Food

Photos from my urban garden and cluttered kitchen. Recipes. Food Articles. Blog posts.

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Emancipation Weekend

By Malik Hamilton

On 19 June 1865 the last of millions of black slaves were freed from slavery in America.  Two and a half years following the issuing of the Emancipation Proclamation by President Abraham Lincoln, General Gordan Granger of the Union Army announced aloud the contents of "General Order No. 3," announcing the total emancipation of slaves.  That day was commemorated by the newly freed American “citizens” with music, dancing, and food. 

On 19 June 2015 the sesquicentennial, or one-hundred and fiftieth anniversary, of what is sometimes called Emancipation Day was celebrated across the country. In Pittsburgh there were two events that I took part in. The first was a media event broadcast across the country to a number of different local events including one in Pittsburgh at the Senator John Heinz History Museum.  A collaborative effort between The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the Afro-American Historical and Genalogical Society, FamilySearch.org (a subsidiary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), the Smithsonian, and a number of other national organizations to extract from microfiche the records of freed slaves from the Freedmen’s Bureau records. This project will make historical information available to the entire world free of charge. In addition, it is estimated that twenty to thirty million living descendants of those freed slaves will have the opportunity to link their family trees to ancestors alive before the 1870 census, the current “brick wall” for most genealogical researchers of black descent.

As a member of the Pittsburgh committee to help extract these names I was in attendance at the press conference. The goal of the project is to have all of the records extracted in nine months so that the information can be made available in the Family History Center that will be located in the new Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, opening on the national Mall in 2016. 

The second event was the Juneteenth iteration and community conversation at Conflict Kitchen, located in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh. In an effort that accomplished in a single month what normally takes Conflict six months to a year, seven Black and African-American chefs and professional cooks came together, crafted and prepared a menu of foods that highlighted and celebrated the black experience in America. 

I had a big part of my personal world view altered by the events of this weekend. Having grown up in Wyoming and living in Utah I did not have the opportunity to be a part of a black community on the level as I can be in Pittsburgh. Participating in a conversation focused around the conflict between the U.S. and Black America has rattled my brain, discomforted my comfort zone, and left me wondering what my place is in the larger landscape of the black experience.

I personally contributed two recipes to this event. The first was an interpretation of Marcus Garvey Bean Salad, an oft mentioned dish in the online remembrances of Juneteenth foods for which no actual recipe could be found, in fact if an article that mentioned the salad actually included a recipe it was generally not something that was discussed in the article itself. I suspect that this salad honoring the great Statesman and the Black National Flag is a recent addition to the Juneteenth tradition. 

The other dish was a cold corn salad version of Maque Chox, a traditional Southern Louisiana dish.  It has been a long time since I was able to participate in a Juneteenth celebration and this was by far the most worthwhile observation of the holiday that I can recall.

In keeping with the “tradition” of Juneteenth blog posts that mention Marcus Garvey Bean Salad but then do not include a recipe for the dish, I am including a recipe for Strawberry Ginger Ale since the color red is another central aspect to a Juneteenth celebration, though, like Marcus Garvey Bean Salad, no one seems to know why.  (More research to come.)

Strawberry Ginger Ale

Yield: varies based on taste Ingredients

2 ounces chopped peeled ginger

8 ounces fresh strawberries chopped

1 cup water

12 oz sugar

About 1 quart chilled club soda

Preparation Combine water and sugar and over medium heat bring to a boil; stirring occasionally until sugar is dissolved.

Add ginger and strawberries.  Simmer for 10 minutes then remove from heat cover and let steep for 1 hour.

Strain mixture through a sieve into a bowl, pressing on strawberries and ginger and then discarding.

Chill syrup in a covered bowl or jar until cold.

Mix syrup with club soda to taste (start with 1/4 cup syrup per 3/4 cup club soda, then adjust to taste).

