, and a Tickle My Pickle, complete with a pickle. While we sipped, our tapas arrived – above mentioned soup, escargots on portabella mushrooms, lobster mac and cheese, charred asparagus with beet salad, steamer clams in white wine, yum, yum, yum. It was all delicious, but what impressed us the most was the pickle.

Tickle My Pickle

1-1/2 oz. Top Shelf Vodka
Splash Dry Vermouth
Baby Gherkin or Baby Dill Pickle

Fill both a cocktail shaker and a martini glass with ice. In the cocktail shaker, add the vodka, and stir to completely chill. Dump the ice out of the martini glass. Add the splash of vermouth to the glass, and swirl. Dump the vermouth out of the glass and into the sink. Drain the chilled vodka into the glass. Make a cut into the end of the pickle. Spear the pickle onto the martini glass in a manner that allows the pickle to jut out toward the drinker. Make a crack to the server about adding cocktail onions on either side of the pickle and just being done with it and giggle as he pretends

a) to be mortified beyond repair and,
b) not to have heard that one before

2007-08-09T15:36:00.000-10:00

July 25, 2007

Happy Birthday

It was my mothers birthday, and my 11 year old nephew has spent the last year teaching himself to cook. He announced his intention to make his grandmothers birthday brunch, and he was off to the kitchen to cook for ten people. An hour or so later, he rang the bell that hangs in the dining room, signifying that breakfast was served. We stuffed ourselves on plain pancakes, peanut butter pancakes, peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes, eggs with ham, bell pepper, and cheese, and loads of crispy bacon. That 11 year-old is one kid after his aunts heart.

2007-08-08T01:35:00.000-10:00

July 24, 2007

Nacho Best Nachos

Anyone who has been paying attention knows that Mexican food is not one of the things that makes Australia great. Along with laulau and a decent hamburger, it was one of my top three food cravings that I hoped to fix in the U.S. I arrived in Cape May - tired, disheveled, and slightly drugged up - just in time for dinner, and we were off to Carneys, one of the Capes most popular joints. The most Mexican thing I could find on the menu (okok I was too much of a wreck to see past the appetizers) were Nachos, and I decided that beach side pub food had to be better Mexican than anything I could get in Oz. Our food arrived, and the waitress set a plate of naked tortilla chips in front of me. "Are these my nachos?" I inquired. "Yep." she informed me. "We serve the topping separate from the chips, so everyone can scoop what they want." With that she placed on the table a dish on fonduy looking beans and cheese. I grabbed a chip and dug in. It was like that spinach or artichoke dip you see on menus all over the country, but with salsa. Sigh. At least it didn't have lentils.

2007-08-03T01:00:00.000-10:00

July 23, 2007

On the Way to Cape May

My weekend in Hawaii went fast – after a fabulous massage on Saturday I dolled myself up and met Jen for a dinner at the new Roys – delicious!...as were the Martini’s that followed at La Mer. Sunday was lunch at Mariposa with Jan, and Monday with Maggie I finally got the Kalua Pig I’d been craving for months. Monday night, I hit the catamaran for one last sunset, swung through the hospitality room for a shower and a change, and hailed a taxi for the airport. Thankfully it was another uneventful flight. My father met me in Philadelphia the next day, and I was on the way to Cape May.

2007-08-02T01:42:00.000-10:00

2007-08-01T01:32:00.001-10:00

July 20, 2007

Honolulu City Lights

After a blessedly uneventful flight, was back on Oahu for the first time in over five months. I was neither entirely sure how I’d feel about being back on-island, nor who exactly whom I would see while there. I arrived at my hotel hours too early for check in, and used the courtesy room to rinse off and prepare myself for a day on the beach. After months of Australian winter, the sun washed over my skin like chocolate, and I could smell the achingly familiar flowers in the sea air. I lunched at the Shorebird (ahi, ahi, ahi!), got myself checked in to my room, and realized that I was destined for an early bedtime. Despite being on a tight budget, I decided that I would end my day on a much loved and missed sunset catamaran sail. The sun set over the water, the city lights came to life, I looked towards the Koolau’s and couldn’t believe how good it felt to be home.

2007-07-31T01:05:00.000-10:00

July 19, 2007

I Fought the Law

It was my last night in Adelaide before departing for my Hawaii/New Jersey vacation, and my classmates wanted to say goodbye. We met at bar First, where comfy couches and lovely fireplaces made it possible to drink without freezing. We were on our second or fourth bottle of Tasmanian Riesling when several tall, broad, reasonably attractive men sat down on our couches. After the round of introductions (complete with the “what I’m doing in Australia” conversation), we asked them about themselves. They told us they were cops. Naturally I didn’t believe them. Unmoved by their foolish assertions that they were in fact off-duty cops, I determined that a test was in order. “If you’re really cops,” I said haughtily, ‘you’ll know how to frisk me.”

It’s the closest I’ve ever come to being arrested.

2007-07-30T00:47:00.001-10:00

July 18, 2007

Party Like a Rock Star

It was Adelaide’s “Carnival of Concepts” week, during which time experts in all kinds of fields flock to the city for four days of seminars, debates, and “talking withs.” Food topics included “Survival of the Fittest, Richest, or Thinnest,” “Before You Eat,” “Why We Eat What We Eat,” “Going for Growth – Fuel for Obesity,” and the ever inspiring “After the Binge, the Apocalypse.” Featured in these talks was a notable food scholar, whom I’ll just call “Shenene” on account of how she’s the head of a certain degree program that is the only one of it’s kind.

The day after the carnival our class was privileged to have a private tutorial with Shenene. Or so we thought. Seemingly friendly and well humored in front of an audience, up close and personal Shenene was a bitch. After talking up herself and her program, she opened the floor for questions. Not a single student was able to get one in without interruption. Luanne started. “We all know that obesity is a huge problem, and I wonder if you feel that the research…” “What do you mean research?” Shenene demanded, “You’ll have to be more clear. Research can mean anything, I don’t understand you. The students in my program express themselves clearly.” Three or four such instances later and Q&A time was over. Shenene then asked us to offer up our dissertation topics. Jennifer went first – her topic was the history of Girl Scout cookies and their cultural impact in America. Shenene’s response: “Girl Scout cookies are disgusting.” Oddly, no one else's topic was declared. The tutorial ended with Shenene informing us that our degrees were essentially useless, her graduates were getting excellent work, but that we needn’t bother applying because the program was a) too competitive, b) too expensive, and c) too good for us.

Naturally we were thrilled to learn that Shenene would be joining us on that afternoon’s field trip.

The Mclaren Vale Cheese and Wine Trail is a lovely way to enjoy some delightful pairings of regional products. You pick up a hamper from Blessed Cheese, and spend the afternoon tooling around with valley, stopping pre-determined wineries for your tasting. After announcing that she had no idea she was expected on this trip and that she didn’t approve of alcohol, Shenene boarded the bus. Our first stop was Shingleback, and Brie with an un-wooded Chardonnay. Disaster – should have been a Sauvignon Blanc. (I know, I hate Chardonnay, but everyone agreed with me.) Shenene, however, started to lighten up. Although she also didn’t like the pairing, she voiced appreciation for the beautiful environment. Second stop, Primiwirra and a Shiraz Rose with marinated feta. Again, not the best pairing, but Shenene was now waxing poetic about the loveliness of the trail concept. Third stop, Hoffman’s and Tempanrillo with Cheddar. The pairings were getting better, and Shenene was now behind the bar inquiring as to the nature of every single bottle. Last stop, Wirra Wirra, blue cheese, and Cabernet. I preferred their Clearskin blend, but Shenene was having the time of her life. We were sitting at the table, enjoying our food, when she asked me what we were all doing after the trip. “We’re coming to your hotel and trashing your room.” I told her. She laughed so hard she started to fall off her chair. Straightening herself, she took me by the arm and stood us up. “I want to get drunk with you!” She declared. “That can be arranged.” I replied. “I should have spent my day hanging out with you instead of these other people!” she loudly continued. “Yes you should have!” I told her. “If you’re ever in (insert city here), you have to look me up!” “Be careful, I’ll show up!” I tossed back. “I want you to!” she shouted. “Well give me your card!” By this time we had drawn a crowd, and my entire class watched in amazement as the famous Shenene invited me to call her anytime.

Hehehe.

2007-07-28T23:14:00.001-10:00

July 12, 2007

Gung Haggis Fat Choy!

There are many people in the world who think there is nothing more disgusting than a haggis. Those people are wrong. For truly disgusting cuisine, we must look to the west coast of North America, where every January 25th, thousands of people celebrate a combination of Robert Burns Night and Chinese New Year: Gung Haggis Fat Choy.

Gung Haggis Fat Choy was founded in 1998 by a Chinese-Canadian College student who thought it would be really really funny to dress up in a kilt and eat some haggis. He was right; it was. Since Toddish McWong’s original party hundreds of Chinese-Scots (who knew?) have taken up the cause, turning GHFC into a full-fledged festival. A CBC (some sort of weird Canadian TV channel or something) broadcast in 2002 further boosted the popularity of the event, and soon Mr. McWong was staging the event all along the west coast. But back to the food…

Gung Haggis Fat Choy 2007 featured the following: a haggis dim sum buffet, including items such as deep fried haggis won tons, haggis haw-gow (shrimp dumplings), haggis su-mei (pork dumplings), and haggis lettuce wraps. Yumorama.

It can't always be about the hot dogs.

2007-07-18T12:05:00.000-10:00

July 8, 2007

Hot Diggity!

In my current class, Gastronomy and Tourism, I’m required to give a presentation on an unusual culinary tourist event. I’m presenting the history of Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. That’s right, I’m in grad school, studying wieners. Eat your hot dog out.

