I had forgotten about the orchard. C and I had spent a wonderful day there a few years ago, wandering through the trees and gorging ourselves on apples. And because I had forgotten, it wasn’t that orchard- the one near where I currently live- that first came to mind when I was asked out of the blue if I thought going to an apple orchard would be dumb. I instead thought of the orchard we used to go to when I was a kid, which I honestly don’t recall a whole lot about.
When I did remember about the one nearby, I looked it up and discovered it was the thick of apple-picking season (which I suppose would be obvious to most). This worked out perfect as I had spent the day with nothing to do, wondering what to do the next day, when I also had nothing to do.
The next morning I drove the few miles to the orchard, parked the car, put on sunscreen and started walking. The day turned out to be much hotter than it had been for the past couple of weeks, and it turns out that apple orchards do not provide much shade. Also, I had left my water in the car. Nevertheless, I enjoyed sampling from the apples the helpful signs at the end rows said were in season and filling a bag with Jonathans.
The next part of the process was to stand in line for a half-hour waiting to pay for my pickings. It was here that my stomach cramped up and I endured it until eventually I was fortunate the bathroom was vacant. I was also fortunate I quickly found someone who accepted my explanation that I had already been waiting in line but the people I was in line with had already checked out. I added a quart of apple cider and a plastic cup of “apple cider slushie” to my purchase, sat down at a picnic table in the shade overlooking the orchard and slowly drank the slushie.
I then drove to the grocery store for ingredients to bake a pie, which seemed the only logical thing to do with all the apples. After that came research into how to bake a pie, which I had never done before, and can only scratch my head as to why I didn’t do that before going to the store, which I had to go back to for vegetable shortening… and a third time when I discovered I didn’t have enough flour. I finally got the dough mixed and into the fridge to do whatever it does in the fridge for two hours.
The recipe called for three pounds of apples. My bag had been weighed at the orchard, but they only wrote $10.25 on it. So I grabbed my food scale from the disc golf supply shelf in my outdoor storage closet only to discover the batteries were dead and I didn’t have another 9 volt. (I looked in the smoke detector and it was hard-wired with no battery backup?!) I was not going back to the store! So I Googled it. I spent the remainder of the time the dough needed to cool peeling and slicing a dozen apples on the back deck while drinking hot apple cider. I would not make anything with apples again without purchasing an apple corer.
By the time I got the lattice-top crust put together and into the oven, it was 9:30pm. My range had recently been replaced, as the broiler element had gone out on the previous one (I would have simply replaced the part had it been up to me), and this was the first time I had used this oven. I had always set the previous oven 25 degrees hotter than what the recipe called for, but I assumed this new digital one knew what it was doing. I was wrong. Also, I discovered the hard way that the oven shut itself off when the timer ended. The pie was done by 11. The recipe said I could leave it to cool on the oven rack for 8 hours so I did. I took it to work the next morning and had a piece for breakfast. It was delicious; the crust especially was perfection.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Being (an Introverted) Vegetarian
A couple weeks ago an employee meeting was held at my job, and fried chicken, mashed potatoes and turkey gravy and dinner rolls were served. After getting my food, I spied an empty table in the back corner of the room and headed that way, using my arm to partially shield my plate. Somehow, I managed to eat my mashed potatoes and roll with butter without anyone noticing that I am a vegetarian, which I am aware of because this conversation didn’t happen:
“Didn’t you get any fried chicken?”
“Why didn’t you get any gravy?”
“How long have you been a vegetarian?”
“I could never be a vegetarian because I like eating meat too much!”
“Are you okay with me eating the chicken?”
“You eat butter, though?”
“But butter is an animal product, isn’t it?”
“Do you eat fish?”
“Do you eat a lot of salad?”
“Can you eat French fries?”
“I’m practically a vegetarian myself.”
None of these questions/comments are that big of a deal in and of themselves, but it is kind of annoying to be quizzed on your food choices while you’re simply trying to eat. The truly obnoxious part comes later, when the person you had that conversation with makes a huge announcement and spectacle about you being a vegetarian anytime food is discussed or present. Being singled out as an anomaly that must be dealt with is both embarrassing and unnecessary. Suddenly, my eating habits create a huge amount of confusion over what everyone can eat, and others act as if I am incapable of avoiding meat unless none is present. Somehow, even though I have not asked anybody else about their eating habits, they are made to feel that I am judging them.
It would perhaps be helpful to consider if this were actually true and every time I sat down with someone eating meat, I spent the meal asking questions about their meat-eating habits. Of course, I would never do such a thing because it would be disrespectful and inappropriate. This would be the case even if I was “just curious” and didn’t know why they’d get so defensive. It’s simply impossible for a vegetarian to non-judgmentally learn about a meat-eater’s eating choices; the act of questioning a meat-eater about eating meat cannot be perceived as anything but hostile. The difference is that it’s relatively difficult to feign curiosity about eating meat.
Probably my eating habits are inviting as a conversation starter simply because they attract attention. Being a vegetarian in Iowa is unique. In this case, asking about it is simply rude. These are the type of adults who start a conversation with someone with a physical disability by saying, “So, do you have cerebral palsy?” It’s never a good idea to immediately acknowledge something that another wishes you would look beyond, so that’s only an excusable gaffe for children.
The easiest way for me to enter another’s shoes is to imagine eating with a gluten-free dieter. I only learned what gluten was about a year ago, and my default position was to assume the whole thing was a nonsense fad. I egocentrically project that incredulousness onto those questioning vegetarianism, which I am aware may not be fair. Oftentimes others are legitimately curious and confused about vegetarianism. The level of ignorance regarding what people consume is truly frightening, and honestly, the surest way of maintaining that ignorance is by never asking questions.
An advantage of writing things out is that it forces us to logically construct a cohesive rationale. This is both more difficult and flaw-revealing than rapid-fire queries around a dinner table. Sometimes, writing our thoughts forces us to encounter the short-comings in our assumptions. I’ll readily admit oftentimes when this happens whatever I was writing is sent to the “unpublished drafts” file and is never heard from again. However, an essay, as any conversation, should be something deeper than a demonstration of one’s competence or defense of one’s beliefs.
One personality type I have a very difficult time keeping up with is extroversion. Unlike extroverts, I am neither skillful at nor appreciative of mindless chatter. I don’t enjoy saying the first thing that comes to mind and attempting to come to agreement with everything another says. I instead take everything as literal, and dissect, analyze and critique it with prejudice. It does not occur to me that some people simply prefer to fill silence with yapping gums even while they are eating.
Another personality that utterly confounds me is that of people-pleasers. These types insist upon saying what they guess another wants to hear. They absolutely refuse to reveal their own perspective or opinion directly, but will usually not hesitate to spread gossip behind your back. These people seem to enjoy the skill of trying to guess what others are thinking, which I am horrible at. Once these people have convinced themselves of something, it is very difficult to change their mind. This is because the possibility that someone could be telling them what they literally mean doesn’t occur to them. They instead attempt to fulfill the Golden Rule by doing for others what they assume the other wants done.
Maybe others are simply attempting to engage in a conversation about a subject that apparently interests me in order to get to know me better. Maybe they want to explore an unfamiliar topic or learn. Maybe they are generously trying to be helpful. In other words, my complaint that is the thesis of this blog is probably an over-reaction. My annoyance probably has less to do with the topic or the intent of the other than with my personal perspective regarding small talk in general. I am, at my core, a private person. I don’t appreciate others meddling in my affairs. I have seldom been accused of being friendly. But since I can’t expect the world to just shut the hell up and let me eat my food, I should do a better job of accommodating it. Why not just answer the questions in an honest and friendly manner?
“No.”
“I’m a vegetarian, and it is made with chicken.”
“13 years.”
“That is precisely why I eat seafood on rare occasions.”
“Of couse.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not vegan, but I agree mass market cow milking practices should not be supported. I became a vegetarian because I don’t like the idea of killing, but have stayed one because of the horrible conditions under which many animals destined to become food are raised. Life consists of choosing your battles.”
“High-quality sushi is my favorite food. I used to eat it about twice a year, but less now as it is rare in Iowa. That’s a pun, by the way.”
“Not really. I eat a variety of different dishes from all over the world. I enjoy discovering foods and learning how to cook.”
“Yes.”
“My rule of thumb is to not support anything being done that I’d be unwilling to do myself, but I do appreciate those who are willing to do things that must be done.”
I immediately worry about the adequacy of these answers, but that is a problem I run into while answering virtually any question. Some of these answers would likely act as quality conversation starters. In the end, this entire essay acts as an example of how we often look upon others with scorn for what is, in the end, our own egocentric short-comings and hang-ups that we loathe taking responsibility for.
“Didn’t you get any fried chicken?”
“Why didn’t you get any gravy?”
“How long have you been a vegetarian?”
“I could never be a vegetarian because I like eating meat too much!”
“Are you okay with me eating the chicken?”
“You eat butter, though?”
“But butter is an animal product, isn’t it?”
“Do you eat fish?”
“Do you eat a lot of salad?”
“Can you eat French fries?”