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Valverde de los Arroyos

By Michael Foglia

Driving an hour north of the city of Guadalajara on regional highways CM 101 and 1004, you will eventually find yourself in a village called Valverde de los Arroyos. If size were a measure of the greatness of a city, this humble pueblo would be just a little speck beneath the summit of the mighty Ocejón, the tallest mountain in the region. Valverde de los Arroyos has fewer than 150 full-time residents and can be crossed from end-to-end on foot in under five minutes (approximately the time it takes to listen to a Sex Pistols song). And yet, it is renowned throughout Spain as a marvel for its architecture and the quality of fruit that comes from the unique growing conditions.

Exactly one year ago today, I had the opportunity to visit Valverde de los Arroyos with César Clemente, a Guadalajara native. The excursion was planned as way to see the famed ‘Arquitectura Negra,’ but turned into an authentic glimpse into a private yearly tradition. 

After work on Monday the 23rd we bundled into the car with César’s family and made the trip. The first part of the drive would be familiar to all who have driven through the Great Plains. A sea of golden wheat punctuated with tiny hamlets of humanity. Eventually, we started the climb in to the mountains. As you enter the mountains, the terrain quickly changes into olive groves and finally timber forests. The climb to Valverde includes many switchbacks, which were problematic for César’s son who was in the back seat. Once we arrived, we parked the car underneath a massive cherry tree and walked towards the center of town.

It was immediately clear that we had stumbled upon a special occasion. There were tables outside of the villagers’ homes throughout the narrow and angular stone streets and people congregated near a house. This was a special event, a smaller more intimate party that takes place immediately after the village’s main party. It is a way for the villagers to celebrate without the interference of tourists. Valverde hosted the large fiesta the previous weekend, so this was the gathering for family and friends. Because César is the most well-connected man in the province, we were quickly invited to join in the festivities.

We were led to the table-of-the-moment, where around fifty people were surrounding a spread including local cheeses, cured meats, and bread. Three men played stringed instruments while the rest of the people danced, conversed, and enjoyed the party. 

After around 45 minutes at the first table, we set off for the next station of the progressive party.  As we walked, a tractor followed behind us with all of the beverages for the party submerged in an improvised ice bath. 

Of course, all of the food was fantastic. The fruit grown in the orchards of Valverde really do taste different. What was most striking wasn’t necessary the food or drink, but the atmosphere.  Without feeling like an intruder, I recognized my fortune in being able to recount this event. I was among a handful of people who did not live in the village, and was the only non-Spaniard.  We planned to visit Valverde to admire the static beauty of the village’s hearty architecture; instead we reveled in the exuberant, vivacious joy of this private gathering in a picturesque setting.

Michael Foglia is a graduate student in the Food Studies program at Chatham University.

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Pain au Levain with Emulsified Legumes and a Smashed Berry Gastrique

By Clara Gamalski

Last week, my acupuncturist diagnosed me with brassica intolerance. Devastated, I headed down the block to drown my sorrows in a cold brew. With each step, I bid adieu to a leafy green I’d come to love. So long Red Russian Kale. Hasta la vista Kohlrabi. Au revior Napa Cabbage. Sayonara Rapini.

By the time I arrived at the espresso bar, I was teary-eyed at the thought of terminating my budding relationship with collard greens. I ordered a locally roasted single-origin 26-hour brew and wondered if I’d been misdiagnosed. Maybe mercury was in retrograde. I called my yoga instructor while I searched for my credit card in my organic, hand-woven satchel from Oaxaca. She said that Mercury was back in prograde, and that she had always suspected that I might be brassica intolerant. Realizing I left my Amazon Visa at home, I signed over my Spring CSA share to my barista in exchange for a free cold brew and challenged myself to find inspiration from my new dietary limitations.

It had been years since I felt this kind of loss. I thought back to when my Great Grandpa died. I remembered how my mom prepared breakfast for the whole extended family the morning before the funeral: toast with wild berries from the garden that my Great Grandfather often wandered into in his final years, mistaking it for the John.  Like the berries, my memory of this morning was bittersweet. Even in the face of tragedy, we came together. In the berries, we tasted my grandfather. We cried. We laughed. We endured. We explored what it meant to be family for better and for worse.