2007-07-17T12:41:00.000-10:00

June 29-July 1, 2007

Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad
Part Deaux
(Or, hey sugar, take a drive on the wild side)

Not about to let me live down riding the Riesling Trail sans Riesling, my friend Lucy announced that she and I would hit the Clare Valley for the weekend and taste all the damn Riesling we could get our hands on. As a further measure of knocking all lame follower instincts out of my system she also mandated that I was going to be the driver. My worries that I didn’t know how to drive on the “wrong” side of the road went unpittied. “Fuck it.” Lucy told me, “you’ll be fine.” We picked up the rental car across the street from the Adelaide Central Rail Station (and Casino) and were off. Lucy got us out of the city and onto the wider country roads before pulling over and instructing me to take the wheel. “Now remember,” she said, getting into the passenger seat, “hug the left.” An absolutely uneventful hour later (okok there was one questionable left turn but hey there wasn’t any oncoming traffic…Lucy’s only comment: “Other left darling.”) and we were back in the beautiful Clare. Where it was raining cats and dogs. After checking into Gumnut Cottage (two bedrooms each with queen size beds, wood burning fire place, full kitchen – no hot tub but what can you do for $65 a night?) we were off to inspect the trail. The trail was a mud bath, and after debating just how seriously we wanted exercise and acknowledging that each of us had brought only one pair of pants, we admitted defeat. We would taste by car, and hope the weather cleared by the next day. We consulted the trail map, and were off. Our first stop was Tim Gump, where the Riesling was ok, the Shiraz a bit better, and the kitchen in need of a chef. Second stop: Skillagalee Winery and Café, where a wonderful old woman wearing lots of turquois poured georgous sparkling wine and sang to us about the “looovely fooood on the meeeenuuuuu.” Over seared scallops in a mustard Riesling sauce and penne with grilled chicken and sun-dried tomatoes, Lucy and I plotted a strategic course of action: we would drive along the main road through the Clare stopping at the wineries on our right, then turn around and drive back, stopping at the wineries on our right again. Stops worth mentioning: Annie’s Lane, whose Late Harvest Riesling was served a the Queens 80th birthday party, Neagle’s Rock whose 2005 Merlot Rose was to die for, and Seven Hills whose wine guy was tall, dark, and Scottish. After a lovely day of tasting (and those of you who think driving on the wrong side of the road gets easier the more wine you ‘taste’ give yourself ten bonus points) we made our way back to the cottage. We’d just pulled in to the driveway when we saw it: the sobriety checkpoint. Nervously I got out of the car. The ping-pong table stood in the middle of the game room that had been closed when we arrived, but was now open and waiting for me to prove that my motor skills were not seriously impaired. “Now” said Lucy, “You have to show me that you’re sober by returning the ball ten times, then you can have wine with dinner.” It took the better part of an hour, but that evening I enjoyed a Neagle's 2005 Cabernet Shiraz.

When we woke the next morning to rain pounding on the roof, we didn’t bother inspecting the trail.

2007-07-11T15:59:00.001-10:00

June 27, 2007

Field Trippin’

Our class went on a trip to the Adelaide Hills, home of yet more lovely wineries but more notably home of Tumbeela Native Bush Foods, one of the areas only suppliers of native foodstuffs. As we sipped lemon and licorice myrtle tea, the proprietor told us the history of his business. He’d been living in the hills for many years, enjoying hippie life on the land, when in a organically enhanced haze it occurred to him that he could grow bush tucker foods and market them to South Australian restaurants and shops. Because nothing that he wanted to grow is actually native to South Australia, he imported seedlings from all over the country and for the first several years repeatedly lost most of his crop. At last, in a moment of clarity, he realized that he needed to learn a little something about farming. He spent several more years (and more money, although he was vague about its origins) and now runs a profitable, if not exactly thriving business. And I’m pretty sure he’s still a hippie. After the tour we chowed down on lemon myrtle and wattleseed ice creams. He told us he always keeps these on hand for when he has the munchies.

This is a Banksia Bush. The cone part contains little edible seeds, and is filled with a sugary syrup that you can suck out for quick energy. That would make you a bush-sucker, which is just fun to say.

2007-07-08T13:03:00.000-10:00

June 23, 2007

Survival of the Fittest

When training for a strenuous athletic event, knowing the weather conditions and keeping yourself well-hydrated are the keys to success.

2007-07-05T14:08:00.000-10:00

June 18, 2007

Priorities

My next class - Gastronomy and Tourism, began today, and our guest lecturer was a representative from the South Australia Food & Wine Tourism Council. Oops, did I say "food and wine"? What I meant was the South Australia WINE and Food Tourism Council. Turns out, the wine makers in South Australia are so convinced the the food in South Australia supports the wine and not the other way around that they united and refused to participate with the tourism council unless they were guaranteed that the word 'wine' came before 'food' in all tourism materials. I wonder if I've got something in the fridge that would nicely compliment a 2003 Richard Hamilton Old Vine Grenache?

2007-07-03T14:54:00.000-10:00

July 16-30, 2007

Ye of so Little Faith

Seemingly alarmed by my recent burst of non-alcohol related athletic activity my friend Kim has questioned my ability to compete in Marathon du Medoc. I've got two words for you, Kim:

Cross-Training

2007-07-03T01:58:00.000-10:00

Friday, June 15, 2007

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Undaunted by our “no penguin” experience in Victor Harbor, Di and I decided to go where we would not have to depend on wildlife for a wild life. We loaded the car back up and were off for the scenic Clare Valley and its famous Riesling Trail. The Riesling Trail is a 50K roundtrip biking path dotted with over 30 wineries, all featuring the prized wine of the region, Riesling. We arrived in Clare, and after turning down a lovely two bedroom cottage right on the trail complete with two queen beds, wood burning stove, and spa bath for $65 per night in favor of the Clare Valley Lodge several kilometers off the path complete with dingy bedspreads, cramped showers, and fuzzy television for $85 a night, we were off to rent our bikes. Moments later we were off on the trail and an afternoon of fresh air, pleasant exercise, and periodic tastings. Or so I thought. After ½ hour or so of row after row of grapes and rolling pastureland, I started to develop a thirst. I stopped at the next winery I came to and waited for Di, who was just slightly behind me on the trail. “Should we stop here?” I asked. “No,” Di responded, “I’d like to bike a little more.” Fair enough, I thought, and resumed pedaling. We made our way through sheep farms and patches of gum trees, and I determined that it was clearly time for a stop. After passing several unremarkable wineries, I came to one that was originally operated by Jesuits and featured, in addition to the cellar door, a small museum and church tour. “How about this one?” I asked when Di caught up. “No,” she said, “let’s just keep going.” Along we went, spying blue and yellow parrots and a few hopping creatures who were less surprised to see me than I was to see them. We were well passed the halfway point when I spied Annie’s Lane, a well-known label in these parts, looming on the horizon. I made my way to the gate and waited for Di. “No.” she said, “We’ll have Riesling with our dinner. I just want to stay on the bike.” On our way back to the bike hire I didn’t bother asking. With dinner (a trio of Kangaroo, Emu, and Venison medallions in a stunningly sour quandong sauce), I ordered a Mclaren Vale Shiraz.

We may be the first people in history to ride the Riesling Trail and completely omit the Riesling.

2007-06-27T16:13:00.000-10:00

Thursday, June 14, 2007

The Tooth Fairy is Cheap

The bike went to Tasmania along with Carol, Louise, and the dogs, and I’d been looking to replace it with a used one. Visits to various pawn shops, cash & carry’s, and bike stores, however, were leading me to the conclusion that buying a bike was going to be out of reach. Just as I was starting to feel my thighs return to their non-bike state, my fortune turned. I was getting out of the shower when I heard a strange noise coming from the side of the house. It sounded quite suspiciously of a stranger moving the garbage and recycling bins away from the fence, lifting a large object over the fence and depositing it, and returning the bins to their proper positions. Naturally I was curious. Careful to keep the towel on my head well balanced, I tiptoed into the yard and peeked around the corner.

2007-06-23T18:18:00.000-10:00

Di and I carried on the following day, still determined to see the sights that South Australia has to offer. After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, we checked out of the hotel and were off to the Sir Richard Peninsula Coastal Reserve. Along the way we stopped at the mouth of the Murray River (one of Australia’s most important waterways), and for lunch in the town of Goolwa, the first non-European slow town.

http://www.saba.org.au/cittaslow.html

Not only is it slow, it’s awfully fun to say. “Goolwa.” Go ahead, say it. You know you want to.

After lunch (which was delicious but indeed slow), we hit the peninsula for a walk on the beach. Now I’ve done some beach walking in my day, but this was different – to get to the beach we hiked over huge dunes covered in brush,

and the beach itself was covered with lovely shells and very pretty (albeit dead) jellyfish.

A two-hour walk wore us out, and after stopping to admire the

pretty birds we were on our way back to the city.

2007-06-15T19:37:00.000-10:00

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Victor Harbor Voyage

Unwilling to let the Mclaren Vale Sea & Vine Festival debacle crush my spirit, I was determined to get out of the house and have a good time during my break. To that end I suggested to my classmate Di that we find some way to spend a few days out of the Adelaide greater city limits. Di quickly proposed that we take an over night to Victor Harbor. My bag was packed before the words were out of her mouth. We met at the Adelaide Central Rail Station (and Casino), I hopped in her car, and we were off. Our route took us straight through the now deserted but unsurprisingly littered streets of Mclaren Vale, and I recounted my experience at the festival. We determined that Victor Harbor would make up for it all. When we arrived at Victor Harbor, we found a sleepy little seaside town easing its way into the winter season. Our first order of business was lunch. After popping in and out of a few mom and pops and discovering that they were either, a) closed, b) completely devoid of customers, or c) lacking the requisite liquor license, we asked a shop keeper where we could go for good fish & chips. “Yeah” she started, “I guess you could go just there. That should be alright.” Fortunately my friend Di speaks Australian. We arrived at Anchorage Hotel & Restaurant and made our way to a dining room complete with roaring fire place and ship-shaped bar.

Fish & chips ordered, our conversation turned to finding a place to stay for the night. We had brochures for such places as the Comfort Inn and Victor Harbor Motel, but I suggested that since we were there anyway, why not ask about the rates at the Anchorage. At the front desk, the receptionist informed me that they had three types of rooms available at three different rates, and offered me keys so I could inspect the rooms. Room #1: I didn’t even make it all the way in. It only took opening the door halfway to know that we weren’t sleeping there. Room #2: Fine for me, and mostly likely fine for you, but Di is in a stage of life where one appreciates the finer things. Room #3: Divine. Huge bay windows displaying an ocean view, four-poster queen size bed, and the best feature of all: the spa tub from which you could enjoy not only the ocean view but also the tv. Out of my price range, but hey, Di would enjoy it. I returned to the restaurant to find Di picking at was undoubtedly the worst fish and chips I’ve ever seen in my life. As she lamented her lunch, I mentioned that she might want to take a look at Room #3. She did, and loved it. Lunch not worth eating, I went back to the receptionists desk, where I was immediately offered a substantial discount off the previously mentioned rate. “How many spa rooms do you have available?” I inquired. They had two. “What if we take them both?” I pressed. Taking them both put the cost of the room smack dab in the middle of my budget.

After unpacking we took a walk around “famed” Granite Island, known for its horse drawn carriages (we walked), whale watching (out of season), and penguins (there were none).

