I’d like to begin by assuring you all that this post in no way promotes cannibalism. Nor cattibalism, neither. It seems as though, as with my quiche lorraine, a great deal rides on a name. And while an empanada might be perfectly innocent, and while a Cornish pasty might pass with little more than a blush and a raised eyebrow, a meat pie is a horse of a different feather.
I want to hit pause on cooking and eating for just one minute, folks, and take this opportunity to talk about a different kind of onion.
It’s been a while since I’ve used my little soapbox, here, to plug a cause. Ages ago, it feels like, I spent some time talking about Kiva. Almost as long ago, it was Creative Commons. Every now and then, I yank my head up out of the sand and implore you all to support something or another. Because there’s lots of super-easy push-button do-gooderism out there on the Internet that actually — you know — does some good. And because having the ability to drone on endlessly about the minutia of food and politics depends a great deal on a giant pile of privileged positions.
Kheer. Delicious. Cool and creamy on a hot summer’s day, or hardy and fortifying in the winter. Subtly flavored with the warm spiciness of cardamom, with the barest hint of saffron, sometimes with star anise, it’s Indian dessert done just to my taste. Not too sweet. Not too sticky. Just right.
Except this time. This week’s kheer experiment came out … just plain wrong.
There’s something that’s brilliantly, deceptively pedestrian about a quiche Lorraine. We tend to think of it as elegant, perhaps because its name is French, or perhaps because Julia Child famously made one, or perhaps because so many people — so much to my confusion — seem to find shortcrust pastry to be a challenge. But in the immortal words of The Simpsons: would a rose by any other name still smell as sweet?
Not, conclude Bart and Homer, if you called it Stench Blossom. Or Crap Weed.
Culinary comrades, fellow food fanatics who follow this blog, if you have not seen Big Night — Stanley Tucci and Tony Shalhoub’s 1996 ode to a failing Italian restaurant — you simply must. It is delicious.
Big Night is one of my all-time favorite films about food. Along with a precious few others — like Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence, of all things — it landed at a malleable moment in my life, at a time when my interests could have gone in a lot of different directions, and it nudged me toward the kitchen. Primo, Shalhoub’s talented, unbending, self-righteous portrait of a brilliant chef, is exactly the kind of character I found fascinating in my teenage years. And the food — oh, the food.
Fresh baked bread: hot, straight from the oven, crust crackling as it cools on its wire rack in the chill air of winter. You wait, mouth watering. And then — like some Maenad with a sacrificial goat — you tear it apart with your bare hands and share it out, letting its steaming insides warm you all over.
Romantic? Yes. Gruesome? A bit. Rife with all manner of problems? Most definitely.
Real saag! exclaimed my friend Allia, smiling as I put the dish on the table. Most restaurants say saag paneer, but what they mean is palak. Spinach. Saag is always mustard greens.
Allia would know. Not only is her family from India, but they are avid cooks. Her aunt alone, I am informed, is responsible for untold gustatory delights. She is the sort of person who converts food haters into food enthusiasts, the sort who teaches classes on the delicate art of Indian cuisine — and sets her own price for her time.
It’s been a while, it seems to me, since I’ve offered you all a quick and easy weeknight meal. I recall that there was a period in there where I did a pasta with greens and a fried rice, and told you, with some conviction, that this is really the essence of what it means […]
Shame on you Daily Kos. And shame on you Kaili Joy Gray. I never thought in a million years that I’d be in a position where I felt the need to defend Jim Daly of Focus On the Family, but here we are. Daly has stuck his neck out — distanced himself (even if it […]
I’m sick. I’d wager that you’re sick, too. Or that if you’re not, you’re getting there. If the sensationalist media is to be believed, the whole United States is in the midst of a pestilential deluge — a microbial tsunami sweeping all the dry noses, and all the unsore throats, away and out to sea. […]