“I’m practically a vegetarian myself.”
None of these questions/comments are that big of a deal in and of themselves, but it is kind of annoying to be quizzed on your food choices while you’re simply trying to eat. The truly obnoxious part comes later, when the person you had that conversation with makes a huge announcement and spectacle about you being a vegetarian anytime food is discussed or present. Being singled out as an anomaly that must be dealt with is both embarrassing and unnecessary. Suddenly, my eating habits create a huge amount of confusion over what everyone can eat, and others act as if I am incapable of avoiding meat unless none is present. Somehow, even though I have not asked anybody else about their eating habits, they are made to feel that I am judging them.
It would perhaps be helpful to consider if this were actually true and every time I sat down with someone eating meat, I spent the meal asking questions about their meat-eating habits. Of course, I would never do such a thing because it would be disrespectful and inappropriate. This would be the case even if I was “just curious” and didn’t know why they’d get so defensive. It’s simply impossible for a vegetarian to non-judgmentally learn about a meat-eater’s eating choices; the act of questioning a meat-eater about eating meat cannot be perceived as anything but hostile. The difference is that it’s relatively difficult to feign curiosity about eating meat.
Probably my eating habits are inviting as a conversation starter simply because they attract attention. Being a vegetarian in Iowa is unique. In this case, asking about it is simply rude. These are the type of adults who start a conversation with someone with a physical disability by saying, “So, do you have cerebral palsy?” It’s never a good idea to immediately acknowledge something that another wishes you would look beyond, so that’s only an excusable gaffe for children.
The easiest way for me to enter another’s shoes is to imagine eating with a gluten-free dieter. I only learned what gluten was about a year ago, and my default position was to assume the whole thing was a nonsense fad. I egocentrically project that incredulousness onto those questioning vegetarianism, which I am aware may not be fair. Oftentimes others are legitimately curious and confused about vegetarianism. The level of ignorance regarding what people consume is truly frightening, and honestly, the surest way of maintaining that ignorance is by never asking questions.
An advantage of writing things out is that it forces us to logically construct a cohesive rationale. This is both more difficult and flaw-revealing than rapid-fire queries around a dinner table. Sometimes, writing our thoughts forces us to encounter the short-comings in our assumptions. I’ll readily admit oftentimes when this happens whatever I was writing is sent to the “unpublished drafts” file and is never heard from again. However, an essay, as any conversation, should be something deeper than a demonstration of one’s competence or defense of one’s beliefs.
One personality type I have a very difficult time keeping up with is extroversion. Unlike extroverts, I am neither skillful at nor appreciative of mindless chatter. I don’t enjoy saying the first thing that comes to mind and attempting to come to agreement with everything another says. I instead take everything as literal, and dissect, analyze and critique it with prejudice. It does not occur to me that some people simply prefer to fill silence with yapping gums even while they are eating.
Another personality that utterly confounds me is that of people-pleasers. These types insist upon saying what they guess another wants to hear. They absolutely refuse to reveal their own perspective or opinion directly, but will usually not hesitate to spread gossip behind your back. These people seem to enjoy the skill of trying to guess what others are thinking, which I am horrible at. Once these people have convinced themselves of something, it is very difficult to change their mind. This is because the possibility that someone could be telling them what they literally mean doesn’t occur to them. They instead attempt to fulfill the Golden Rule by doing for others what they assume the other wants done.
Maybe others are simply attempting to engage in a conversation about a subject that apparently interests me in order to get to know me better. Maybe they want to explore an unfamiliar topic or learn. Maybe they are generously trying to be helpful. In other words, my complaint that is the thesis of this blog is probably an over-reaction. My annoyance probably has less to do with the topic or the intent of the other than with my personal perspective regarding small talk in general. I am, at my core, a private person. I don’t appreciate others meddling in my affairs. I have seldom been accused of being friendly. But since I can’t expect the world to just shut the hell up and let me eat my food, I should do a better job of accommodating it. Why not just answer the questions in an honest and friendly manner?
“No.”
“I’m a vegetarian, and it is made with chicken.”
“13 years.”
“That is precisely why I eat seafood on rare occasions.”
“Of couse.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not vegan, but I agree mass market cow milking practices should not be supported. I became a vegetarian because I don’t like the idea of killing, but have stayed one because of the horrible conditions under which many animals destined to become food are raised. Life consists of choosing your battles.”
“High-quality sushi is my favorite food. I used to eat it about twice a year, but less now as it is rare in Iowa. That’s a pun, by the way.”
“Not really. I eat a variety of different dishes from all over the world. I enjoy discovering foods and learning how to cook.”
“Yes.”
“My rule of thumb is to not support anything being done that I’d be unwilling to do myself, but I do appreciate those who are willing to do things that must be done.”
I immediately worry about the adequacy of these answers, but that is a problem I run into while answering virtually any question. Some of these answers would likely act as quality conversation starters. In the end, this entire essay acts as an example of how we often look upon others with scorn for what is, in the end, our own egocentric short-comings and hang-ups that we loathe taking responsibility for.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friends of Friends
I’ve known Stefanie for a long time, but aside from Adam and Cara, had never met her friends until about a month ago, when I happened to be in Seattle on her birthday. She organized a brunch at a modern styled restaurant with good food and bad service. I sat across from Stefanie, between my friend Molly (who didn’t know anybody else, including Stefanie) and a wittily-dressed girl accompanied by her recent boyfriend. Somehow, I quickly found myself in a conversation with the boyfriend about breasts, which encouraged the girl between us to start stretching her back and attempting to touch her elbows together behind her.
Eventually I looked to see what the rest of the table was doing and noticed an emaciated person with wan skin had appeared next to Molly. “Oh, there’s new people here,” I observed aloud. “Are you discussing anything more interesting than breasts?”
“We’re all about nutrition here,” Molly dryly replied.
“Oh god, I’m glad I missed it then,” was my snarky response. I didn’t find out until later the sickly-looking girl was in fact one of two people at the meal employed as nutritionists. In retrospect, I probably immediately soured our interaction. The nutrition lovers were fondling sugar packets. I suspect this is a normal activity for them.
“These have little messages on them!” someone sang gleefully, and read an inspirational cliché from one.
“The last thing I want to be getting advice from is a sugar packet.” To me, this is funny. For others, apparently not so much. I started to get a bit self-conscious.
The girl next to Molly tried to strike up a conversation with me. “Where are you from?” This is one of those questions I can’t stand, because I truly don’t know how to answer it. I have lived in cities, towns and rural country scattered throughout multiple states.
I replied, “I’m currently staying in Iowa with my brother,” and then internally mulled my obvious overstatement, as I actually hadn’t been in Iowa for several months and certainly wasn’t “currently” there.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. I took her for someone who unintentionally comes across as hostile. To contrast, I decided to poke fun at my previous statement.
“I’m not here; I’m a hologram.”
“What do you mean by that?” she continued, unblinkingly. I noticed she had some kind of faint foreign accent and guessed she didn’t know what a hologram was.
“I’m working on a new technology, whereby I can eat breakfast at my brother’s place while appearing to be doing so here by projecting an image out from this restaurant’s security camera.” I proceeded, looking up in hopes that there was a security camera nearby.
Her eyes traced mine to the ceiling. “I don’t understand.”
Wow. This girl is stoic. I felt the whole table staring at me and buckled under the attention. “I’m joking.”
“I don’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor,” she hastily replied, scoldingly. I couldn’t quite read whether she was irritated, offended or simply unamused. I slumped back in my chair and ate my Eggs Florentine, which were delicious. Ms. Stick-In-the-Mud ordered something in the Eggs Benedict family as well. Soon after receiving them, she asked me, “Is your yolk runny like this?”
One of my greatest irritants is being served poached eggs with hard yolks. I send them back. “Yes. Poached eggs are supposed to be runny.”
But this runny?” I looked, and she had removed the albumen, leaving the yolk naked but unbroken. Maybe she was thinking of eggs-over-medium or medium-boiled eggs? I have no idea.
“Yes.”
“I think they make them better at Such-And-Such.” I didn’t reply that, since she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, her opinion didn’t matter. I just thought it.
While poking at her food, her imminent trip to Holland was briefly acknowledged. Her husband’s job was taking her there. I believe this is how the conversation turned to dairy. Somebody, probably one of the nutritionists, started talking about deep-fried butter, which immediately reminded me of the Iowa State Fair. One major attraction at that godforsaken festival is a life-sized cow carved entirely out of butter. According to fair goers, this Butter Cow is world famous. Turns out, nobody has ever heard of it… which is why I spent about the next ten minutes explaining why a joke involving deep-fried butter balls and a butter cow is funny. But I digress.
Stefanie is very fond of cupcakes. I don’t have a problem with cupcakes aside from the fact that they are disgusting and girlish. The only thing cupcakes are good for are throwing at things. When the topic came up, I said that last bit aloud, just to be ornery. I have never lived as if life were a popularity contest.