As I contemplated what I should make for lunch with a Romanesco Cauliflower-shaped hole in my heart, I wondered how I could channel the grittiness of both the toast and my mother and replicate the tenderness of the berries and my Great Grandfather. And most importantly, I mused over how I could insert a little bit of myself into this memory dish.

Before my diagnosis, I had been planning to get Palak Chana Dal for lunch from my second favorite Indian food truck. For the past two weeks, I had eaten it so often it had become an integral part of my identity. With spinach no longer an option, I thought about how to incorporate the essence of this dish into a meal for a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I wanted to taste comfort. I wanted to indulge. I wanted to create something I could share with my Great Grandfather and I wanted to better understand myself and my disease.

I walked out to my porch, said three “ohms” and suddenly, all in one breath, I knew who I was and what I wanted to eat.

Pain au Levain with Emulsified Legumes and a Smashed Berry Gastrique

 2 tablespoons emulsified legumes

1 pint mixed berries

1 tsp lemon juice

½ cup Fair Trade raw cane sugar

1 loaf artisanal Pain au Levain

 Transfer emulsified legumes to a mason jar.

 In a large hand-carved wooden bowl, mix berries and sugar together. Let it sit for 10 minutes. Transfer mixture to a copper pot and bring to a boil. Add lemon juice. Reduce heat and let simmer for 15 minutes. Transfer to a mason jar and place in an antique icebox to cool. (Note: I only chill my gastriques on ice I make from a water mixture—2 Fiji: 1 Mountain Spring: 1 filtered, locally-sourced tap water. If you’re in a hurry, an ice will do.)

 Once the gastrique has cooled, slice the Pain au Levain. On one slice, spread about a tablespoon of the emulsion. On the other slice, spread an equal amount of gastrique. Serve immediately.

Clara Gamalski is a master’s student in Food Studies at Chatham University.

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Pierogi Night

By Rachel Forlifer

Middle-aged couples, preppy college students, families with young babies, hipster girls with short hair, hipster boys with long hair, elderly ladies. What kind of food brings all these people together? Here in the Lawrenceville neighborhood of Pittsburgh, it’s pierogis. And a rotating cast of ethnic food favorites from pad thai to arepas, all made at the monthly pop-up restaurant, Pierogi Night. I have been going to Pierogi Night since last year when my friend who lives in Lawrenceville brought me. Now I proudly live in Lawrenceville and introduce it to my friends. Pierogi Night has been around for 5 years and is currently held in a community center that acts as an adult and child daycare most of the time. This juxtaposition is obvious as you wait in line for “Roasted butternut squash, sautéed corn, porcini butter, dill, poblano” pierogis, while standing next to empty strollers and flyers for senior swing dancing.

This is how Pierogi Night works: you get in line, wait, pay $10, wait a little more, then get a plate of four pierogis and the competing food. You find a seat at the cramped communal tables, scarf down your food, and get back in line. Yes, Pierogi Night is all-you-can-eat, but really a second trip is all that most can handle. The line is an essential part of Pierogi Night, as it is where you spend most of your time during the event. I actually don’t mind waiting in the line, because I get to listen to other people’s conversations. You know, really catch up on what’s happening in the lives of people I don’t know. The line creates a kind of community, sharing our group anticipation and commiserating about the weather we are withstanding. For my most recent Pierogi Night, I was excited to finally be able to wait outside in warm weather, instead of the brutally cold temperatures I last endured. But because Mother Nature hates me, it began to pour right as the night started, forcing the line inside into the muggy stairway. As I got into line I did not see my friends, but then heard “Rachel!” and a hand wave at me from the dark basement below. Once they emerged into the light, I saw they also were soaked from the sudden downpour. Oh, Pierogi Night, what we will do for you!