Back on the mainland, we spent a few minutes browsing in the town’s kitsch shops, and as they closed down realized that we’d done all there was to do. It was 4 o’clock. “Well…” Di ventured, “we’ve both got to be starving, let’s say we take an hour to freshen up in the rooms, then have an early dinner.” Five o’clock rolled around and we began the search for food. Steak house, closed. Seafood restaurant, closed. Multiple Asian countries food, closed. At last we found the Grosvenor Junction Hotel, Bar, and Pokies Room. We entered, and spotted a small buffet of vegetables steaming away in the corner. “I guess this is it.” Di muttered. And we placed our orders at the bar. As we ate (Butter Chicken and Veal Schnitzel with unlimited Vegetables), we commented on the people sitting in the pokie room. “I don’t know how people do that.” Di said. I explained to her my own gambling habit and that, while I truly enjoy a good game of poker, electronic or otherwise, pokies (aka ‘slot machines’) had never been and would never be my thing. Dinner over, we couldn’t help but notice two things: 1) the restaurant now had a line of old people extending out the door, and 2) It was 6:30. “Well” said Di, “What should we do now?” I shrugged. There was nothing to do. “Then I guess we’re going to play the pokies!” As we finally left for the hotel ten minutes later (hey, penny pokies just ain’t what they used to be) we realized that we now knew why people do that. They’re bored.

Back at the hotel, we said goodnight, and as I sank back into the spa, it occurred to me that I knew what this tub-with-a-view-of-the-tv was perfect for: porn. Sighing, I turned on the Simpsons instead.
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2007-06-12T23:19:00.000-10:00

June 8, 2007

Festidebacle

I had submitted the final paper for my second course (National Cuisine of the Netherlands: Myth or Tragic Reality), and I was determined not to spend the following weeks break in the pit. To that end I decided to go to the Mclaren Vale Sea & Vine Festival, in which the regions wineries (including that winner Leaconfield) paired their best pours with dishes spotlighting South Australia’s fruits of the sea. One of my improv partners lives in the Vale, and offered a place to stay for the night. When the classmates I asked declined to join me, I decided that a little solo festival action wouldn’t hurt, packed my over night bag, left a message saying I was on my way, and boarded the train for Noaralunga, the station closest to Mclaren Vale. I’d previously scoured the associated bus schedule, and knew that from Noaralunga, there were busses a plenty that would transfer me into town in mere moments. Upon arriving in Noaralunga two hours later, I immediately noticed two things: 1) there was not a bus in sight and, 2) it was raining. After twenty minutes of pacing in the rain yielded no bus, I finally called the customer hot line. Turns out, it was a bus holiday! Rather than the routine service from the train to the center of the Vale, I would need to wait an additional 45 minutes, catch a bus going in the opposite direction, de-bus, wait 50 minutes more, and finally catch a bus to the festival. I was of two minds: 1) get the hell out of there and, 2) I’d come this far not to sit at home alone and dammit I was going to that festival. Attitude 2 won, and I spent another 25 minutes trudging in the rain to the nearest shopping center, where the cabbie in the front of the taxi stand line told me it would be $20 to get into the Vale. “Ah, well,” I thought, “in for a $1.25 train ticket penny, in for a pound.” $27.50 later I finally arrived at the Mclaren Vale Sea and Vine Festival. Rather, I should say the Mclaren Vale Booze Fest. I realize that under normal conditions I would call that a good thing, but given the trek to get there, this was another story. Rather than a festival center in which the differing wineries were operating kiosks, this festival took place at the actual participating wineries, requiring the attendees to make their way to 24 different locations throughout the strolling countryside. Which is fine if you’re not on foot, with an overnight bag. “Ah well,” I thought, “I’m here, there are at least 5 wineries on Main Street, I’ll just go to those, have my fill, and head home.” My fill turned out to me all liquid. (Again, not always a negative, but…see above). My first stop was Tintara, featuring a late harvest Riesling and bug cakes. The Riesling was far too sweet for my taste (my own damn fault, they told me it was a late harvest), but the bug cakes were out of sight. As in, I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see them because they weren’t there. They were sold out. All I could see were the throngs of very drunk people dancing very badly to a rendition of Proud Mary being played very badly. “No problem!” I thought, “I’ll just get dinner at the next place down the road.” At said road I had, as is so often the case in life, the option of turning either left or right. According to the festival map, the wineries in either direction were a mere block away. I turned left. And for twenty minutes trudged in the rain (still with my overnight bag, hadn’t yet heard back from my improv friend) to Tatachila Winery, offering not only a foundation Shiraz from the barrel but also a lovely sounding Escebeche of Perch with caramelized onions. Upon my arrival at Tatachilla, however, I discovered that I had chosen unwisely. “We’re full at the moment.” The beefy bouncer guy told me, “But if you’d like to get into line we could probably have you in within an hour.” I eyed the line. About 100 people, all weaving very unsteadily, were starting to get grumpy about the wait. Have I mentioned that it was raining? Sighing, I conceded that the Christian Right and the lovely lefties in my life not withstanding, there’s probably a reason that they named right “right”, and not “wrong.” I crossed the street; turned to face my original direction upon my departure from Tintara, turned right, and started trudging. Along the way, it was hard not to notice the people sleeping in the bushes, the double decker busses full of screaming drunks careening through the very narrow streets, and the crowd of tanked twenty-something’s shouting obscenities at the single red-headed woman walking in front of them. Forty minutes later I encountered Shingleback, where bugs skewered on lemongrass with tomato coriander cous cous promised to be a great partner to the black bubbles of the sparkling cellar door Shiraz. The bubbles were in fact delicious, but once again the bugs proved elusive as the waiter informed that they were all out. Starting to feel a bit woozy, and noticing that people around me were falling down, I decided to give it one more try before declaring defeat. I marched on to Fonthill and Verdehlo with Moroccan Muscles. I got neither. The moment I was informed that the muscles had gone back to Morocco, I started the trek back into the main center of town. I was tired, I was cold, I was wet, and I hadn’t heard back from my friend with the place to stay. I just wanted to go home. I called for a cab, and unsurprisingly heard that due to the massive numbers of drunk people in town, it was going to be a while. I went to the nearest winery, discovered that their festival license had expired at 5 and therefore their prices had just gone up, ordered a glass of very expensive Grenache, and waited. An hour and fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up to the curb. $22.50 later I was back at the train station. Thirty minutes later the train arrived. Forty-five minutes later I was at the Adelaide Central Rail Station (and Casino). Another 45 minutes (and twenty dollars) later I was on the train home. Thirty minutes later I walked in the door. Three minutes later I called Pizza Hut.

2007-06-08T00:18:00.000-10:00

June 5, 2007

It's Not the Cook, It's the Country

The pressence of salsa in the supermarket convinced me that Australians have everything they need to make proper nachos, they just don't know how. Tonight I made my own damn nachos, and they sucked.

At least they didn't have lima beans.

2007-06-06T23:43:00.000-10:00

Life Lesson No. 63

June 3, 2007

When you are homesick, depressed, miserable, and have an entire week to get through without company, don’t go to the kitten room at the pet store. All of the kittens will look like this.

2007-06-05T14:52:00.000-10:00

June 3, 2007

Somewhere, In the Distance, A Dog Barked

I’m about to say something I never thought I’d say in my entire life:

I miss my dogs.

2007-06-04T22:45:00.001-10:00

June 1, 2007

The Last Last Supper

Ruth had left for her trip and Carol and Louise were coming for dinner. They’d made me promise I would utilize the various bits and pieces we’d moved out of their house a couple of days before, and that I wouldn’t spend any money. So naturally I limited my purchases to a little chicken stock, fresh parsley, a small carton of cream, a pork loin, an airplane bottle of brandy and a bottle of Riesling. They arrived promptly at 6:30-ish, we opened wine, and while we talked about their final move to Tasmania the following day, I made dinner. I sliced the pork loin into steaks and seared them on both sides. I then removed them from the pan and added onions, garlic, thinly sliced mushrooms, and a variety of mushrooms. When they were almost done, I deglazed the pan with a little brandy. I added the pork back to the pan, topped off with chicken stock and a little cream. As it all simmered away I made a quick salad with mustard vinaigrette. While I was cooking, Carol lit a fire in the kitchen fireplace. Over the truly lovely fire, we ate our dinner and opened a second bottle of wine. After dinner, we spent the rest of the evening singing along to Carols tunes on the piano, scouring books to look for the porn, and playing “race Kristin from the office to the fire place on the wheeled desk chair.”
Lesbians like this just don’t come along every day.

2007-06-04T22:06:00.001-10:00

Movin’ Out, Part Deaux

It was hard to believe that 3 months on Fletcher Road had come to an end, but it had. I woke up at my usual time (7. Yes it is. For about 3 months now. No, because then I will be in a different time zone and my body clock will be a mess. You don’t have to believe me.) and was showered and dressed by the time the removalists arrived at 8. I had moved all but my overnight bag, my computer, a couple of books, leftover nibbles from the night before and a nice bottle of wine into Ruths the day before, so all I needed to do was pack up one bag and I was ready to go. As the removalists loaded box after box into the van, I stared at the clock and realized that the 9:02 train was imminent. Carol, Louise, and I avoided each other as they concentrated on their move and I tried hard not to think about mine. At last, I could stall no more. I picked up my bag, said a swift goodbye, and ran out the door. Carol and Louise stood on the porch waving goodbye, and I tried to hide my tears as I walked away from my second home in the last 4 months.

Thank god as you do or don’t believe him or her to exist (or not) they’re coming over for dinner tomorrow.

2007-06-04T21:54:00.000-10:00

May 30, 2007

The Second Last Supper

The night before I moved out, the house was packed and ready for the movers (“removalists”) arrival the following morning. Hungry, but with nothing to cook and nothing to cook it in, the skinny L’s and I made our way to Larg’s Pier Restaurant, Hotel (and Casino) for the second last supper. Louise ordered a schnitzel, something loved by the locals but I have yet to try, and Carol and I opted to split the previously tested pizza margarita. Louise counted the men as they passed by our table on their way to the men’s room (she was facing the door purely coincidental I assure you) as we vowed to keep in touch and exclaimed grandly about the universe having brought us together in the first place. We then determined that we couldn’t possibly let this be our last night and made a date for them to come to dinner at Ruth’s two nights later.

I had a bit of Louise’s schnitzel and it was delicious.