It is very comfortable to surround one self with familiar faces. I was glad Molly was there to witness my current uneasiness in this group of strangers. While others seek out those who will reinforce their beliefs and opinions, I cherish those who will let me be skeptical, challenging and outspokenly honest without worrying that my effrontery will be misconstrued as a personal affront. I avoid those who insist upon polite conversation, as I don’t see the point of it. This often leads to a situation I think of as the friends-of-friends effect. I know Stefanie well enough to know she fully expects me to say something disparaging about whatever topic might surface, and surely won’t be affected by it. The other people at the table, however, are inevitably going to perceive me as being a jerk to their cupcake-loving friend.
Putting myself in their shoes, I am reminded of an evening spent around a friend’s backyard campfire shared with Rachel, over a year after we’d broken up, and two of her friends whom I’d never met before. The three of them had spent the day rock-climbing up the side of some mountain cliff. One of the guys couldn’t stop chiding Rachel for giving up halfway. Because I knew Rachel was severely afraid of heights and wouldn’t have even thought of attempting such a thing while we were dating, this guy really pissed me off. The two of us bickered well into the evening. Finally, instead of finding late-night food at nearby Javier’s, they stupidly decided to trek all the way to that trendy jambalaya restaurant under the Morrison Bridge while I fell asleep on the couch.
There is something enduringly fascinating about the perspective that each of us has on each other. We know our friends in a specific context, which is probably radically different from how their other friends know them. Our modern over-connectedness seems to be trying its best to eliminate this, however, giving us a multitude of ways to keep in contact with others without having to interact with them on any kind of personal or unique level. Cyberspace encourages us to connect with as many people at the same time as possible, which nudges us toward a neutral, sterile, democratic existence. I overtly fight this tendency, and can only imagine what skewed image those who only know me through my blog posts or Facebook rants must have of me. Even so, I’m still even more flagrant in person….
With the yolk still somehow intact, Molly’s anemic neighbor asked for a to-go box. A waiter said he would be glad to box her food and reached for the plate. Recoiling, she declared she would do it herself. I thought this was motivated by her desire to not include the yolk, but was surprised when she scooped it into the container. Only later did I realize she might have been saving it out of scientific curiosity. I myself wonder how long that thing can survive without breaking.
When Stefanie’s birthday brunch bill arrived, the girl sitting next to me suggested we just subtract the $60 groupon on the birthday girl’s phone and split the remainder evenly between the invitees. Because of the size of the group, a tip had already been included on the bill. Using my phone as a calculator, I determined that utilizing the suggestion came to just shy of $12 apiece, and suggested that we could all just pitch in $12. Everybody seemed fine with that, and I contributed $24 to cover myself and Molly, who had only ordered a pancake, since she’d already met up with an acquaintance for a slightly earlier breakfast while I had played a round of disc golf. But after everybody else had paid, the uptight nutritionist gathered it up, pulled out her Blackberry, and fussed over the money for several minutes. Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought to myself and awaited the inevitable.
“There's like over two dollars too much here!”
“We were kind of a pain of a group, anyway, since more of us kept arriving at different times. I don’t see any problem with slightly padding the tip.”
“I think we should all take back fifty cents.”
The girl next to me piped up. “I mean the service wasn’t that great, but, Jesus, who cares!” Finally, somebody other than me was getting annoyed with this chick.
“Thank you!” I sighed, throwing up my hands and rolling my eyes as loudly as possible.
“I’m only going to pay $11.50.” I couldn’t determine whether the others didn’t hear or we all just chose to ignore her. Maybe I was just hearing things. It was time to go.
“We should find some time to get together before you travel to Europe,” the girl next to me offered to you-know-who, presumably trying to regain the peace after her outburst.
“Well, if you want to figure out the details, I’ll see if I can accommodate,” she snottily replied. Then she made an expression, as if it occurred to her she was being a bitch and regretted it. “I’m over my head with things to do before I leave.”
I don’t know anything about this person. Perhaps she was under a lot of stress. But the mystery that nags me most is- how the hell is she married?
Eventually I looked to see what the rest of the table was doing and noticed an emaciated person with wan skin had appeared next to Molly. “Oh, there’s new people here,” I observed aloud. “Are you discussing anything more interesting than breasts?”
“We’re all about nutrition here,” Molly dryly replied.
“Oh god, I’m glad I missed it then,” was my snarky response. I didn’t find out until later the sickly-looking girl was in fact one of two people at the meal employed as nutritionists. In retrospect, I probably immediately soured our interaction. The nutrition lovers were fondling sugar packets. I suspect this is a normal activity for them.
“These have little messages on them!” someone sang gleefully, and read an inspirational cliché from one.
“The last thing I want to be getting advice from is a sugar packet.” To me, this is funny. For others, apparently not so much. I started to get a bit self-conscious.
The girl next to Molly tried to strike up a conversation with me. “Where are you from?” This is one of those questions I can’t stand, because I truly don’t know how to answer it. I have lived in cities, towns and rural country scattered throughout multiple states.
I replied, “I’m currently staying in Iowa with my brother,” and then internally mulled my obvious overstatement, as I actually hadn’t been in Iowa for several months and certainly wasn’t “currently” there.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. I took her for someone who unintentionally comes across as hostile. To contrast, I decided to poke fun at my previous statement.
“I’m not here; I’m a hologram.”
“What do you mean by that?” she continued, unblinkingly. I noticed she had some kind of faint foreign accent and guessed she didn’t know what a hologram was.
“I’m working on a new technology, whereby I can eat breakfast at my brother’s place while appearing to be doing so here by projecting an image out from this restaurant’s security camera.” I proceeded, looking up in hopes that there was a security camera nearby.
Her eyes traced mine to the ceiling. “I don’t understand.”
Wow. This girl is stoic. I felt the whole table staring at me and buckled under the attention. “I’m joking.”
“I don’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor,” she hastily replied, scoldingly. I couldn’t quite read whether she was irritated, offended or simply unamused. I slumped back in my chair and ate my Eggs Florentine, which were delicious. Ms. Stick-In-the-Mud ordered something in the Eggs Benedict family as well. Soon after receiving them, she asked me, “Is your yolk runny like this?”
One of my greatest irritants is being served poached eggs with hard yolks. I send them back. “Yes. Poached eggs are supposed to be runny.”
But this runny?” I looked, and she had removed the albumen, leaving the yolk naked but unbroken. Maybe she was thinking of eggs-over-medium or medium-boiled eggs? I have no idea.
“Yes.”
“I think they make them better at Such-And-Such.” I didn’t reply that, since she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, her opinion didn’t matter. I just thought it.
While poking at her food, her imminent trip to Holland was briefly acknowledged. Her husband’s job was taking her there. I believe this is how the conversation turned to dairy. Somebody, probably one of the nutritionists, started talking about deep-fried butter, which immediately reminded me of the Iowa State Fair. One major attraction at that godforsaken festival is a life-sized cow carved entirely out of butter. According to fair goers, this Butter Cow is world famous. Turns out, nobody has ever heard of it… which is why I spent about the next ten minutes explaining why a joke involving deep-fried butter balls and a butter cow is funny. But I digress.
Stefanie is very fond of cupcakes. I don’t have a problem with cupcakes aside from the fact that they are disgusting and girlish. The only thing cupcakes are good for are throwing at things. When the topic came up, I said that last bit aloud, just to be ornery. I have never lived as if life were a popularity contest.
It is very comfortable to surround one self with familiar faces. I was glad Molly was there to witness my current uneasiness in this group of strangers. While others seek out those who will reinforce their beliefs and opinions, I cherish those who will let me be skeptical, challenging and outspokenly honest without worrying that my effrontery will be misconstrued as a personal affront. I avoid those who insist upon polite conversation, as I don’t see the point of it. This often leads to a situation I think of as the friends-of-friends effect. I know Stefanie well enough to know she fully expects me to say something disparaging about whatever topic might surface, and surely won’t be affected by it. The other people at the table, however, are inevitably going to perceive me as being a jerk to their cupcake-loving friend.
Putting myself in their shoes, I am reminded of an evening spent around a friend’s backyard campfire shared with Rachel, over a year after we’d broken up, and two of her friends whom I’d never met before. The three of them had spent the day rock-climbing up the side of some mountain cliff. One of the guys couldn’t stop chiding Rachel for giving up halfway. Because I knew Rachel was severely afraid of heights and wouldn’t have even thought of attempting such a thing while we were dating, this guy really pissed me off. The two of us bickered well into the evening. Finally, instead of finding late-night food at nearby Javier’s, they stupidly decided to trek all the way to that trendy jambalaya restaurant under the Morrison Bridge while I fell asleep on the couch.
There is something enduringly fascinating about the perspective that each of us has on each other. We know our friends in a specific context, which is probably radically different from how their other friends know them. Our modern over-connectedness seems to be trying its best to eliminate this, however, giving us a multitude of ways to keep in contact with others without having to interact with them on any kind of personal or unique level. Cyberspace encourages us to connect with as many people at the same time as possible, which nudges us toward a neutral, sterile, democratic existence. I overtly fight this tendency, and can only imagine what skewed image those who only know me through my blog posts or Facebook rants must have of me. Even so, I’m still even more flagrant in person….