So the food must be pretty good then, right? The food is amazing. It is completely vegan, which isn’t a huge deal for me, but it means one thing: they really know how to treat vegetables. Kate Lasky and Tomasz Skowronski, along with many friends, run Pierogi Night and create the most original combinations of produce to put in pierogis. Typically, pierogis are stuffed with potatoes and maybe cheese. If potatoes are in pierogis at Pierogi Night, they are likely to be smoked and mixed with collard, turnip, and kale greens with pickled onion. Then there are the rotating foods, which are just as delicious as the pierogis. Take the tacos that in addition to the basic rice and beans were topped with carrot mole, Escabeche slaw, avocado, and pepita. I don’t even know what “Escabeche slaw” is, but it was one of the best tacos I have ever had.

Luckily, we will soon be able to eat their food more than once a month, as they are in the process of opening a restaurant. In May, they successfully completed a Kickstarter campaign for $50,000 to help renovate their future restaurant space, named Apteka. The restaurant will be inspired by their roots in Eastern and Central Europe and continue to focus on fresh produce, mushrooms, and pickles. Hopefully, this new space will still foster that community feeling, but maybe without the lines.

Rachel Forlifer is a master’s candidate in Food Studies at Chatham University.

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Craving Rhubarb

By Anna Sangrey

I'm craving rhubarb. It's mid-June, it's strawberry season; it's the closing of asparagus heaven, and it's time for a bowl of gelled and gummy rhubarb sauce, hot and boiling with tapioca. Or it's time for Aunt Carol's always-requested rhubarb pie, chunks of stringy rhubarb, crisp and soft at the same time, floating in an egg and sugar custard. Or a serving of strawberry-rhubarb sauce, the right tang of rhubarb, the right seeds of sweet berries.

But the skinny fruit is evading me.

Rheum rhabarbarum, literally barbarian rhubarb, doesn't seem to reside in my refrigerator. The tough veggie, which I eat as a fruit and dessert, has escaped my hovel and my grocery shopping. It has kept its poisonous leaves—and its uncommon sour stalks—to itself. I have yet to find it this season.

Perhaps cities don't believe in rhubarb.

This morning, feeding my own barbarian urges, I forsook my plaster-painted apartment and escaped down Pittsburgh's Fifth Avenue. I had overslept, there was no time for an outdoor walk, and there was little woods to escape to, but my soul needed fed. My body needed the ministry of sunlight and fresh air.

In Mellon Park, a nearby restored, walled garden, I found rhubarb. Set back behind a waist-high shrub, a small pocket garden showcased herbs, vegetables, and flowers—all from Shakespeare's plays. While not a botanist, a sign read, Shakespeare used his knowledge of plants to weave edible greens into his plays. As examples, a lone garlic stalk, leafy carrot tops, and white-green pea plants asked for wanton attention. I only noticed the rhubarb. Thick elephant leaves, with their red veins. They were what I was looking for.

The leaves themselves are poisonous, but the petioles, attached at the base of the leaf and protruding into the ground like stalks, produce a sour essence, a staple to American cookery since the 18th century. With heaps of sugar, rhubarb becomes a sweet and tangy dessert, but its narrow stalks mimic celery, another long-stalked vegetable.

I pushed the leaves aside and analyzed the rhubarb. Pithy, brown stalks clumped together around light green baby stalks. Neither were ripe. I was looking for a blushing rhubarb stalk, the woven strands of green and red merging into a magenta pink. Also, the public hospitality of Mellon Park didn't exactly invite me to pick their fruit and chop those stalks into pies.

Sighing, I turned away from the too old and too young plants and headed back towards my apartment.

Where do you find rhubarb in a city?

As a child, rhubarb was as local as stepping outside. My parents always kept a few ever-expanding plants of rhubarb in their garden. If my brothers and sisters and I were sly enough, we could snitch an entire stalk and disappear behind the protective coverage of nearby raspberry bushes before Mom spied us from the kitchen. Our mouths would turn inside out as we ate the stolen stalk. The sourness repelled us every time, but we kept going back. Stolen fruit, no matter how tangy, tastes so sweet.

I learned then, as a child, that rhubarb is a prolific, continuous plant. Once a gardener establishes a base plant, it continues to expand and grow, giving Christmas colored stalks for eight to ten weeks beginning in the coolness of spring. Rhubarb—is always available.