2007-06-04T14:12:00.000-10:00

May 28, 2007

The First Last Supper

Carol and Louise had returned home from their Ocean Road trip and immediately begun packing for their move to Tasmania. Although we’d enjoyed numerous laughs and as many glasses of beautiful wines, the weeks had slipped away and we were now just counting the days until we said goodbye. I’d heard many mentions of Thai food in the weeks they’d been home, and realized that I hadn’t had a bite of one of my own favorites in months. I hit the Central Market’s Asian store after class, caught the train home, and got stuck in. (I am becoming so very Australian). I went with my tried and true Thai standby’s: Evil Jungle Chicken, Eggplant and Tofu, and Garlic Cabbage. As we ate (and they showered me with praise which I only somewhat graciously accepted), we determined that we couldn’t possibly let this be the last night we had together, and we promptly made plans for a final going away meal the night before I moved out.

Garlic Cabbage So Good You’ll Wish You Had a Flip Top Head:

6-8 C. Cabbage, coarsely chopped
1-2 Cans Coconut Milk* (enough to just almost cover the cabbage in a pan.)
Lots: Garlic, minced. Use as much as you think you’re going to like. I used probably 5-6 large cloves, and it was wonderful.
Some: Thai Bird Chili.** Again, what do you like? I think one is hot, others need 5.*** Start with a little and add more if you want it.

Some: Fish Sauce. See above.
Oil for cooking

Put the oil in a pan over medium heat. Add the garlic and sauté until it is just starting to turn a golden color. Add the chili and cook another minute more. Add the cabbage and stir to blend. Add fish sauce. Top with coconut milk and cover pan. Simmer until cabbage is tender. You most likely won’t need salt and pepper, but by all means taste and add as desired.

Prepare to wish you had a flip top head.

*Now I know that we all know that coconut milk is inherently evil and a heart attack on a plate. I also know that in every English speaking country I’ve been to you can get ‘diet’ coconut milk. I also know that “The Debt to Pleasure” is a great book I highly recommend but I digress. My point is, don’t use low-fat coconut milk in this recipe. If this were a curry, or a tom yum, or something else where there was enough spice going on, I’d say go for it. But with this, you must use the full fat real thing. If you don’t, it won’t taste as good. And then you will never experience true happiness.

**It is a tried and true rule of the culinary industry that if you chop Thai bird chilis without latex gloves you will then immediately stick your fingers in your eyes. I keep latex gloves on hand for this reason and this reason only. For no other reason than this. Just this.

***I’ve read that it’s the seeds of the chili that holds the heat, so if you want flavor with heat, remove the seeds. I’ve read that it’s the rib of the inside of the chili that holds the heat, so if you want flavor without heat remove the rib. Every chef I’ve asked has answered the same way: “Yes.”

2007-06-04T14:09:00.001-10:00

Party Hearty

Unlike that time when I threw a party and no-body came, when Ruth announced her party folks R.S.V.P’d at once. Ok, that’s not completely true. Ruth held the class hostage at our last lecture and demanded to know who was coming and if they were bringing anything. Everyone said they were bringing meat and deserts, so I decided to fill in the gap with a little garbanzo bean and brown rice salad. (Hey, I brought the poke last time, hosted everyone to a luau a second time, and paid for a party that nobody came to the third time. Besides, garbanzo bean and brown rice salad is good). I went over early to help set up/get introduced to the house. Gorgeous! Vaulted ceilings with tasteful artwork and a working fireplace in the otherwise modernized kitchen. I love it.

No one ate my garbanzo bean and brown rice salad because it “looked like something they could eat at home.” Fuck ‘em. I ate all the yummy leftovers at home.

Absolutely Lovely Garbanzo Bean and Brown Rice Salad:

2 ½ C Brown Rice
3 Cans Garbanzo Beans
1-Liter Chicken Broth
2 Tbsp. Butter
Juice of 1 Lemon
Salt and Pepper to Taste

a. Place the rice in a pot or rice maker. Drain and rinse the garbanzo beans, and add them to the rice. Stick your finger through the rice and beans to the bottom of the pot or rice maker. Add chicken broth until it is touching the knuckle above the knuckle that the rice and beans are touching. Place lid on pot or rice maker. Either turn the rice maker on, or turn the heat on high under the pot. If you are using a rice maker, skip to section b. Bring rice and beans to a boil. Once boiling, either reduce heat to low (gas range) or turn heat off altogether (old, slowly operating electric range), or turn heat off altogether, wait five minutes and turn back on to low (new, quick electric range, including glass top). Allow to sit for about 30 minutes, depending on your range.

b. Once the rice is done, add the butter and lemon juice and blend. Taste, and add salt and pepper to your liking.

Cheap, easy, and delicious. Everyone loves this salad. Especially those who can eat it at home.

2007-06-02T15:43:00.000-10:00

May 25, 2007

One of my professors is letting me housesit for a couple of weeks, and we thought a night out for dinner and drinks was in order. It had been a long week, and we wanted to stay local, so despite misgivings about the Larg’s Pier Restaurant and Hotel (and Casino), we decided it was the most convenient place to meet. When I arrived Ruth was already sitting at the bar enjoying a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I ordered a Dry Dam Riesling, and we chatted about life, the universe, and everything. Ruth is in her late 30’s, single, and recently bought her home a few blocks from the beach in Semaphore. She is an Australian citizen from Detroit, making her an ex-pat. Her PHD is in science, but her life-long passion for food led her to the master’s in gastronomy, and eventually into the LCB classroom. She speaks several languages (“well enough to get by”), and when not in lecture travels the globe giving talks, racking up frequent flier miles and experiencing new places. She drives a cantankerous old car that folks make fun of her for, but she thinks it fits her Australian lifestyle. She’d like to have a boyfriend, but likes her independence and puts her career first. She has a background in improv, and as a result thinks my dissertation idea is fantastic.

Huh.

PS: we got the pizza margarita and it was actually quite good.

2007-05-29T22:52:00.001-10:00

May 24, 2007

My Fellow American

I’m moving out of Larg’s Bay and into my professor’s house in Semaphore (the town next door) next week, and then I’ve got two weeks to find the next roof over my head. A friend from improv put out a “calling all friends with spare rooms” email, and much to my surprise, got 8 replies. Tonight I made my way into the city to meet Kate, potential roommate number one. Kate is in her mid-40’s, a professor in media studies, and from California. Her house is in ritzy North Adelaide, just a half hour walk into the city. We met at a pub around the corner from her place, ordered our fish and chips (not nearly as good as the Larg’s Bay Snack Kiosk but I digress), and got to know each other a bit. Rather, we got to know our mutual likes/dislikes about living in Adelaide.

Likes:
Friendly people, the Central Market, national health care, fabulous public transportation, lamb, decent salaries (for those lucky enough to find a job), beaches, birds, wine.

Dislikes: slow internet connections, Mexican food (think nachos with spaghetti sauce), q-tips, game shows, mayonnaise, hamburgers.

So I guess the good outweighs the bad. Although most of the bad edible…..

2007-05-29T22:28:00.000-10:00

May 23, 2007

Happy Birthday Skinnies!

Carol and Louise both had birthdays this week, and to celebrate, we hit the town. We started with drinks and pupus..I mean, entrée’s, at Apothecary (a beautiful bar built in what used to be, you guessed it, an apothecary – I wanted to move in), then moved on to Ying Chow for fabulous Chicken in Black Bean Sauce, Tea Smoked Duck, and Red Vinegar Short Ribs.

If I Were In Charge (And I Am) Here’s How I Would Make Chicken in Black Bean Sauce

1 Lb. Chicken, boned, skinned, and sliced into strips
2 cloves Garlic, minced
2 Tsp. Fresh Ginger, minced
Four Green Onions, chopped, white and green parts
1 Tbsp. Fermented Black Beans*, rinsed (skipping this stage would be a bad idea), and chopped coarsely.
¼ C Sherry (please don’t use cooking sherry, it’s just a bunch of salt, and with the black beans, you don’t need anymore salt)
(Also, cooking sherry is gross and not good in a pinch when you run out real wine and are having a bad day and are desperate.)
(So I’ve read.)
2 Tbsp. Corn Starch
1 C Chicken Broth
Oil, for cooking
Salt & Pepper

Heat oil in a pan or wok on the stove over medium heat. Salt & pepper the chicken strips. Add the chicken to the pan, and sauté until just done, about 7 minutes. Remove. Adding more oil if necessary, sauté the ginger, garlic, and green onion for two minutes. Add the fermented black beans, and cook for two minutes more. Add the chicken broth, and scrape the bottom of the pan with a spoon or spatula to deglaze. (get all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan). Using your fingers, combine the sherry and the cornstarch and mix until all lumps are gone. The result should have the consistency of heavy cream. If not, add more starch or add water to get to the desired texture. If you don’t know what heavy cream feels like, you need to get out more. Bring the chicken broth to a boil, and slowly add the sherry/starch mixture, a little bit at a time. The sauce should thicken quickly. When it reaches a nice, saucy thickness, stop adding the sherry mix. If the sauce gets too thick, thin it out with a little water. Add the chicken back to the pan, stirring to coat with the sauce. Heat completely through and let simmer 5 minutes. Serve with hot rice.

*Found in Asian markets. I’ve seen them labeled “Dow Se.” Not usually found in specialty gourmet markets because they smell.**

** Since you’re only using a tablespoon, you’ll have leftovers. They smell. To avoid smelling up your whole fridge, store in an air-tight container you will never want to use for anything else ever again. An old pickle jar would work. As would something from someone who recently broke your heart.

2007-05-23T22:02:00.001-10:00

May 17, 2007

Food and Drink in Contemporary Western Society
Contemporary Drinking Patterns

"Alcoholic beverages are becoming aspirational - we choose a beverage because we want to be a certain type of person." (Ankeny, 2003)

"Make more, and we will drink it." (Van Bodegraven, 2007)

Discuss.

2007-05-22T12:47:00.000-10:00

May 23, 2007

I've Got Your Picture...

Yesterday, I actually bought the cord thing that you use to plug your camera into the computer and put your pictures onto your computer. I did this without the help of anyone except the guy in the electronic store who picked out the cord. And the guy in the camera store where I went first who told me to go to the electronic store. I feel incredibly independent. I also have scissors, so I know that I will be able to open the container holding the cord. I will probably not need anyone's help with that. But if I do, I'm sure the lesbians will be more than happy to pitch in.