With the yolk still somehow intact, Molly’s anemic neighbor asked for a to-go box. A waiter said he would be glad to box her food and reached for the plate. Recoiling, she declared she would do it herself. I thought this was motivated by her desire to not include the yolk, but was surprised when she scooped it into the container. Only later did I realize she might have been saving it out of scientific curiosity. I myself wonder how long that thing can survive without breaking.
When Stefanie’s birthday brunch bill arrived, the girl sitting next to me suggested we just subtract the $60 groupon on the birthday girl’s phone and split the remainder evenly between the invitees. Because of the size of the group, a tip had already been included on the bill. Using my phone as a calculator, I determined that utilizing the suggestion came to just shy of $12 apiece, and suggested that we could all just pitch in $12. Everybody seemed fine with that, and I contributed $24 to cover myself and Molly, who had only ordered a pancake, since she’d already met up with an acquaintance for a slightly earlier breakfast while I had played a round of disc golf. But after everybody else had paid, the uptight nutritionist gathered it up, pulled out her Blackberry, and fussed over the money for several minutes. Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought to myself and awaited the inevitable.
“There's like over two dollars too much here!”
“We were kind of a pain of a group, anyway, since more of us kept arriving at different times. I don’t see any problem with slightly padding the tip.”
“I think we should all take back fifty cents.”
The girl next to me piped up. “I mean the service wasn’t that great, but, Jesus, who cares!” Finally, somebody other than me was getting annoyed with this chick.
“Thank you!” I sighed, throwing up my hands and rolling my eyes as loudly as possible.
“I’m only going to pay $11.50.” I couldn’t determine whether the others didn’t hear or we all just chose to ignore her. Maybe I was just hearing things. It was time to go.
“We should find some time to get together before you travel to Europe,” the girl next to me offered to you-know-who, presumably trying to regain the peace after her outburst.
“Well, if you want to figure out the details, I’ll see if I can accommodate,” she snottily replied. Then she made an expression, as if it occurred to her she was being a bitch and regretted it. “I’m over my head with things to do before I leave.”
I don’t know anything about this person. Perhaps she was under a lot of stress. But the mystery that nags me most is- how the hell is she married?
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Breakfast
Obviously the most important part of breakfast is coffee. I’m partial to espresso, which can be made easily enough in a portable stovetop macchinetta, or moka pot, usually referred to after the most popular brand as a Bialetti. I have three of them. The one thing to know about them is if you overfill the filter with grounds, it will turn out bitter. No, it’s not supposed to be bitter! The other thing to remember is, “boiled coffee is spoiled coffee.”
Coffee labeled as “espresso roast” is basically a marketing tool aimed at stupid people. It just means a dark roast of coffee, in the same sense that espresso brown is a dark brown. There’s no such thing as an espresso bean. Espresso is simply a method of making strong coffee by forcing steam through finely ground coffee beans. Further, dark roast basically means burnt. I prefer medium roast for all my coffee, including espresso.
I went for many years without a coffee grinder. In Portland, I got used to grinding it in the store, but when I left, I found that states in the south and Midwest set their in-store grinders so that even the espresso setting is too coarse of a grind, unless you like weak coffee. I just have the normal old cylindrical-shaped grinder, which works great as long as it’s held and shaken while using. Ground coffee loses its flavor after about a week.
Bottled orange juice has that same bitterness that overripe oranges have. I don’t know how anybody drinks it. If you want orange juice, it is so much better to get oranges and squeeze them instead. Lately, however, I’ve been drinking a fair amount of Spicy V8.
One endearing memory as a kid was being able to pick a grapefruit off the tree in my grandpa’s backyard, cut it up with this bent-tipped, serrated knife and spooning it out. Some people poured sugar on top, but I’ve always preferred things on the sour, tangy side. Grapefruit is as under-rated as a breakfast food as it is over-rated as a cocktail ingredient. It certainly beats the shorts off of all those suger-laden cereals out there. Growing up, my favorite cereal was microwaved Grape-Nuts. I must have been one weird kid. That stuff is disgusting. Today, my favorite breakfast includes bread and runny eggs.
Some people don’t like runny yolks. I can empathize; it is kind of a weird taste. One prop for yolks is that it’s the best source of vitamin D besides the sun. If you insist on scrambling them, you need to beat them with a splash of milk or cream to make them nice and fluffy. I don’t drink milk, but I sometimes purchase heavy cream, and it seems to work better than milk for anything I’d be using it for.
Make sure when purchasing eggs, they are AA Grade (so the yolks are firm) and cage-free (so you can retain some grasp on humanity).
I’ve always been a big fan off Eggs Florentine. It’s like Eggs Benedict except uses spinach instead of bacon. My all-time favorite place to get this was a little breakfast joint near the Berkeley/San Pablo border in the East Bay. The problem with this as a staple for breakfast, besides the fact that it’s pretty rich, is that Hollandaise sauce is a pain to make.
Poached eggs, the other main ingredient in the dish, are NOT difficult, and yet I’ve been so frustrated by them being ruined at restaurant after restaurant that I now kindly inform the server beforehand that if the yolks aren’t runny I will be returning them. Blame it on The Last Detail (1973). Here’s how to poach an egg: fill a saucepan with about 3-4 inches of water, a pinch of salt and a healthy splash of white wine vinegar. Bring to boil and then reduce to just under and keep it there. Don’t break the egg directly into the water. Instead, drop it into a little bowl, glass or coffee mug first (I'll admit, I use an old-fashioned glass). That way, when you add it to the water, instead of a stringy mess all over the place, the albumen will be surrounding the yolk. While cooking, some white frothy-looking stuff might float to the top. If there’s too much, that probably means you didn’t add enough vinegar, but you’ll want to scoop it out before it encourages the water to return to a hard boil. There should be some bubbling and movement going on in the pan. If you’re eggs are just sunk to the bottom of it, turn up the heat! After 3 minutes, the egg will be ready to retrieve with a slotted spoon. Remove excess water before plating. I usually cook two at a time.
The dish I more often make with poached eggs is Huevos Rancheros. Warm a corn tortilla to place under the poached egg, cover the egg with cheddar cheese if you want and top with a sauté of onion, jalapeno, tomato, cilantro (unless you have that genetic trait that makes it taste like soap) and seasonings; in other words, pretty much the same as pico de gallo but not raw. Add avocado slices on top.
Sometimes I’m too lazy for any sautéing. In that case, I’ll just throw some Chulula on the egg. My explanation to restaurant servers who don’t know is that it’s like Tabasco only way better. Tabasco as is far too vinegary. I’ll also settle for Tapatio or Tamazula. If I’m in Portland, I’ll likely use Secret Aardvark sauce instead. I’m not picky. Paprika is also tasty on poached eggs.
Rachel and I went on a breakfast date every Saturday morning for the two years we dated. This experience taught me that there are few to no good breakfast joints in Portland. We returned most to Paradox Café, across from the Tao of Tea (highly recommended) on Belmont.
My favorite breakfast during that time, however, was enjoyed at what I assume, by the fact that they were using writing that looked like what I’ve seen in Ingmar Bergman movies, was a Swedish place. It existed for a very brief time circa 2006 on Clinton St., on that block near 16th where that row of shops are, but it had already closed by the time I tried to visit a second time. Portland sucks like that.
At that restaurant, I ordered something I’d never had before- a soft boiled egg. I did understand the premise, however, which was more than could be said of the table next to us that ordered the same thing then complained that the yolk was runny.
There’s not much difference between a soft-boiled egg and a poached egg, except you can eat the soft-boiled egg right out of the shell. Here’s how it’s done: bring 3-4 inches of water to a boil, then reduce the same as when making a poached egg. Gently place the entire egg into the water with a slotted spoon and set a timer for 5 minutes. If the egg floats, that means it is rotten; throw it out and try again. While in the water, there should be some bubbles coming to the surface from under the egg. Every stove is a little different, so there’s a learning curve of where the dial should be whenever using an unfamiliar one. A smaller egg will cook faster than a bigger one, but between 4 ½ and 5 minutes is the typical time it takes to get the white hard while keeping the yolk runny. Scoop the egg out of the water, set it in a wide-rimmed shot glass (or egg cup if you have one), cross your fingers and slice the top off with a butter knife.
At that restaurant, the soft-boiled egg was served with bread slices, a cheese similar to fontina and a soft block that I didn’t immediately realize wasn’t a soft cheese but butter. Butter is delicious! Especially when it’s room temperature. I use a lot of butter, and have seldom had a problem with a stick of butter in a butter dish on a counter going bad. If it does go bad, it turns dark yellow and slimy. I tend to want things in their most unadulterated form, so that it gives me the most flexibility and control over preparation. For that reason, I prefer unsalted butter. I already own both fine and coarse varieties of sea salt, so I can add it if desired. (Following the same logic, I also insist on peanut butter without added sugar and unflavored tortilla chips.)