After my find at Mellon Park, and after jotting down the ingredients for Rhubarb Kuchen—not my specialty but a something I wanted to embrace for my German heritage—I set off on a quest. I was hoping to find sour rhubarb, enough to cook up a sweet and sour cake—to satisfy any Pennsylvania Dutch girl's cravings.

Instead of the blushing green stalks, however, I left my shopping spree not with rhubarb but, instead, with several solid, fat, and over-zealous squash: the zucchini.

My sights were set on rhubarb, my recipe centered on rhubarb, and when I found it loose, lying in a black plastic container, the stems drying out and beginning to brittle, I laughed. Of course, rhubarb grows … er … exists in the city. The edible fruit variety to be chopped and eaten. Rhubarb. I weighed out almost three pounds. The cost mattered little. I was making kuchen.

Then the cashier rang up the rhubarb, and I stopped, rethought my life, and reshelved the rhubarb. Rhubarb, in Pittsburgh, apparently is not local. I almost considered walking back to Mellon Park and cutting my own pithy stems. At least they were cost effective!

Instead, I headed back to Giant Eagle's produce section in search of one vegetable—the old standby. Steady, always, always available, plain, simple, reliable squash. Zucchini. It is the most loathed vegetable (by children and neighbors), and it is the most generous gift: “Oh, please, take extra. I'm sure I have more zucchini at home. And if not, I will tomorrow.”

I dialed my cell phone. “Mom, I need help. It's an emergency. I need your chocolate zucchini cake recipe.”

The one summer, years ago, Mom planted one extra zucchini plant. Usually it was one plant or two. That summer, she planted three. Quickly, even with six children, we were up to a full refrigerator of zucchini. When zucchini began appearing in the garden the size of baseball bats (which meant they had been accidentally missed during an early morning picking), Mom became a zucchini connoisseur. Unlike Shakespeare, she didn't merely plant food references throughout writing. She stuck zucchini through every food course of every meal.

“Here, try zucchini meatloaf. You'll like it.”

And we did.

For the rest of the summer, until thankfully even the tough, maniacal squash plants had had enough sun and withered away, we ate zucchini everything: muffins, egg dishes, meat dishes, veggie layers.

The favorite, though, was zucchini chocolate cake.

Perhaps it's because chocolate cake does taste better with added moisture, be it oil, mayonnaise or, in this case, squash. Perhaps because anything with chocolate tastes better. Or perhaps because we were all tired of zucchini and anything that masked the green-skinned white pith with its bland, slippery texture was delicious.

Either way, I left the Giant Eagle grocery store richer for having folded my money and put it back in my pocket and, moreso, for picking up smooth, green zucchini heading towards a fail-proof recipe I knew would entertain any empty stomach—even if it wasn't rhubarb. For zucchini always tastes like summer. And summer is delicious.

Right now, I'm still considering rhubarb. The stringy stalks should find their way into my refrigerator sometime in the next month. That would work for me. I'm even considering if the massive elephant ears can be grown indoors—to prepare for sourness for next year.

But for now, I've stopped craving that barbarous vegetable, for my childhood barbarous attitude against zucchini long ago shifted into something friendly, welcoming, and even comforting. I've learned zucchini chocolate cake—moist from the slivers of squash scattered through the dark chocolate essence—satisfies any cravings. Even those from a Pennsylvania Dutch girl.

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Taco Tuesday, a Lament

By Helena Nichols

When I was but a young twenty year old, I had dreams. I had plans. And these plans included Taco Tuesdays at a local bar. But like all dreams of those under the age of 21, mine were shattered.

The idea to go to Taco Tuesday came during a Wednesday morning intern meeting. I had an internship with a literary agent, Danielle. Each Wednesday morning Danielle and her interns would meet at a local Crazy Mocha to drink coffee, read query letters, and discuss various parts of our lives.