2007-05-18T12:37:00.000-10:00

May 12, 2007

The First Brush With Death

I was tidying my room and about to slip on my jacket when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Crawling around on the sleeve was a black spider with a distinct red blotch on its back. Having been thoroughly educated as to the hazards of the Red Back, South Australia’s most deadly spider, I knew that keeping calm was key to my survival. So naturally I screamed and threw the jacket on my bed. Understanding that nothing spells safely like a good plank of wood, I quickly left the bedroom and shut the door. I knew that if I stared at the closed door long enough, a solution would come to me. Then I remembered the internet in the next room and looked at that instead. Sure enough, the spider on my jacket was a Red Back, and if I’d been bit it would have meant the hospital. Then the following thought occurred to me: I’d thrown the spider on my bed. Cautiously I re-entered my room, certain that the spider hadn’t liked being tossed around and was now plotting revenge. I nervously glanced around the room half expecting to see a giant web spanning the ceiling. Hmm, I thought. If the spider’s in my jacket, then my jacket’s not safe. But if the spider’s in my bed, then my bed’s not safe. But how to know? Suddenly I remembered a little something called the process of elimination! I cleverly and gingerly lifted my jacket from the bed and took it to the back lanai. Holding the jacket pinched between my forefingers and thumbs, I shook it within an inch of its life. Out fell an aggravated Red Back Spider. I smashed the spider with my shoe, taking great care to ensure that it’s red back was facing up. I would have to show the corpse to Carol and Louise, of course. Just in case there were a couple more creatures in there, I hung my jacket on the clothesline for a complete airing, and went back to the lanai to admire my kill. I was denied. Search as I might, I couldn’t find the corpse. I searched the entire lanai, and checked the dogs for any “I’ve been poisoned” behavior. But the mystery remained unsolved. My dead spider was gone.

2007-05-18T12:26:00.000-10:00

May 10, 2007

The Party’s Over

Party time! Carol and Louise had graciously made plans for the evening so the house could be ‘mine’. I’d sent out the invitation two weeks prior with a reminder earlier in the week. Two fellow gastronomes had declined – they had plans for the upcoming break and were anxious to complete all their assignments early – but the others were coming and adding to the buffet. Or so I thought. One by one my classmates begged off, until I realized that not a single person was coming to my party. What are you gonna do? I was gonna eat as many shrimp with caponata as I could, down a few glasses of wine, and cry myself to sleep.

2007-05-18T12:22:00.000-10:00

May 9, 2007

Party Prep

I’d invited my classmates over to Larg’s for one last party at the beach house before I moved into the cardboard box. Folks were planning on joining me on the train directly after class, and I wanted to be sure that everything was prepared the day before. I’d asked everyone to bring a pupu to share, so I thought that just a couple of offerings on my end would be plenty. Louise and I went into Semaphore where I picked up eggplant, red pepper, capers and mushrooms. Louise then took me to a fabulous seafood shop where I secured a kilo of lovely prawns. My plan was to offer caponata, cheese, chilled prawns, and crackers. We got home and I quickly diced eggplant, pepper, mushroom and onion. I tossed the vegetables into a pan with a little olive oil, and added some minced garlic and oregano. When the onions were translucent, I added tomato paste and capers, and deglazed the pan with some balsamic vinegar. Lastly, I added just a pinch of sugar, turned off the heat, and let the flavors blend. While the caponata was cooling, I made a court bouillon of mire poix (look it up), lemon juice, white wine, bay leaves, and water. When it came to a boil I added my prawns and let them cook for about 5 minutes. I quickly removed them and stuck them in the fridge to cool, and had a quick taste of the caponata. It’s going to be a yummy party.

2007-05-16T16:23:00.000-10:00

Theeyyyrrre Baaaccck!

The skinnies came home today and boy was I excited. As soon as class ended I raced to the Central Market and picked up a pork loin, some figs, onions and garlic, a few potatoes, and some beautiful green beans. I caught the next train home and walked in the door to candle light, soft classical music, happy dogs, and Louise at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine and Carol stomping around still in her camping boots wildly proclaiming her need for a shower. As usual, we all started talking at once, simultaneously asking about the others time while blabbering on about our own. We munched on bread with lemon infused olive oil and gorgeous sesame dukkah while catching up on all that had happened while they were away, and I got stuck in with the pork. I seasoned the loin with salt, pepper, and minced garlic and plopped it in the oven. While it was roasting, I stuck potatoes in a pan and the beans in a steamer. I then prepared a sauce for the pork. I started with a fine dice of onion and minced garlic sautéed in a little butter. While the onions became translucent, I diced a handful of dried figs and tossed them in the pan. I sprinkled in just a smidge of dried chili for heat, and after a few minutes added about half a bottle of white wine (contributed by Louise who deemed it not fit to drink but I took a sniff and decided it was fine to cook with and boy howdy don’t even get me started on that) and let that reduce until the pan was almost dry. I drizzled some fine balsamic over the whole mess and let that reduce to syrup. A tablespoon of Bush Mallee honey (tastes like it’s been smoked) and another knob of butter later and the sauce was done.

Yeah, that was ok.

2007-05-16T16:19:00.001-10:00

May 5, 2007

I Want Some Wine

I’d done a little improv since my arrival, and had received an email from a complete stranger who remembered meeting me but of whom I had no memory inviting me to spend a day touring the McClaren Vale wine region. What the hell, I thought, a day a drinking with a perfect stranger, why not? With absolutely no idea who was driving, I stood outside my front gate and waited for a red hatch back to pick me up. The hatchback arrived, and behind the wheel was Tracy, who at what was apparently my second glance was somewhat familiar. “Right!” she said, “where have you been in South Australia?” Alarmed at my admission that I’d been only to Adelaide, Larg’s, Semaphore, the Barossa, and the Barr Smith Library, she decided to take the scenic route to McClaren Vale. We drove through Elizabeth and Glanville, Brighton and Glenelg, and after a lovely hour of stunning scenic beaches, were on our way to McClaren Vale. The area is home to wines known by all (Rosemount), wines known by me (Shirvington), and wines known by those in South Australia to be world class. We started at Simon Hacket. The cellar door (tasting room), was filled with the artwork of the owners daughter, and there was at least one piece on the wall that, in a previous life, would have been mine. We tasted everything from the Riesling to the Grenache, and I picked up a couple of bottles of Shiraz Ligonier to enjoy later in the week. We then proceeded to Paxton, one of the areas more popular wineries. The AAA Shiraz Grenache and the ’03 Shiraz both made me swoon, and I added a couple of those to my collection. We were off to Chapel Hill, where the Verdehlo was lovely but not worth writing home about, which is precisely why I’m writing home about it. We then stopped off at d’Arenburg, home to previously enjoyed exports like The Stump Jump and Dry Dam Riesling. My intention had been to pick up a couple of each at cellar door prices, but then I saw a tasting menu that included a 100% Mourvedre and an Ironstone Pressings GSM. Commenting to Tracy that I was making a mistake I’d be paying for at 18% interest, I picked up a bottle of each. Tracy, insisting that she was enjoyed playing chauffer for the day, determined that we should try to hit as many more wineries as we could before closing time. We raced through Gemtree & Dowie (absolutely lovely Candenzia, [a blend of Grenache, Tempranillo, and Shiraz – a fabulous table wine at a great price] and a surprisingly divine Chenin Blanc), Coriole Vineyards (Old Barn Shiraz Cabernet that did, in fact, taste like an old barn, whether or not that’s a good thing is subject to debate), and through to Red Dot, where the Old Vine Grenache made me cry “I love you” several times over. As we were heading out of the valley, we noticed a cellar door at the top of a small hill. Leconfield Wines, the sign said. Neither Tracy nor I had heard of it. It was 15 minutes till closing, and we decided to give it a try. We walked in the door of the beautifully decorated tasting room/mini museum, and there he was: Hunky Joe Wine Guy. Although I’d been shockingly responsible with my tasting (after all, now that I had a friend with a car I didn’t want to lose her), I’d been shockingly responsible about 37 times, and while in full control of my faculties I was feeling no pain. “How you going?” the cute wine guy said, “What would you like to taste today?” “Hello cute wine guy!” I replied, and if Tracy had had any wine in her mouth it would have come out through her nose, “I’d like something that will blow my socks off!” He leaned in, placing his elbows on the counter and his cute head in his hands. “Can you be a little more specific?” I leaned over the counter. “I’ve spent my day loving the Grenache.” I replied. “Great!” he said, “Now I know exactly what to do.” As he poured a 2006 Richard Hamilton Grenache, a 2003 RH Marion Grenache, and an overwhelmingly good (and surprising) 2004 Sparkling Shiraz, we chatted about the McClaren Vale, the differences between the 2002 and 2003 Shiraz, and whether or not Robert Parker deserved a) the flack he gets for being the single most influential person in the international wine market or, b) his job. Finally, Tracy coughed, and I realized that the sun was going down and it was time to leave. I purchased a few bottles of wine and we were on our way. I didn’t get his name. Or his number. So maybe my flirt’s not yet totally on. Then again, I did get a free bottle of 2004 Richard Hamilton Centurion Shiraz, so you be the judge.

2007-05-16T15:29:00.001-10:00

Ok, I think I’m back now. I haven’t spent the last three weeks entirely in the pit; I’ve also gone to class.

April 24, 2007

Food & Drink in Contemporary Society: Changes in Diet and Eating Habits.

Before we can analyze the reason for a change, we must first establish that a change has taken place. To do that, we must identify the conditions that were present before the change, and the conditions that are present since the change.

My eating conditions prior to February 17, 2007 were of a social nature. My eating conditions post February 17, 2007 are solo events. I do not enjoy eating as much as I did prior to February 17, 2007. Clearly, a change has taken place. A careful analysis reveals that one reason for the change is that I am almost in the South Pole and Kim in almost in the North Pole. She has Polar Bears, I have Penguins. Neither tastes good.

2007-05-14T12:13:00.001-10:00

Almost there.

2007-05-07T00:43:00.000-10:00

May 6, 2007

Still climbing. Almost there. Can see the light at the top.

2007-05-04T00:56:00.000-10:00

Friday May 4, 2007

I'll Bet You They Won't Play This Song...

I just said "pussy" on the radio. Four times. I'm feeling a little better.

2007-05-03T14:01:00.001-10:00

...still digging...

2007-04-29T17:14:00.000-10:00

May 1, 2007

Sorry no blogs this week. Four days of pouring rain has made it hard to get out of the house. So I've been in the pit. It's sunny today. I'll try to crawl out.