I also prefer well-buttered bread to toast, unless I’m for some reason forced to eat that unnaturally square-shaped mushy stuff. It saddens me to see anybody shopping in the mushy bread aisle of a grocery store. Either find a decent bakery or learn how to make bread. My breads of choice are rye and pumpernickel with the occasional sourdough.
Some morning, while eating my poached egg with buttered bread and salted avocado slices on the side, I should take a picture. But there's not much time to waste before piling the egg and avocado on the bread and consuming it- cold soft-boiled eggs are disgusting.
Coffee labeled as “espresso roast” is basically a marketing tool aimed at stupid people. It just means a dark roast of coffee, in the same sense that espresso brown is a dark brown. There’s no such thing as an espresso bean. Espresso is simply a method of making strong coffee by forcing steam through finely ground coffee beans. Further, dark roast basically means burnt. I prefer medium roast for all my coffee, including espresso.
I went for many years without a coffee grinder. In Portland, I got used to grinding it in the store, but when I left, I found that states in the south and Midwest set their in-store grinders so that even the espresso setting is too coarse of a grind, unless you like weak coffee. I just have the normal old cylindrical-shaped grinder, which works great as long as it’s held and shaken while using. Ground coffee loses its flavor after about a week.
Bottled orange juice has that same bitterness that overripe oranges have. I don’t know how anybody drinks it. If you want orange juice, it is so much better to get oranges and squeeze them instead. Lately, however, I’ve been drinking a fair amount of Spicy V8.
One endearing memory as a kid was being able to pick a grapefruit off the tree in my grandpa’s backyard, cut it up with this bent-tipped, serrated knife and spooning it out. Some people poured sugar on top, but I’ve always preferred things on the sour, tangy side. Grapefruit is as under-rated as a breakfast food as it is over-rated as a cocktail ingredient. It certainly beats the shorts off of all those suger-laden cereals out there. Growing up, my favorite cereal was microwaved Grape-Nuts. I must have been one weird kid. That stuff is disgusting. Today, my favorite breakfast includes bread and runny eggs.
Some people don’t like runny yolks. I can empathize; it is kind of a weird taste. One prop for yolks is that it’s the best source of vitamin D besides the sun. If you insist on scrambling them, you need to beat them with a splash of milk or cream to make them nice and fluffy. I don’t drink milk, but I sometimes purchase heavy cream, and it seems to work better than milk for anything I’d be using it for.
Make sure when purchasing eggs, they are AA Grade (so the yolks are firm) and cage-free (so you can retain some grasp on humanity).
I’ve always been a big fan off Eggs Florentine. It’s like Eggs Benedict except uses spinach instead of bacon. My all-time favorite place to get this was a little breakfast joint near the Berkeley/San Pablo border in the East Bay. The problem with this as a staple for breakfast, besides the fact that it’s pretty rich, is that Hollandaise sauce is a pain to make.
Poached eggs, the other main ingredient in the dish, are NOT difficult, and yet I’ve been so frustrated by them being ruined at restaurant after restaurant that I now kindly inform the server beforehand that if the yolks aren’t runny I will be returning them. Blame it on The Last Detail (1973). Here’s how to poach an egg: fill a saucepan with about 3-4 inches of water, a pinch of salt and a healthy splash of white wine vinegar. Bring to boil and then reduce to just under and keep it there. Don’t break the egg directly into the water. Instead, drop it into a little bowl, glass or coffee mug first (I'll admit, I use an old-fashioned glass). That way, when you add it to the water, instead of a stringy mess all over the place, the albumen will be surrounding the yolk. While cooking, some white frothy-looking stuff might float to the top. If there’s too much, that probably means you didn’t add enough vinegar, but you’ll want to scoop it out before it encourages the water to return to a hard boil. There should be some bubbling and movement going on in the pan. If you’re eggs are just sunk to the bottom of it, turn up the heat! After 3 minutes, the egg will be ready to retrieve with a slotted spoon. Remove excess water before plating. I usually cook two at a time.
The dish I more often make with poached eggs is Huevos Rancheros. Warm a corn tortilla to place under the poached egg, cover the egg with cheddar cheese if you want and top with a sauté of onion, jalapeno, tomato, cilantro (unless you have that genetic trait that makes it taste like soap) and seasonings; in other words, pretty much the same as pico de gallo but not raw. Add avocado slices on top.
Sometimes I’m too lazy for any sautéing. In that case, I’ll just throw some Chulula on the egg. My explanation to restaurant servers who don’t know is that it’s like Tabasco only way better. Tabasco as is far too vinegary. I’ll also settle for Tapatio or Tamazula. If I’m in Portland, I’ll likely use Secret Aardvark sauce instead. I’m not picky. Paprika is also tasty on poached eggs.
Rachel and I went on a breakfast date every Saturday morning for the two years we dated. This experience taught me that there are few to no good breakfast joints in Portland. We returned most to Paradox Café, across from the Tao of Tea (highly recommended) on Belmont.
My favorite breakfast during that time, however, was enjoyed at what I assume, by the fact that they were using writing that looked like what I’ve seen in Ingmar Bergman movies, was a Swedish place. It existed for a very brief time circa 2006 on Clinton St., on that block near 16th where that row of shops are, but it had already closed by the time I tried to visit a second time. Portland sucks like that.
At that restaurant, I ordered something I’d never had before- a soft boiled egg. I did understand the premise, however, which was more than could be said of the table next to us that ordered the same thing then complained that the yolk was runny.
There’s not much difference between a soft-boiled egg and a poached egg, except you can eat the soft-boiled egg right out of the shell. Here’s how it’s done: bring 3-4 inches of water to a boil, then reduce the same as when making a poached egg. Gently place the entire egg into the water with a slotted spoon and set a timer for 5 minutes. If the egg floats, that means it is rotten; throw it out and try again. While in the water, there should be some bubbles coming to the surface from under the egg. Every stove is a little different, so there’s a learning curve of where the dial should be whenever using an unfamiliar one. A smaller egg will cook faster than a bigger one, but between 4 ½ and 5 minutes is the typical time it takes to get the white hard while keeping the yolk runny. Scoop the egg out of the water, set it in a wide-rimmed shot glass (or egg cup if you have one), cross your fingers and slice the top off with a butter knife.
At that restaurant, the soft-boiled egg was served with bread slices, a cheese similar to fontina and a soft block that I didn’t immediately realize wasn’t a soft cheese but butter. Butter is delicious! Especially when it’s room temperature. I use a lot of butter, and have seldom had a problem with a stick of butter in a butter dish on a counter going bad. If it does go bad, it turns dark yellow and slimy. I tend to want things in their most unadulterated form, so that it gives me the most flexibility and control over preparation. For that reason, I prefer unsalted butter. I already own both fine and coarse varieties of sea salt, so I can add it if desired. (Following the same logic, I also insist on peanut butter without added sugar and unflavored tortilla chips.)
I also prefer well-buttered bread to toast, unless I’m for some reason forced to eat that unnaturally square-shaped mushy stuff. It saddens me to see anybody shopping in the mushy bread aisle of a grocery store. Either find a decent bakery or learn how to make bread. My breads of choice are rye and pumpernickel with the occasional sourdough.
Some morning, while eating my poached egg with buttered bread and salted avocado slices on the side, I should take a picture. But there's not much time to waste before piling the egg and avocado on the bread and consuming it- cold soft-boiled eggs are disgusting.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Midwest Vegetarian Living
I became a vegetarian in January of 1995, shortly after reading an essay as part of a college ethics course that supposed if aliens came to earth who could live on human blood and/or orange juice, we would prefer for them to only drink orange juice. This is one of those Red Herring non-arguments that has nothing to do with the so-called omnivore’s dilemma (no, I haven’t read it), because were it to compare apples to apples, the aliens would have a choice of eating cow’s meat and/or drinking orange juice. No human omnivore I know condones anyone, including aliens, drinking human blood. Regardless, that essay encouraged me to start reading up on the meat industry, and I stopped eating meat while educating myself.
As it turns out, the American mass meat industry is vile.
More interesting though, is the consistent responses you get from culturally ignorant meat eaters (Iowans) upon hearing of your vegetarianism. The most frequent first question is, “Where do you get your protein?” For starters, even that stupid food pyramid these people learned growing up recommends almost the same amount of meat as candy be consumed on a daily basis. How much protein do they think one needs? More offensive, they are actually implying their diet, which likely consists largely of fried food and hamburgers, is more nutritious than mine. I frankly don’t even know where to begin to respond to that amount of ignorance. Where do they get their vitamins and minerals? They seem completely oblivious to the fact that the typical American Bible-thumper diet is the most unhealthy one on the planet while other countries or religions with a largely meat-free diet are the healthiest. Finally, as it turns out, virtually everything contains some protein. I can immediately list all kinds of places I regularly get high doses of protein: pinto (often refried) beans, black-eyed peas, chick peas (hummus), lentils (Oh, the days when I could get good Ethiopian food!), almonds, cashews, peanuts (peanut butter), spinach, wheat flour, rice, eggs, edamame… speaking of which, I think it’s pretty awesome not only that people in Iowa don’t know what edamame is, but that you can’t find it in the grocery stores here. They’re immature soybeans, dipshits. Yeah, that stuff that’s growing acre upon acre all around you. Which leads to the second most common first response in understanding vegetarians: “What do you eat, then- tofu?”