This week there was discussion of Taco Tuesdays, where one can go and consume tacos for the nominal price of $0.75 each. What a glorious concept! We planned a group outing to eat tacos and socialize; there was just one problem. As a bar/restaurant there was only a 50% chance I could go. You see, in Pennsylvania there is a law that states if more than 50% of an establishment’s income comes from alcohol that place is not allowed to permit minors (under 21year olds) on the premises. And I was the only one of the group not yet 21.

This was disconcerting, as I have previously had to back out of social gatherings due to my age. After searching some time online I could not find one thing that would indicate whether or not I would be allowed into the establishment. Most places will post such information on their websites, but this particular place didn’t even have one.

So Tuesday arrives and I drive to meet my fellow interns and to eat tacos, and low and behold, I am denied entry. As I mentioned above I am the youngest of the interns, and this is a theme in my life. Most of my friends are at least 2 years older than I am. To make matters more complicated, my sweetheart is also older than I am. This means that if I want to go out with any of them I have to be very careful about where we go.

I left the establishment and came home and ate leftover pizza on the couch. I tried not to think about how I was being denied time with friends and cheap tacos because of what moon I was born under, but it was futile. This had happened too many times. Out of spite I made a list of the things I could, and couldn’t, do under the law. This is what I came up with:

Things you can do at 20:

Put myself in hundreds of thousands of dollars of student debt.

Adopt a child

Possess a hand gun

Vote

Be a prostitute in certain parts of Nevada

Serve in the military

Make alcohol

Serve alcohol to patrons in a pub that has a Taco Tuesday night

Things you can’t do:

Eat tacos in the above pub that has a Taco Tuesday night

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All Smiles at Smiling Banana Leaf: A Restaurant Review

By Sarah Raad Grubb

While looking for apartments last year my S.O. and I found ourselves in Highland Park, tucked in the corner of Smiling Banana Leaf at a table for two. SBL is an unassuming Thai restaurant with a white painted façade and flower pots along the street and in the windows. Inside is small, on the verge of being cramped. Or – if you’re an optimist – quite intimate and cozy. But the decor is inviting, and on the ceiling is a large painted mural of the Buddha presiding over diners with colorful serenity. Luckily we’d gotten there at a lull; I could imagine this place packed at prime lunch and dinner hours.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the potential apartment building we’d driven by. A glass-and-metal behemoth with load-bearing beams exposed outside, it looked to me like it could topple at any second. It was an island in the middle of nowhere, looming on a hill overlooking a crusty reservoir, a pillar against the hoarse barks of the seals at the nearby zoo. I was not sold – until, that is, we took a drive through the neighborhood down to Bryant Street three blocks away and rolled up to SBL.

I spent a good amount of time looking at the menu, although as soon as my eyes locked onto som tum, my mind was made up. Som tum is a fresh salad made of shreds of young papaya, cherry tomatoes, long beans, peanuts, and carrots. Fresh chilies and garlic, sauces, and a round pat of palm sugar are added, and the entire mixture is muddled together in a large bowl with a pestle. In my last year of high school and for a few years in college I worked at a couple different Thai restaurants. Som tum was a staple there when the chefs and I would hunker down at a table and eat together after our shifts were done and the doors were locked. When our waitress at SBL came by I ordered the papaya salad with a side of sticky rice, then began my eager wait. Man, was it worth it.

Served on a bed of mixed field greens, the som tum assaulted my tongue in every vicious and delicious way possible: the tart-sweet of the citrus and sugar sauce; the firm crunch of long bean and papaya and peanuts; the taste-bud-searing heat of chili peppers; the lasting bite of garlic that’s worth the several hours of dragon breath that follow. In-between swigs of water I devoured my dish, savoring the remaining juices soaked into the hot sticky rice. Afterward I tended to my watery eyes and runny nose, delighting with each inhaled breath in the momentary cool relief of my burning, buzzing mouth. My stomach and heart were full. I’d found my new favorite spot, a place to be loyal to.

A couple weeks after our first trip to Smiling Banana Leaf, the S.O. and I signed a lease for the topple-y looking building. Was it because of SBL? Well, not entirely. But it sure didn’t hurt.