2007-04-25T02:17:00.000-10:00

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Butcher Bad Moods

When I feel myself falling into the pit of despair, the best thing I can do is get my sorry self on the bike and hit the beach path. I did my usual route, and then decided to stop in Semaphore to pick up a few movies at the video store. After locking up my bike, I noticed an organic produce shop just down the block and decided to stop in. It didn’t take me long to fill my cart with vine ripened tomatoes, sweet onions, round eggplants, baby squashes, radishes almost as stunning as those recently encountered in Provence, and little tins of broad beans in tomato sauce and stuffed grape leaves. Deciding that I wasn’t ready to go back to the house just yet, I continued down the block and ducked into a butcher whose window display simply stopped me in my tracks. Gorgeous porterhouses and ribeyes, lamb racks and the largest chicken breasts I’ve ever seen lined the window. Inside, I discovered marinated kebobs, stuffed pork loins, a myriad of other prepared foods, and rows and rows of sausages. I heard a friendly “How you going?” and turned to find the butcher and his wife gazing at me with some amusement. It appears I had been muttering sweet nothings to the sausages. We made introductions, and they were amazed to hear that someone from Hawaii had made her way to Semaphore. They told me a bit about the town, asked extremely intelligent questions about my masters program, informed me that Semaphore/Larg’s Bay is the only place I’d ever want to be in South Australia, and told me not to be a stranger. I won’t be.

P.S. Spicy Italian, chicken with pine nuts, and metwurst.

P.P.S. “The Good Girl”. Jennifer Aniston was actually very good. Season 1 of Hamish Macbeth, which just made me think of Kim and Leia.

2007-04-25T01:45:00.000-10:00

Friday, April 20, 2007

Party in Larg’s!

The luau research for my final paper didn’t just make me homesick; it also made me hungry. I had only two questions: 1) Could I find luau ingredients in Adelaide and, 2) Could I convince my classmates that Larg’s Bay isn’t really that far? I’d hit the Central Market on Thursday and managed to acquire more than reasonable ingredient substitutes, and as I rubbed pork shoulder with salt, black pepper and Magi Seasoning (an absolutely offensive substitute for the Liquid Smoke that cannot be found in Australia but more on that later), I wondered if people would come. The first two guests arrived bearing wine and an absolutely addictive cilantro pesto that we devoured on toast. Little by little more people trickled in until almost everyone who was actually in town for the break had made their way to Larg’s. After a quick tour of the property (and general agreement that that I’d won the housing lottery), we poured our wine into paper cups and made our way to the beach. We stood on the pier and watched the sunset, and by some magic all actually managed to avoid mentioning school. Back home, I laid out the luau and we dug in. There is a reason they say a carpenter is only as good as his tools.

The Kalua Pig was disgusting! Vile! Absolutely nothing like the real thing! I’d never used that Magi seasoning crap before and I will never use it again! (Truth be told, I was the only one who thought that. As one of my classmates said, “We think it tastes great. The only reason we know it doesn’t taste right is that you keep telling us.”

I’d found all the right stuff for Chicken Long Rice (after all, Asia is directly up), so it was delicious as usual. I was quite complimented when a classmate from Taiwan told me it tasted like home. The luau leaf was almost ok, made with spinach and coconut milk; I’d added another depth of flavor with a dash of fish sauce. The lomilomi salmon was surprisingly good – the surprise being how good the salt salmon was. I was a little worried; because I’d only salted it the day before, and the normal salt time is two to three days. But it was cured through and through, and was quite flavorful to boot. The poi, however, left something to be desired (even more so than those who don’t like poi would imagine). I used Chinese taro, readily available in Adelaide. It was a much lighter shade of purple than Hawaiian taro, and not remotely as sweet as fresh poi can be. Several people, however, commented that it was a nice compliment to the lomilomi, and although technically that’s supposed to be the other way around, it once again appeared that I was the only person who was unsatisfied. Lastly, I served the haupia. I’d used brown sugar (what I had on hand) and added vanilla because I like it, but other than a slightly different color and a slightly different flavor, it was just like the real thing. After dinner, my classmates wandered out to the yard with cocktails. As I tidied the kitchen, I glanced out the door. They had lit the candles that sit on the lanai table, found a few balls that they were tossing for the dogs, and were simply kicking back and enjoying each other’s company. The house echoed with their laughter and it occurred to me that the house could use a lot more of that.

2007-04-17T19:01:00.000-10:00

April 18, 2007

Look Out, Lance!

When I first got on the bike two months ago it was my goal to be able to ride for an hour without dying. At first that meant riding from Largs to Outer Harbor (the opposite direction of Semaphore, the town next door) and back again. Then a few weeks ago a strange thing happened - that didn't take an hour anymore. So I started riding from Largs to Outer Harbor, back past Largs to Semaphore, then back again. Today, I got to Semaphore and I'd only been on the bike 40 minutes. To ride for an hour I had to ride from Largs to Outer Harbor back through Largs to Semaphore, through Semaphore all the way to the end of the bike path and then back again.

Another ex-Mennonite takes the tour...

2007-04-17T15:06:00.001-10:00

April 17, 2007

The Right Place at the Right Time
(Or: Always Listen to Kim)

I was falling into the pit of despair when I noticed that Kim was on Skype. I gave her a ring, and joyfully she answered. After a brief catch up, I mentioned that I was headed to the pit. “Don’t go there.” Kim instructed. “When you see a sign saying ‘Pit of Despair’, go the other way.” I suggested that the stormy weather from earlier in the day seemed to have calmed, and if I got my act together enough I could load my computer into the basket of my bike, ride to someplace for a glass of wine, and work to a beautiful sunset. Kim immediately instructed me to do just that.

As I sat at my table at the Palais, typing away to the surf and a nice Riesling, I couldn’t help but overhear the woman at the table next to me asking whomever was on the other end of her phone to judge the up and coming “Cooking in Schools’ Competition.” I hesitated for only a moment.

“Excuse me,” I ventured when she had finished her call, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but hear you mention a Cooking in Schools Competition. I’m a student in the Le Cordon Bleu Masters of Gastronomy program, and I was wondering if you could tell me more.”

She could. She could tell me that the competition was for high school age culinary students and that she was looking for judges. She could tell me that she owned a catering company and they were always looking for help. She could tell me that she was on the board of Food Festivals South Australia and that they had dozens of events coming up. Lastly, she could tell me that here was her card and please be in touch because there’s a lot I might be interested in.

So much better than the pit.

2007-04-17T15:01:00.001-10:00

April 14, 2007

Stomp!

It was Tanunda Town Day at the Barossa Food & Wine Festival and Leena, Adam, Andrew, Mel and I were off for a day of festivities including, but not limited to, the Tanunda Town Day Grape Stomping Competition. We arrived before the crowds, and easily found parking near the festival entrance. Food was the first order of the day. Andrew, the only Aussie among us, determined that we would start our day with “snag in a dag.” Entendre aside, I was naturally curious. Turns out, I’ve enjoyed a variation of snag in a dag in a previous life. “Snag” is the Australian slang for sausage, and “dag” is the bread it rests in. Top it with grilled onions and a little mustard, and you’re ready to go. Not necessarily as good as my previous life but that’s another story. After a few wine samplings and a couple of Barossa plates of cured meats, local pickles, cheeses, and phenomanally good beetroot chutney, it was time for the grape stomping. We changed from our reasonably nice festival clothes into our reasonably nice grape stomping clothes, checked in, and waited for our heat. The grapes were mounded in 3’X3’ boxes, which were set atop 3’ high platforms designed with a drainage system to catch the juice. The heats were of three groups of stompers at a time. Leena and Adam (team Vanilla Coke) took box number one, Andrew and I (team Bruce!) were in box number two, and who cares (Who Cares) who was in box number three. The whistle blew, and the stomping began. The first thing Andrew and I noticed as we clung together and stomped was that the floor of the box was slippery. Very very slippery. Then we noted (while stomping of course), that if one of us slipped too much, there wasn’t much to break our fall to the street below. Ah, well, we reasoned (stomp stomp), we’re young (Andrew is young stomp stomp), we’ll heal (stomp stomp). We had crushed all the grapes in our box when we noticed we were ankle deep in juice. Quickly we developed a new “sweeping of the feet” technique to shove the mushy mess into the drainage grid, through the pipe, and down to the waiting bucket below. Crush crush! Sweep sweep! We moved as much mush as we good until at last the whistle blew again, and we were done. As we climbed down the ladder to the ground and the waiting wash bucket, the MC made an announcement. Team Bruce! had set a new record! Team Bruce! had successfully stomped the least amount of juice ever recorded at the Tanunda Town Day Grape Stomping Competition!

It is so good to be known for something.

2007-04-17T14:59:00.001-10:00

April 11, 2007

Wild Kingdom

Buster and I were having our usual morning stroll down the beach, when suddenly I realized we were not alone. A pair of giant pelicans had decided to join us. The four of us went from Largs Pier to Semaphore Pier (the town next door), Buster and I on the sand and the pelicans just off the shore. At Semaphore, the pelicans remembered they had serious business elsewhere and were off. As Buster and I made our way back to Largs, I caught something new out of the corner of my eye. No further than 20 feet of shore, a small pod of dolphins had stopped in to say hello. The dolphins kept us company until we were back at our own pier and it was time to head home. Buster was unimpressed, but I think I’m in heaven.

2007-04-17T14:57:00.001-10:00

April 7, 2007

Boguns Not Allowed

My friend Lucy never says die. She also never says cook. She was determined to find an open restaurant in the vast desolate wasteland that was the Adelaide Easter weekend. I don’t know if beer is their religion or if they’re simply rebels, but the Belgians had stepped up. The Belgian Beer Bar was open for business. Lucy and I were among the few customers seated at the restaurants spacious lanai. As we sipped delicious white beer and forced down less than good Croque Monsieur (our own damn faults – we forgot we weren’t in France), we noticed a sign etched by the restaurants front door.

Dress Code Strictly Enforced
Absolutely No

Thongs
Ripped Jeans
Singlets
Visible Tattoos
Flannelettes

I got most of it, but flannelettes threw me. We called the waiter over. “Excuse me” I asked, “ We can’t help but notice your sign. Can you tell us what a flannelette is?”

The waiter looked stumped. “Well,” he started, “I don’t know quite how to explain it. It’s a shirt, made of cotton…you know, the kind a bogun wears.”

“Uh.” I replied. “Can you tell me what a bogun is?”

“Uh,” he stammered, and called another waiter over to assist. “A bogun is a bloke who just sits around, on the couch…”

“They’re not very smart…” added waiter number two.

“They just cause trouble,” continue number one.

“Does a bogun have a job?” I asked.

“Occasionally.” Offered number two.

“Does it involve an axe?” I furthered.

“Usually.’ Said number two.

“Lumberjack!” shouted number one, clearly glad to have thought of a descriptive word in American English. “A bogun is like a lumberjack!”

“I wonder,’ mentioned Lucy, off on a different train of thought, “if those rules are just so you can keep the riff raff out.”

“What do you mean?” asked number one.