Trust me, these people have no clue what tofu is. (It’s soybeans that have been mashed, strained and curdled.) Yes, I do eat tofu. But I think it’s hilarious that the only alternative they can conceive to eating meat is eating a meat substitute. Try looking for food in places other than the meat aisle; I think you’ll see a few options. One of the most bizarre questions I get seasonally is, “What are you going to eat for Thanksgiving?” Um, everything except the turkey, the stuffing that you shoved up the turkey’s ass and the gravy made from mystery turkey liquids and parts- and everything you assholes insisted upon unnecessarily throwing bacon into. Of all the places to worry about finding something to eat, the Thanksgiving table lands near the bottom. No, I am not eating a Tofurkey- they are fucking disgusting.
For some reason, many people assume vegetarians do not care about the taste of food. Somehow, they are under the impression that all foods other than meat are bland and/or gross. I suppose you would get that idea if you surrounded your meat with white bread, American processed “cheese-like” food and iceburg lettuce- all of which are among the blandest foods on the planet- and drowned it in ketchup and yellow mustard, which are absolutely horrid. Good job on having four different preparations of potatoes as your side dish options: baked, mashed, fried or cut super thin then fried. Bland, bland, salt and salt. (Potatoes and potato products are alright; I’m demonstrating the mundanity in typical Midwestern diets while using a little hyperbole.) I am fond of dozens of herbs and seasonings in addition to salt. I love what Iowans would call spicy food. I call it flavorful. I tend to keep several varieties of chili peppers on hand. Also, what is all this dried, canned or frozen shit that everybody is buying? Most of that crap has had the flavor sucked and zapped out of it. Those frozen TV dinner things that they don’t call TV dinners anymore are appalling. Meanwhile, there are farmer’s markets all over the place in Iowa all summer long full of locally grown, seasonal and fresh produce and herbs. Texture-wise, Portobello mushrooms and well-prepared eggplant are not only extraordinarily delicious, but what you’d call meaty.
The one meat substitute on the market I do very much enjoy is called Soyrizo. It works great in red pasta sauces and tacos. I was very excited and relieved to find Soyrizo in Iowa (after having no luck procuring it in Alabama), but recently the chain nearest me began stocking a competitor’s brand of a similar looking product instead. I tried it and it is not nearly as good, so I complained. The guy said they were trying that brand to see how it would sell. “Well, why couldn’t you keep both brands in stock?” I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy. Why the hell would vegetarians need options, he seemed to be thinking. Meanwhile, that store has 20 brands of the same flavor of soda to choose from. Okay, excuse me- it’s called “pop” here.
The third comment I get is, “Ooh, you have to be careful- I knew this so-and-so who tried being a vegetarian and got really sick.” I don’t know- maybe you only know idiots. Birds of a feather…. I have now been a vegetarian for over 15 years, and can tell you truthfully I am the healthiest person I have ever met. Other’s “concerns” are generally thinly disguised scare-tactics and excuses. I listen to my body, and sometimes I will find myself craving peanut butter or something like that. Really, my biggest concern is to not get dehydrated, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with being a vegetarian. I drink a lot of liquids. I don’t really care for most sweets, desserts or other sugary foods that are rampant in American cuisine (what is the deal with sugar-laced cereals for breakfast?!), but have concluded that sugar cravings are a sign of dehydration. I have found myself a bit anemic at times, which is no different from when I did eat meat. Kidney and pinto beans, beets, curry (which is perhaps my favorite thing), spinach, collards, sauerkraut, molasses, walnuts, almonds, asparagus and I think broccoli (which I’m not particularly a huge fan of) are great sources of iron. The best meat sources of iron are oysters, clams and beef liver, and all of those can be highly toxic. One thing I do is maintain a high intake of vitamin C, which aids the body in absorbing many minerals, including iron, and builds the immune system. I consume vast amounts of citrus juices, occasionally with alcohol which, incidentally, also helps the body absorb iron. I don’t take any vitamin or mineral supplements, and sort of think they are bullshit, but did used to take vitamin C supplements to prevent nosebleeds (which I frequently got in high school while a meat eater) and still do if I’m feeling the signs of oncoming illness, which for me is almost always a sore throat. (Excess vitamin C gets peed out anyway, so there’s no reason to be choking down 500 ml a day.) While it is commonly claimed that vegans are at risk of vitamin B12 deficiency, this does not apply to me as I consume eggs on a regular basis. This is a heavily exaggerated risk even for vegans, as humans only need trace amounts of vitamin B12 and it is stored in the body for long periods of time. (In contrast to vegetarians, I have met a few unhealthy, not to mention neurotic, vegans.)
Dairy products are the most obvious source of calcium, but it is also abundant in most foods also rich in iron as well as oranges, and is otherwise not that good for you. Contrary to popular belief, vitamin D is not found naturally occurring in dairy; it comes from egg yolks and the sun. (The United States dairy lobby is HUGE.) Many children and some adults are allergic to the proteins or lactose in grazing mammals’ milk. I think cow’s milk is ghastly to drink straight out of the carton, and only use it for some cooking recipes, especially soups. I prefer almond quote-unquote milk. Actually, I tend to use heavy cream instead of milk for cooking, because then I can also use it to make Ramos Fizzes (another topic…). I also don’t personally like the taste of most of those milk derivative dairy products, such as yogurt, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc. Yuck. I am a big fan of butter, and I love cheese! Soft cheeses like brie and feta, stinky cheeses like camembert and stilton, semi-hard cheeses like cheddar and swiss, chevre aka goat cheeses and hard cheeses like asiago are all a fairly regular part of my diet. These are not nutritious, however, and I have to be careful not too consume too much cheese.
I do infrequently eat meat, especially raw seafood and fish aka sashimi (not so much an issue in Iowa, where, in case you hadn't noticed, there is no fresh seafood), perhaps twice a year, which brings up two concerns others are quick to emote. First, I have never gotten sick from eating meat after having been a vegetarian. I hear this a lot, especially from vegetarians who refuse to ever eat meat because they insist it makes them violently sick. If it does, it’s most likely either a paranoia induced self-fulfilling prophecy or they decided to eat meat after drinking a case of beer and it’s an obvious misdiagnosis. Also, vegetarianism does not need to be treated like some damned religion. Once, while eating out with someone I’d been with for nearly a year, I accidentally ordered a dish at a restaurant with scallops, not knowing what they were, and, instead of unnecessarily and embarrassingly freaking out at the waiter like the immature brat next to me, I simply ate it. Even though this was the first meat I’d eaten in some years, my date, a regular meat eater, immediately declared, “You’re not a vegetarian.” Whatever; my lifestyle is not the source of our planet’s environmental concerns. (My two fish a year are not endangering the ocean’s food supply.) When I am a guest at someone’s house and they serve me meat, I will often try some. It’s preferable to show respect and demonstrate humble gratitude instead of being one of those pompous, judgmental asshole vegetarians shoving their dogmas down other’s throats.
Another comment that is either too clever or too idiotic for most Iowans, but I have gotten from some new age neo-hippies goes, “You have to kill root vegetables before eating them, too. How’s that more acceptable than killing an animal?” Actually, this is sort of a take on that ethics class example. The best response to this would be to hand that person a live chicken and a potted beet and ask them to demonstrate their belief that killing a chicken is the same as killing a beet. If they bow out with, “I wouldn’t kill either one,” announce, “Okay, let me demonstrate,” and see which one they protect first. It irritates me how few meat eaters have ever killed the animals they’ve eaten, or would actually kill what they eat. It strikes me as hypocritical and cowardice; like hiring a hit man.
I have no problem with people raising and eating animals in a self-sustaining, environmentally aware and humane way. However, killing for sport is about as fucked up as you can get. It should be obvious that it’s a bad idea to encourage or exercise the idea that killing is fun. People that are willing to kill animals creep me out, but, especially since we’ve killed off most natural predators other than ourselves, I understand they do play a necessary role in our world. As do terrorists.
As it turns out, the American mass meat industry is vile.
More interesting though, is the consistent responses you get from culturally ignorant meat eaters (Iowans) upon hearing of your vegetarianism. The most frequent first question is, “Where do you get your protein?” For starters, even that stupid food pyramid these people learned growing up recommends almost the same amount of meat as candy be consumed on a daily basis. How much protein do they think one needs? More offensive, they are actually implying their diet, which likely consists largely of fried food and hamburgers, is more nutritious than mine. I frankly don’t even know where to begin to respond to that amount of ignorance. Where do they get their vitamins and minerals? They seem completely oblivious to the fact that the typical American Bible-thumper diet is the most unhealthy one on the planet while other countries or religions with a largely meat-free diet are the healthiest. Finally, as it turns out, virtually everything contains some protein. I can immediately list all kinds of places I regularly get high doses of protein: pinto (often refried) beans, black-eyed peas, chick peas (hummus), lentils (Oh, the days when I could get good Ethiopian food!), almonds, cashews, peanuts (peanut butter), spinach, wheat flour, rice, eggs, edamame… speaking of which, I think it’s pretty awesome not only that people in Iowa don’t know what edamame is, but that you can’t find it in the grocery stores here. They’re immature soybeans, dipshits. Yeah, that stuff that’s growing acre upon acre all around you. Which leads to the second most common first response in understanding vegetarians: “What do you eat, then- tofu?”