Smiling Banana Leaf

5901 Bryant St. Highland Park, Pittsburgh, PA 15206 412.362.3200

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Guess Work: A Recipe

By Erica Rabbin

I work in a restaurant, and we throw odds and ends away--stems from the portobellos, things like that. I have a new game I play with myself: rescuing the food. And because all good games have rules, going out of my comfort zone is worth bonus points. Last week when my manager gave me 8 cups of portobello stems I used them in a stew. I gave myself some credit for using all the stems before they spoiled, but I had already made the recipe a few days before--I hadn't even gone through it all before I made the new batch.

This week, I got eight cups of portobello stems and 10 cups of non-portobello mushroom broth, the latter snatched from the other side of the strainer as my coworker poured out the liquid given off by the criminis when he cooked them for use on "funghi pizze."

I asked the internet for "things to do with mushrooms," but soon realized I had the answer on my hard drive. Years ago I borrowed cookbooks featuring different ethnic cuisines out of the library. From Cooking the French Way, I copied a recipe for Sautéed Chicken and still pull it out for dinners. It uses one can of mushrooms. Could I swap in the stems?  BUT THE BONUS POINTS! Here's how I decided to get out of my comfort zone: I would use mushroom stock for the chicken stock it calls for, add way too many mushrooms, and try to do the recipe from memory. (Yes, I've made this dish 20 times; no, I can never remember what's in it.)

I gathered the ingredients in amounts that looked right. Chicken, flour, salt, thyme, bay leaves, rosemary…no rosemary in the cabinet. How about lavender? I have no idea if lavender and mushrooms go together.  All I know is once I added too much lavender to my oatmeal and it tasted like soap.

The mushrooms were staring at me, so I worked with them first. I sliced them crosswise, to about the size of the top section of my thumb.

I mixed the thyme, salt, lavender, and crumbled bay leaves in a small dish. I dredged the chicken and then patted seasoning on it. When I follow the recipe, it tells me to mix the seasonings in with the flour. I can't help but feel like I'm wasting flavor when I toss the extra flour.  Without the recipe, I dredge and season separately. Point for confidence!

Once the chicken browned, I added the mushrooms and stock. When it boiled, I turned it down ("TURN DOWN FOR WHAT?"  Lil John, now's not the time) to simmer for a half hour. Voila! 

 How'd I do?

Overall, the substitutions and recipe-guessing worked, and I got in a few more vegetables per serving because of my huge bag of stems. Next time, I'll use a larger pot so the ingredients don't look so cramped. You can flex the amounts chicken and mushrooms up or down, depending on what's in your freezer and what they're throwing out at work.

**

Recipe:  Mushroom Stem Sautéed Chicken

Ingredients

3 Tbsp vegetable oil

2 Tbsp butter

1.5 lb boneless chicken breasts, either cut into smaller pieces or left whole

1.5-2 cups flour, for dredging

1 tsp salt

1 tsp thyme

1/2 tsp lavender

2 finely crumbled bay leaves

8 cups portobello stems

Whole mushrooms will work just as well

2 cups mushroom stock

May substitute vegetable or chicken stock

 Method

Melt together butter and oil in a large frying pan over medium heat.

In a small bowl mix salt, thyme, lavender, and bay leaves.

Dredge chicken in flour and pat with seasoning.

Add the chicken to the pan, pour any extra seasoning on top, and brown on all sides.  Chicken does not have to be cooked through.

Meanwhile, slice the mushroom stems crosswise, into about 3/4-inch long cylinders.

Add the mushrooms and stock to the pan.  Bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to medium-low and partially cover.  Simmer 40 minutes or until sauce has reduced and thickened. 

If needed, thicken sauce with flour.

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Patria / Toronto: A Restaurant Review

 By Billy Jenkins

  To drive. When you find yourself with some time to spare, consider visiting our kindly neighbors to the north, this is not your fathers Toronto. I found a bustling, vibrant youthful city with packed eateries on every street corner.