“Well,’ continued Lucy, I wonder if you allow people who are breaking the dress code in, as long as they aren’t boguns.”

“What do you mean?” asked number two, who was not listening the first time.

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, “A young, beautiful woman walks into the bar. She’s wearing jeans with a rip in the knee, and a flannelette patch on the back pocket. She’s in thong sandals, and a tight tank top.” “And she’s got a tattoo of a slightly parted pair of lips, “I went on, bringing my index finger to my breast,” right here. Do you let her in?”

“Absolutely!” said number one.
“Oh she’s in!” number two breathlessly added.

Well, that explains what Lucy and I were doing there.

2007-04-17T14:54:00.001-10:00

April 6,7,8,9

Jesus drank.
(Kristinians 1:1)

Australia takes its Easter holiday seriously. Not content merely to give folks an extra long Good Friday lunch hour to get their foreheads dirty and offer discount ham at the groceries, the ENTIRE CITY OF ADELAIDE (and surrounding beachside towns) completely shuts down from close of business Shrove Thursday until the open of business “no longer part of the Easter holiday” Tuesday. Easters Saturday and Monday are part of the holiday. The stores, the markets, the gas stations, even the restaurants. All closed. We were advised to stock up on anything we might need for the holiday Thursday night. Naturally we all ran to the bottle shop.

2007-04-17T14:47:00.000-10:00

April 5, 2007

The Agony of The Feet

Summer, my fellow student from Hong Kong, decided that none of us had experienced proper dim sum. She arranged for a giant table and the 16 of us gathered at Ying Chow on Gouger Street, Adelaide’s restaurant row. Summer did the ordering, and moments after the tea was poured the food arrived. And arrived. And arrived. We devoured bao, dunked steamed dumplings with “asian vegetable” in mustard, and slurped wide noodles in spicy hoisin. We munched our way through anise seed tea duck, minced pork with eggplant, and tripe with Chinese barbeque sauce. Everything was delicious and we were all in heaven. Then the chicken feet arrived. One plate of feet had been simmered in a light ginger broth, chilled, and topped with more ginger and green onions. The other had been coated in five-spice powder and deep-fried. There were sixteen chicken feet. For sixteen people. “Everyone was to have a foot”, Summer explained, “you cannot have dim sum without a chicken foot.” “Especially not if you study gastronomy” she added, when she saw the looks on our faces. We each reached for a foot. I got one coated in five-spice powder and deep fried, and took a bite. Crunchy chicken skin, hard to go wrong there. Five spice powder, one of the classic flavors of Chinese cuisine. Then my teeth, and my tongue, and my taste buds encountered something all three immediately determined was not food. The gelatinous, flavorless, gustatorily alien tendons that hold the foot together. My stomach indicated displeasure, and after a few obligatory bites, I put the foot down.

I can now honestly say I ate chicken feet. Note the past tense.

2007-04-16T16:11:00.000-10:00

Wendesday, April 4, 2007

Ke Aloha Ku`u Home O Kahalu`u

My fist “major” paper is due at the end of my first course, otherwise known as next week. Following advice to write not only what you know, but also what others have researched for you, I decided to write about the history of the luau and how different cultures have bastardized the tradition. The University had a surprisingly large Hawaiian library, and I figured I had it made in the shade. That was, until, I spent the day in Hawaii. For hours, I looked at pictures of Kaneohe Bay, the Koolaus, old Waikiki, and Volcano. When that was done, I read about the history of the islands starting with Kamehameha the Great right up to Ms. Lingle, complete with facts, legends, and superstitions. Lastly, I scoured a book about the difference between Hawaiian and local, and the development of local people, culture, and food. By the end of the day, I’d realized my classic blunder, the first of which, of course, is never get involved in a land war in Asia.

If the train ran directly to the airport I'd be on the next plane out.

2007-04-08T14:09:00.000-10:00

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Dogs: Not Just for Breakfast Anymore

I was walking Buster on the beach when I discovered something dog-owners have undoubtedly known for centuries. When dogs meet, their people do, too. Buster and I were minding our own business, well, rather Buster was minding the flock of seagulls business and I was minding Busters business, when along came a Huskie (or something) puppy who could only be described as simply beautiful, in a shockingly adorable puppy kind of way. Then along came his owner, who could also be described as simply beautiful, in a shockingly adorable grown-man-not-wearing-a-ring kind of way. Needless to say, I turned on the gaydar. And got no feedback. We simultaneously leashed our dogs, who were busy greeting each other in traditional doggie style, and stumbled over words apologizing for any inconvenience our dog had caused the others dog. As he was explaining his puppies need to learn how to behave with other dogs and I was blabbering about how simply beautiful, in a shockingly adorable puppy kind of way his dog was, our eyes met. We smiled at each other. Then my fourteen-year-old 60-pound dog bit his 9-week-old 10-pound puppy. I apologized profusely and he insisted that his puppy was fine, but the moment was gone. As they walked down the beach and away from Buster and me, I realized I hadn’t gotten either of their names.

Still, lesson learned.

2007-04-08T14:07:00.000-10:00

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me

I decided it was time to pull myself out of my funk. Rather than another quiet dinner at home, I decided to bike to one of the beachside restaurants along the coast, watch the sunset, and enjoy a romantic dinner alone. At six o’clock I braided my hair (better to weather the bike helmet), donned said helmet, hoped on the bike, and was off. Fifteen minutes later I was locking up at The Palais, a pub/nightclub so recently turned restaurant that smoke still hung in the air. There was one outdoor table left, and I got it. I sipped a local Riesling (quite delicious and dry here unlike some of the sweeter Riesling’s I’ve had in the States), and watch a stunning sunset over the water. Once the sun set, I ordered my dinner. I had resigned myself to the Pizza Margarita, when suddenly the night’s special, Parmesan-Herb crusted Barramundi (“fish with big scales” in Aboriginal dialect), with side salad and chips caught my eye. I switched gears and ordered the fish. I sipped a second Riesling (I’m not kidding it’s really good), and watched Filet Mignon topped with Prawns in Sherry Cream Sauce, Mixed Seafood Pie in Puff Pastry, and what was clearly Coopers Battered Butterfish and Chips walk by on their way to other tables. (What can I say; I was having a romantic dinner alone. I had a lot of time to read the menu) Finally, my dinner arrived…much to my disappointment. Rather than the light, pan-fried fish with delicate herb crusting I had so looked forward to, I got a deep-fried (in what I overwhelmingly suspected to be old oil) slightly dried fish, chips that, while passable, were no where near as good as the Larg’s Pier Snack Kiosk, and a salad consisting of little more then lettuce and shredded carrot (they don’t seem to offer a variety of salad dressings in Australia but I’ll save that for another time). Ah, well, live and learn.

Despite my unfortunate dinner, on the way home I had two thoughts: I really like being able to bike to my supper and, how do I turn on the little light that’s on the handlebars of my bike?

2007-04-01T15:54:00.000-10:00

Monday, April 2, 2007

The Jokes On Me

My dissertation topic has been green lighted, and in an effort to pull myself up by my bootstraps I have decided to begin research now. The shockingly broad subject that I am going to narrow down into a dissertation is the use of food as stock characters in comedy in film and television. The example I give to the people who stare at me in disbelief when I tell them this is my focus is the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy bakes the bread. If you've seen the show, you understand that the bread is clearly the antagonist in the scene. I am looking for other example of food playing the antagonist, protagonist, ingenue, narrator (?), vamp, ensemble, etc., in film and television.

I am accepting all suggestions for food in comedy as I am depressed and need a good laugh.

PS: My poke was voted the most impressive dish at the party.

2007-04-01T15:27:00.000-10:00

April 1, 2007

Aloha...Oy

Today should've/would've/could've been my wedding anniversary. But instead it's just another day I'm spending alone in a strange country and a house that is not mine. I should have busied myself writing an essay on the transition from service a la francaise in the 18th century to service a la russe in the 19th century and the impact the change had on the field of gastronomy, but my brain was solidly focused on other things and only able to handle manual labor. I decided that cooking would take my mind off things, searched the kitchen, and got busy. It was only after I finished eating that I realized I'd made Italian Wedding Soup.

Italian Wedding Soup

Meatballs

1 Lb. Ground Meat (beef, pork, turkey, chicken...whatever)
2 Eggs, beaten
2 Slices Bread (white bread is ok if you absolutely must, but really you should use whole wheat), run through the food processor to make fine crumbs
1/4 C Fresh Parsley, chopped fine
3 Cloves Garlic, minced
1/4 C Sweet Onion, minced
1/4 C Parmesan Cheese, grated fine
1 C White Wine (and I have told you a dozen times NOT American Chardonnay)
Salt and Pepper
Oil or Cooking Spray

Combine all of the above until thoroughly blended. Using your hands, form as many 1-inch balls as you can. Heat the oil or cooking spray over medium heat in a large frying pan. In batches, add the meatballs and brown on all sides. Be sure not to over-crowd the pan - this could take several rounds of frying. Remove the meatballs. Add the wine to the pan, and as it reduces, scrape the bottom of the pan with a spoon to remove any brown bits. Allow the wine to reduce to 1/4 cup. Remove from heat and save the liquid.

Soup
1 Gal. Chicken Stock or Broth (Obviously I prefer stock, but I only had bullion today so that's what I used)
1 Lb. Leafy Green (I used spinach, but you could use mustard greens, escarole, whatever you like)
1/4 Lb. Spaghetti, broken into small pieces
Salt & Pepper, to taste

Additional Parmesan, for garnish, if desired.

In a large stockpot over high heat, bring the stock or broth to a boil. Add the reserved wine from the meatball pan. Add the pasta, and cook until just becoming al dente ("to the tooth"), about 5 minutes. Add the meatballs, and reduce to a simmer. Simmer until the meatballs are cooked through, about 7-10 minutes more. Add the leafy green, and simmer until just wilted. Taste, and add salt and pepper as you like. Top individual bowls with the Parmesan, if desired. Serve hot, and try not to think about the past. Or the future. Or the present, for that matter. Enjoy.

2007-03-31T19:25:00.000-10:00

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Our department head, Barbara, is hosting cocktail hour at her house tomorrow, and she has clearly stated that no-one is expected to bring a thing. Naturally we gastronomy students are tripping all over ourselves in an effort to impress without looking like we made any effort whatsoever. I opted for the KISS approach. I decided that if the ahi is good, the poke will be too, and I was off to the market. The ahi was delicious. I am going to impress without making any effort whatsoever.