Trust me, these people have no clue what tofu is. (It’s soybeans that have been mashed, strained and curdled.) Yes, I do eat tofu. But I think it’s hilarious that the only alternative they can conceive to eating meat is eating a meat substitute. Try looking for food in places other than the meat aisle; I think you’ll see a few options. One of the most bizarre questions I get seasonally is, “What are you going to eat for Thanksgiving?” Um, everything except the turkey, the stuffing that you shoved up the turkey’s ass and the gravy made from mystery turkey liquids and parts- and everything you assholes insisted upon unnecessarily throwing bacon into. Of all the places to worry about finding something to eat, the Thanksgiving table lands near the bottom. No, I am not eating a Tofurkey- they are fucking disgusting.
For some reason, many people assume vegetarians do not care about the taste of food. Somehow, they are under the impression that all foods other than meat are bland and/or gross. I suppose you would get that idea if you surrounded your meat with white bread, American processed “cheese-like” food and iceburg lettuce- all of which are among the blandest foods on the planet- and drowned it in ketchup and yellow mustard, which are absolutely horrid. Good job on having four different preparations of potatoes as your side dish options: baked, mashed, fried or cut super thin then fried. Bland, bland, salt and salt. (Potatoes and potato products are alright; I’m demonstrating the mundanity in typical Midwestern diets while using a little hyperbole.) I am fond of dozens of herbs and seasonings in addition to salt. I love what Iowans would call spicy food. I call it flavorful. I tend to keep several varieties of chili peppers on hand. Also, what is all this dried, canned or frozen shit that everybody is buying? Most of that crap has had the flavor sucked and zapped out of it. Those frozen TV dinner things that they don’t call TV dinners anymore are appalling. Meanwhile, there are farmer’s markets all over the place in Iowa all summer long full of locally grown, seasonal and fresh produce and herbs. Texture-wise, Portobello mushrooms and well-prepared eggplant are not only extraordinarily delicious, but what you’d call meaty.
The one meat substitute on the market I do very much enjoy is called Soyrizo. It works great in red pasta sauces and tacos. I was very excited and relieved to find Soyrizo in Iowa (after having no luck procuring it in Alabama), but recently the chain nearest me began stocking a competitor’s brand of a similar looking product instead. I tried it and it is not nearly as good, so I complained. The guy said they were trying that brand to see how it would sell. “Well, why couldn’t you keep both brands in stock?” I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy. Why the hell would vegetarians need options, he seemed to be thinking. Meanwhile, that store has 20 brands of the same flavor of soda to choose from. Okay, excuse me- it’s called “pop” here.
The third comment I get is, “Ooh, you have to be careful- I knew this so-and-so who tried being a vegetarian and got really sick.” I don’t know- maybe you only know idiots. Birds of a feather…. I have now been a vegetarian for over 15 years, and can tell you truthfully I am the healthiest person I have ever met. Other’s “concerns” are generally thinly disguised scare-tactics and excuses. I listen to my body, and sometimes I will find myself craving peanut butter or something like that. Really, my biggest concern is to not get dehydrated, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with being a vegetarian. I drink a lot of liquids. I don’t really care for most sweets, desserts or other sugary foods that are rampant in American cuisine (what is the deal with sugar-laced cereals for breakfast?!), but have concluded that sugar cravings are a sign of dehydration. I have found myself a bit anemic at times, which is no different from when I did eat meat. Kidney and pinto beans, beets, curry (which is perhaps my favorite thing), spinach, collards, sauerkraut, molasses, walnuts, almonds, asparagus and I think broccoli (which I’m not particularly a huge fan of) are great sources of iron. The best meat sources of iron are oysters, clams and beef liver, and all of those can be highly toxic. One thing I do is maintain a high intake of vitamin C, which aids the body in absorbing many minerals, including iron, and builds the immune system. I consume vast amounts of citrus juices, occasionally with alcohol which, incidentally, also helps the body absorb iron. I don’t take any vitamin or mineral supplements, and sort of think they are bullshit, but did used to take vitamin C supplements to prevent nosebleeds (which I frequently got in high school while a meat eater) and still do if I’m feeling the signs of oncoming illness, which for me is almost always a sore throat. (Excess vitamin C gets peed out anyway, so there’s no reason to be choking down 500 ml a day.) While it is commonly claimed that vegans are at risk of vitamin B12 deficiency, this does not apply to me as I consume eggs on a regular basis. This is a heavily exaggerated risk even for vegans, as humans only need trace amounts of vitamin B12 and it is stored in the body for long periods of time. (In contrast to vegetarians, I have met a few unhealthy, not to mention neurotic, vegans.)
Dairy products are the most obvious source of calcium, but it is also abundant in most foods also rich in iron as well as oranges, and is otherwise not that good for you. Contrary to popular belief, vitamin D is not found naturally occurring in dairy; it comes from egg yolks and the sun. (The United States dairy lobby is HUGE.) Many children and some adults are allergic to the proteins or lactose in grazing mammals’ milk. I think cow’s milk is ghastly to drink straight out of the carton, and only use it for some cooking recipes, especially soups. I prefer almond quote-unquote milk. Actually, I tend to use heavy cream instead of milk for cooking, because then I can also use it to make Ramos Fizzes (another topic…). I also don’t personally like the taste of most of those milk derivative dairy products, such as yogurt, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc. Yuck. I am a big fan of butter, and I love cheese! Soft cheeses like brie and feta, stinky cheeses like camembert and stilton, semi-hard cheeses like cheddar and swiss, chevre aka goat cheeses and hard cheeses like asiago are all a fairly regular part of my diet. These are not nutritious, however, and I have to be careful not too consume too much cheese.
I do infrequently eat meat, especially raw seafood and fish aka sashimi (not so much an issue in Iowa, where, in case you hadn't noticed, there is no fresh seafood), perhaps twice a year, which brings up two concerns others are quick to emote. First, I have never gotten sick from eating meat after having been a vegetarian. I hear this a lot, especially from vegetarians who refuse to ever eat meat because they insist it makes them violently sick. If it does, it’s most likely either a paranoia induced self-fulfilling prophecy or they decided to eat meat after drinking a case of beer and it’s an obvious misdiagnosis. Also, vegetarianism does not need to be treated like some damned religion. Once, while eating out with someone I’d been with for nearly a year, I accidentally ordered a dish at a restaurant with scallops, not knowing what they were, and, instead of unnecessarily and embarrassingly freaking out at the waiter like the immature brat next to me, I simply ate it. Even though this was the first meat I’d eaten in some years, my date, a regular meat eater, immediately declared, “You’re not a vegetarian.” Whatever; my lifestyle is not the source of our planet’s environmental concerns. (My two fish a year are not endangering the ocean’s food supply.) When I am a guest at someone’s house and they serve me meat, I will often try some. It’s preferable to show respect and demonstrate humble gratitude instead of being one of those pompous, judgmental asshole vegetarians shoving their dogmas down other’s throats.
Another comment that is either too clever or too idiotic for most Iowans, but I have gotten from some new age neo-hippies goes, “You have to kill root vegetables before eating them, too. How’s that more acceptable than killing an animal?” Actually, this is sort of a take on that ethics class example. The best response to this would be to hand that person a live chicken and a potted beet and ask them to demonstrate their belief that killing a chicken is the same as killing a beet. If they bow out with, “I wouldn’t kill either one,” announce, “Okay, let me demonstrate,” and see which one they protect first. It irritates me how few meat eaters have ever killed the animals they’ve eaten, or would actually kill what they eat. It strikes me as hypocritical and cowardice; like hiring a hit man.
I have no problem with people raising and eating animals in a self-sustaining, environmentally aware and humane way. However, killing for sport is about as fucked up as you can get. It should be obvious that it’s a bad idea to encourage or exercise the idea that killing is fun. People that are willing to kill animals creep me out, but, especially since we’ve killed off most natural predators other than ourselves, I understand they do play a necessary role in our world. As do terrorists.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
La Sirenita vs. La Bonita
La Sirenita and La Bonita are both Taquerias on the 2800 block of Alberta Street in Portland. Only an alleyway and a seemingly abandoned home separates them, but they are a world a part. Bottom line: there are La Sirenita people and there are La Bonita people. I am of the former.
La Sirenita is a run-down stucco place with a withering awning and graffiti tags all over it. There are colorful plastic tables to sit on outdoors. Inside is dark and haphazard with a television usually playing Mexican music videos (always with scantily clad women) in a corner. Mexican pop music blares from out of the kitchen. The walls are covered in cobwebs and plastic faux brick. Next to the counter is a big orange jug like something you’d see in a construction zone to pour yourself water from, if the Styrofoam cups have been stocked. The tables are not regularly bussed or cleaned, but most are stocked with a roll of paper towels. The employees are often singing, flirting or otherwise goofing around and you sometimes have to wait awhile for them to appear or decide to ask you what you want. I almost always want the no pales burrito. It is, in my opinion, possibly the greatest lunch ever invented, even though its quality varies widely depending upon who’s working that day. (For this reason, I don’t recommend La Sirenita on weekends.) For $3.50, you get a huge log consisting of piping hot cactus, rice, cheese and refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla. They have a condiment bar with awesome grilled jalapenos. Their red sauce is okay but a bit too smoky for my taste. UPDATE: They sometimes have a second red sauce now which is much better. I seldom resist biting into the burrito before it cools down, so I usually end up burning the skin out of my mouth. Well worth it. I usually alternate between burrito and jalapeno bites. Yes, the jalapenos are spicy. (Why do people ask this?)
La Bonita is a much newer looking place, nicely painted (if you like mauve) with large windows and clean wood tables. Inside is mood lit with hanging emerald-colored lampshades, and waiters seat you and bring you menus as Rod Stewart serenades from above. I went there once, on a recommendation from a chef (at another restaurant) who said it was, “very clean.” Fortunately, cleanliness is not on my list of things desired in a taqueria. I ordered the veggie burrito, which had lettuce, broccoli, carrots and a bunch of other crap that doesn’t belong in a burrito. It also had black beans, which I sometimes like but don’t expect to see unless I ask for them specifically. It was like a cooked salad wrapped in a tortilla. Booooooring! The “gringo burrito” was over $5.00. It was about half the size as the burrito two doors down. I find myself wary of anyone who patronizes this establishment, and assume they are the same type of people who sit in coffee shops working on laptops. I don’t trust those people either.
La Sirenita is a run-down stucco place with a withering awning and graffiti tags all over it. There are colorful plastic tables to sit on outdoors. Inside is dark and haphazard with a television usually playing Mexican music videos (always with scantily clad women) in a corner. Mexican pop music blares from out of the kitchen. The walls are covered in cobwebs and plastic faux brick. Next to the counter is a big orange jug like something you’d see in a construction zone to pour yourself water from, if the Styrofoam cups have been stocked. The tables are not regularly bussed or cleaned, but most are stocked with a roll of paper towels. The employees are often singing, flirting or otherwise goofing around and you sometimes have to wait awhile for them to appear or decide to ask you what you want. I almost always want the no pales burrito. It is, in my opinion, possibly the greatest lunch ever invented, even though its quality varies widely depending upon who’s working that day. (For this reason, I don’t recommend La Sirenita on weekends.) For $3.50, you get a huge log consisting of piping hot cactus, rice, cheese and refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla. They have a condiment bar with awesome grilled jalapenos. Their red sauce is okay but a bit too smoky for my taste. UPDATE: They sometimes have a second red sauce now which is much better. I seldom resist biting into the burrito before it cools down, so I usually end up burning the skin out of my mouth. Well worth it. I usually alternate between burrito and jalapeno bites. Yes, the jalapenos are spicy. (Why do people ask this?)
La Bonita is a much newer looking place, nicely painted (if you like mauve) with large windows and clean wood tables. Inside is mood lit with hanging emerald-colored lampshades, and waiters seat you and bring you menus as Rod Stewart serenades from above. I went there once, on a recommendation from a chef (at another restaurant) who said it was, “very clean.” Fortunately, cleanliness is not on my list of things desired in a taqueria. I ordered the veggie burrito, which had lettuce, broccoli, carrots and a bunch of other crap that doesn’t belong in a burrito. It also had black beans, which I sometimes like but don’t expect to see unless I ask for them specifically. It was like a cooked salad wrapped in a tortilla. Booooooring! The “gringo burrito” was over $5.00. It was about half the size as the burrito two doors down. I find myself wary of anyone who patronizes this establishment, and assume they are the same type of people who sit in coffee shops working on laptops. I don’t trust those people either.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Cooking
Although I have a solid reputation as a loner, it is a well-known secret that, going back to high school, I have almost always had a girlfriend. Recently, however, I’m thinking, “fuck ‘em,” and not in the sense that I usually mean that.
When I break it down, girls are useful for four things: conversation, haircuts, cooking and physical contact. (If you look closely enough, that last one is really two things.)
I've seldom found good conversation to be gender-specific, except I DO love to flirt. True; haircuts and cooking aren't actually gender-specific either; I just find it sexy when women do them and not men. Is that sexist?
Since my hair “style” consists of me never combing my hair (an ex from college is the genesis of this, by the way), giving myself haircuts is pretty easy- I simply stand in front of a mirror with scissors and hack at it until it is sticking up everywhere.
So now I’m teaching myself to cook. Like everything one doesn’t know how to do- it’s not as hard as it looks. I’ll never understand those who say they “can’t” do something. My experience is that most humans aren’t actually very clever- if someone else can do it, then so can I. Perhaps I can never do it expertly, but that’s a different thing entirely.
The first thing to do when acquiring a skill is to recognize your weaknesses. One thing I know about me is that I have a very poor sense of volume and clock-time. I have to measure and time everything; if I try to guess, I fuck it up. Another weakness when cooking is that I can’t stand untidiness. Cooking makes a mess! I get OCD about cleaning everything all the time, which distracts me from the cooking part of it. I honestly don’t know that I will ever be able to leave all the dishes until after I’ve eaten, but I can find a balance I’m sure.
The second thing to do is recognize your strengths. I am a master of taking copious notes. Every recipe needs fine-tuning, and I love that part of the process. Also, “undaunted” could be my middle name. I don’t mind fucking up a dish, because I figure out what to NOT do next time.
Anyway, I’m still eating. The whole physical contact thing though; I don’t see myself joining a convent anytime soon….
When I break it down, girls are useful for four things: conversation, haircuts, cooking and physical contact. (If you look closely enough, that last one is really two things.)
I've seldom found good conversation to be gender-specific, except I DO love to flirt. True; haircuts and cooking aren't actually gender-specific either; I just find it sexy when women do them and not men. Is that sexist?
Since my hair “style” consists of me never combing my hair (an ex from college is the genesis of this, by the way), giving myself haircuts is pretty easy- I simply stand in front of a mirror with scissors and hack at it until it is sticking up everywhere.
So now I’m teaching myself to cook. Like everything one doesn’t know how to do- it’s not as hard as it looks. I’ll never understand those who say they “can’t” do something. My experience is that most humans aren’t actually very clever- if someone else can do it, then so can I. Perhaps I can never do it expertly, but that’s a different thing entirely.
The first thing to do when acquiring a skill is to recognize your weaknesses. One thing I know about me is that I have a very poor sense of volume and clock-time. I have to measure and time everything; if I try to guess, I fuck it up. Another weakness when cooking is that I can’t stand untidiness. Cooking makes a mess! I get OCD about cleaning everything all the time, which distracts me from the cooking part of it. I honestly don’t know that I will ever be able to leave all the dishes until after I’ve eaten, but I can find a balance I’m sure.
The second thing to do is recognize your strengths. I am a master of taking copious notes. Every recipe needs fine-tuning, and I love that part of the process. Also, “undaunted” could be my middle name. I don’t mind fucking up a dish, because I figure out what to NOT do next time.
Anyway, I’m still eating. The whole physical contact thing though; I don’t see myself joining a convent anytime soon….
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Burritos
I don’t know how to cook. When relegated to feeding myself, I usually prepare cold cereal, eat a diced avocado with balsamic vinegar and asiago cheese, fry an over-easy egg inside a piece of bread (by removing the middle of the bread with a cookie cutter) or make burritos. Consequently, I have become somewhat of an expert burrito maker. I figured I should share how I make them:
First, warm up a can of vegetarian refried beans (traditional refried beans are fried in lard) in a small saucepan. Next, heat some oil in a frying pan. Put a large flour tortilla (I usually use Guerrero brand) flat in the frying pan for a few seconds to warm that side, and then flip it. Cover the entire tortilla with grated sharp cheddar and/or Monterey jack cheese, then with a layer of nacho-sliced jalapenos. Sparsely add some diced habanero. Spoon a generous stripe of refried beans down the middle of the tortilla. The cheese should now be thoroughly melted. Roll the sides of the tortilla up. Now it’s ready to eat. One can of beans yields three burritos.
Enjoy!
First, warm up a can of vegetarian refried beans (traditional refried beans are fried in lard) in a small saucepan. Next, heat some oil in a frying pan. Put a large flour tortilla (I usually use Guerrero brand) flat in the frying pan for a few seconds to warm that side, and then flip it. Cover the entire tortilla with grated sharp cheddar and/or Monterey jack cheese, then with a layer of nacho-sliced jalapenos. Sparsely add some diced habanero. Spoon a generous stripe of refried beans down the middle of the tortilla. The cheese should now be thoroughly melted. Roll the sides of the tortilla up. Now it’s ready to eat. One can of beans yields three burritos.
Enjoy!
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