Kristin's Poke

1 Lb. Sashimi grade Ahi (yellow fin tuna), cut into bite size pieces
3 Tbsp. Shoyu (soy sauce)
3 Tbsp. Sesame Oil
5 Drops Chili Oil
1 Tsp. Fresh Ginger, grated (nope, you can't use dried) (NO!)(I don't care!)
3 Green Onion, sliced
1 Tbsp. Sesame Seeds, toasted in a dry pan over low heat until golden brown.

Mix all the ingredients except the ahi. Taste, and adjust everything. Different brands of shoyu, sesame oil, and chili oil have differing strengths and flavors, so play with it until you think it tastes good. Add the ahi and mix well. Allow to sit for at least 1/2 hour for the flavors to blend. Eat raw. Deeelicious.

2007-03-31T19:18:00.000-10:00

Friday, March 30, 2007

TGIF

For reasons that should be obvious to the casual observer, it's been a tough week. So tough, in fact, that when I got stood up by the students who were supposed to meet me for drinks/pupus and then discovered that the place we were to meet had lost its liquor licence anyway, I took myself to the casino. Although technically I was spending another night alone, at least I was off the streets. Hey, I only lost $14.00. Much better than the old guy sitting next to me who told me that he could have hit the royal flush and still not made up his losses. Ok, I'll tell you the truth. I was down almost $60 before I hit a couple of 4 of a kinds almost in a row. When I realized that I'd recouped all but $14 of my losses, I said to the old guy sitting next to me, "The intelligent girl would get up and walk away right now." Which is exactly what I did. My incredible restraint cheered me right up. God (as you do or do not believe him or her to exist) (or not) bless the Adelaide Central Rail Station (and Casino).

2007-03-31T19:07:00.000-10:00

Thursday, March 29, 2007

1) A food event is an occasion when food is eaten.
2) A structured event is a social occasion organized by rules concerning time, place, and sequence of action.
3) Food eaten as a part of a structured event is a meal.
4) A snack is an unstructured food event without any rules of combination and sequence.

The sociability of eating, the fact that a meal is shared with other people, is often considered as a necessary feature of meal definition.
(Johana Makela)

After lecture, a group of us decided to structure an occasion during which we would eat food. We agreed that at 12 o'clock we would meet at the Adelaide club, order our food, and when it arrived, eat our meal. I got held up at the library, and just as I was seated everyone else remembered other things to do and jumped up and left.

Snack time.

2007-03-26T20:27:00.000-10:00

Monday, March 26, 2007

The Actor's Nightmare

I was fully prepared to go to my first improv rehearsal at 5:30 this evening. I haven't done improv in years, but I watch it often and figure it's a lot like riding a bike, another talent I'd recently re-discovered. I figured this rehearsal would be no problem.

Surprise! It's not a rehearsal! It's a show!

My teammates were as prepared as I was. Phil is a stand-up comedian who was doing the show "just for kicks." Hannah had been randomly chosen from the audience a few nights before to participate in a game, and had done so well they'd invited her to perform. But hey, we figured, how bad can it be? We had no chance of winning - Australia's legendary improv duo "Erik and Derek", otherwise known as "The Canadians" (no they don't know Kim those idiots but I digress) were playing, and they had never lost a game. The other three teams were just along for the ride.

We started with Slide Show, and as my teammates posed for the slides, I told the story of doing competition calisthenics at the parasol collectors convention while on vacation in the Antarctic. Next, we conveyed the story of the divorced dog and cat trapped together on a nuclear sub through Interpretive Dance.

At intermission, we were in the lead.

We started act two with Emotional Roller Coaster. My emotion was sexual frustration and my location was a laundromat. I had it in the bag. Our last game was Papers. My teammates quickly established mother and son cooking in the kitchen, and as I struggled over who would be my lover I drew the line "too many cooks spoil the broth." It was that good. The game ended, the points were tallied, and the winner was......

Erik and Derek. BUT, only by 1 point. We left the other two teams in the dust.

Okay, so, newspaper, radio, stage...

2007-03-24T14:09:00.000-10:00

March 25, 2007

Humoral Medicine of the 14th through 17th centuries and how it impacted the cuisine of the eras including seasoning.

Comedy, yes. Bruce, no.

2007-03-24T14:08:00.000-10:00

March 24, 2007

Oh Fuck Me

I'm putting on too much makeup and going into the city. Maybe I'll find some comedy. Or someone called Bruce.

2007-03-24T14:01:00.000-10:00

March 24, 2007

!@#$%^&*!!

That was without a doubt the worst burger I've had in my life. Adding to my misery, I couldn't help but overhear the two very loud men sitting next to me.

Man #1: "Where's Pete?"
Man #2: "At his fuckin' mums."
Man #1: "Mums?"
Man #2: "Yeah, moved in. Getting divorced."
Man #1: "Divorced? Didn't see that coming."
Man #2: "Yeah. A bloke needs a good wife, not one like her."
Man #1: "Yeah, she was trouble."
Man #2: "Well, it happens. Too bad though. Nice wedding."
Man #1: "Wouldn't know. Wasn't invited."

When a limo pulled up to the pier and the bridal party climbed out to commence their wedding, I lost my appetite altogether.

Humoral medicine of the 14th through 17th centuries and how it impacted the cuisine of the eras including seasoning.

2007-03-23T19:25:00.000-10:00

March 24, 2007

Shit

Screw this paper. I'm going to Larg's Pier Hotel and taking myself out to lunch.

2007-03-23T19:20:00.000-10:00

March 24, 2007

Dammit

The wind was so strong on the beach that it was like being in a sandstorm. It was so bad that they took down the kites from the annual kite festival being held on the next pier down. I'm going to write about humoral medicine of the 14th to 17th centuries and how it impacted the cuisine of the eras including seasoning.

2007-03-23T19:15:00.000-10:00

Saturday, March 24, 2007

And That's That

I got an email this morning informing me that my divorce finally final. A brief correspondence with my ex-husband caused me to re-think my plans to spend the day writing about humoral medicine of the 14th to 17th centuries and how it impacted the cuisine of the eras including seasoning. I'm getting a dog and going to the beach.

2007-03-23T18:46:00.000-10:00

Thursday, March 22, 2007

During a lecture on culinary hybridization, I learned the horrible truth: Chicken Tikka Masala is not really Indian food. It's English. I'm devastated.

2007-03-23T18:16:00.000-10:00

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Bababa...bababarossa

The class took a day trip up the Barossa Valley, home to Jacob's Creek (completely dry and always has been) and numerous other wineries. During a lecture on valley history, we were told up the up-coming Tanunda Town Day, which will feature regional foodstuffs, a parade, barrel racing, and the Vintage Festival Grape Treading Championship.

I'm already signed up.

2007-03-22T16:37:00.001-10:00

Tuesday, March 21, 2007

Domesticated Fire Goddess

“Cooking is one of the distinguishing features of the human species. In almost all societies, domestication of fire is what sets us apart.” (Murcott, 1995).

After lecture my friend Joanne and I hit the Australia Pub for a couple of glasses of wine. We talked about aging, starting over, weight, money, and men. Four hours later I announced that Murcott’s theory was wrong. “Well” Joanne asked me, “what do you think distinguishes us from other animals?”

I think it’s our very unique ability to get the cork out of the bottle.

2007-03-21T20:38:00.000-10:00

Monday, March 19, 2007

I got my work permit. With my student visa I can now work up to 20 hours per week. I've got a contact at the Taste of Australia Food Festival, and I'm going in for the kill...

2007-03-16T22:36:00.000-10:00

Saturday, March 17, 2006

You Should Have What I'm Having

I have just consumed what was undoubtedly the very best fish and chips the good lord (as you do or don't believe him or her to exist) (or not) has deemed to bestow upon me. The dog and I were on the beach, and we passed the Larg's Bay Snack Kiosk, something we Americans would call the snack bar. As I walked by the door, I got a whiff of the best fry smell I've ever whiffed. Cashless and pretending that I'm trying to eat right, I walked right on by and straight home. Once home, however, I couldn't get the smell out of my mind. It haunted me. Still pretending that I was going to make a healthy dinner, I checked out the contents of my fridge. Two minutes later I was on the bike and back at the beach. Under the advisement of the very charming snack shop girl, I ordered a small butterfish and chips dinner with salt. As I peddled home, the aroma taunted me from the dinner box nestled in my bike basket. Home, I threw the fish and chips in a warm oven to hold them while I quickly washed my day off in the shower. Once in my pj's, I put my dinner back in its box and curled up on the couch. I took my first bite. A split second later I moaned with delight as my teeth crunched through the delicate tempura-like batter and encountered fresh, sweet, creamy butterfish that somehow managed to be light, and, well, buttery, at the same time. The finishing salt worked its magic and created a perfect balance of flavors. I then tried the chips. I was not disappointed. They also had the perfect crunch followed by fresh flavor, and tasted like they'd been the beneficiary of virgin oil. My dinner was amazing. I may have to go touch myself.

2007-03-15T14:53:00.001-10:00

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Food and Whine

My class met at Adelaide’s National Wine Centre Museum for a tour and lecture about the wines of Australia. The museum featured, amongst other things, an inner-active computerized wine making game that allowed you to test your skills and knowledge. The game went like this:

1) Pick you grape: Shiraz, Cabernet, Riesling, Chardonnay

Shiraz

2) Pick the Region: Barossa Valley, Coonawara, or Yarra Valley

Barossa Valley

3) Picking Style: By Hand, By Machine by Day, By Machine by Night

By Machine by Day

4) How Will You Hold the Grapes: Chilled, Heated, or Room Temp

Room Temperature

5) To Press or Crush the Grapes: Send them Straight to Fermentation with Skins, Leave the Skins on for a Few Hours, Remove, then Crush, or Press Immediately

Send Straight to Fermentation

6) Add Yeast: To Aid Fermentation and Make Bubble, to Make the Wine Rise, or to Convert the Sugar into Alcohol

To Convert the Sugar into Alcohol

7) Fermentation Temperature: 22-27 Degrees C, or 12-18 Degrees C

22-27 degrees C

8) Fermentation Time: 7-10 Days, or 10-13 Days

7-10 Days

9) For Malolactic Fermentation: Add Bacteria, Add Sulfur, or Neither

Add bacteria

10) Mature Wine In: Stainless Steel, Oak Barrels, or Both

Oak Barrels

11) While Stabilizing You: Add a Rich Color, Remove Unwanted Crystals, or Leave It Alone

Leave It Alone

The computer program then tasted my wine, and delivered the following verdict:

FAULTY! THIS WINE IS APPALLING! YOU HAVE SINGLE HANDEDLY DESTROYED THE REPUTATION OF YOUR COMPANY!

Sigh. I guess I’ll stick with chicken.