My companion Jane and I settle on our hotel recommended hotspot. A Spanish themed tapas bar, where the soft lighting creates an atmosphere of intimacy even though the bar is filled to capacity.

We begin with modestly priced cocktails, an Aperitivo for me, which is Aperol, codorníu cava, orange {soft sweet grapefruit mingle with dry crisp bubbles} for me, while Jane enjoys an Elyxer; Absolut elyx vodka, lime, sugar {tart limes, balanced with sweet spice}.

Our meal begins with Pan Con Tomate with Manchego and Dátiles Con Tocino Ibérico.

If you are like me, swayed by all things cheese and or bacon wrapped, these two items are worth the trip themselves. We follow these two course with marinated garlic shrimp and Ensalada De Alcachofas Fritas Con Queso Manchego, which includes shaved fennel, radishes, Manchego, and crispy artichokes

After another round of cocktails we devour two of the most heavenly desserts one could ever imagine in Patria’s Mousse De Dulce De Leche Conchocolatey Crema Fresca and their Helado De Café Con Crema De Especias Ymermelada De Aceitunas Negras

**

This meal is otherworldly. The rich chocolate and smooth black olive marmalade in our desserts invigorate my taste buds after the smoky bacon wrapped dates and aged Manchego cheeses.

Tapas, traditionally smaller sized meals, and served with speed and flair here at Patria’s allow us to savor each morsel, yet also leaves us without the stuffed feeling heavier meals consisting of starches might. Our service is however punctuated with a waiter who insists on aggressively suggesting palate compatible dishes.

The experience is so magical we decide to create our own version upon our return home. This of course can never replicate our experience however as one who can just as easily dine out with the best of them, I would much prefer slipping into pajamas to watch a recorded episode of Game of Thrones, while munching away at my version of this Toronto must have.

To anyone thinking of traveling north on vacation, or just want to pop over the border for the day, I recommend Patria’s as a must-see in Toronto. The food is varied and considering each dish ranges between $7 and $10 dollars one need not break the piggy bank to taste all it has to offer.

For the adventurous day driver…

Address: 480 King St. W. (near Spadina Ave.), 416-276-8875, www.patriatoronto.com

Reservations: Recommended

Wheelchair access: Yes

Price: Dinner for two with wine, tax and tip: $100

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Rent the Chicken

By Amy Lee Heinlen

I love eggs. Scrambled, poached, sunny side up, in a quiche, omelet, frittata, holding together a cake, really any way they come. When I was a hard-line vegan for a few years, eggs were what I missed most. As a vegetarian and a person generally concerned for the welfare of animals, I am mindful of my egg intake and try to only eat those that were laid by well-treated, happy hens. Local is even better.

I grew up 20 minutes north of Columbus, Ohio before it was overtaken by urban sprawl and the cookie cutter houses and strip malls stomped the farmlands to death. It was not unusual for the kids I went to school with to live and work on honest-to-goodness farms. While my parents didn’t operate a farm, we did have a barn in our backyard but the closest to farm animals we had were horses, dogs, and cats. My mom and I liked to talk about getting a few chickens. The idea of their fluffy white feathery selves pecking and running around our expansive backyard made us smile.

But the reality of building a coop well enough to keep out the raccoons, foxes, the cold and wet, not to mention adding the daily chore of scooping chicken poop to the three stalls we were already cleaning, put a damper on us counting poultry among our menagerie.

Since I moved to Swissvale, PA I put any dreams of a few chickens in my backyard aside. So when my neighbors announce they are getting chickens, I am elated. This is the best of both worlds. The chickens will be close enough for my husband, daughter, and me to visit with them, help out here and there, but we will not be solely responsible for them. And we will have a supply of fresh eggs!

The chickens arrive and they’re fabulous. Their white, feathery, fluffy bodies, Ethel Merman style plumes on their heads, and dark blue beaks, legs, and feet do not disappoint. The makeshift coop is a little disconcerting because of its mismatched wood and chicken wire not meeting the ground in some places. But the three chickens are curious about their new surroundings and are soon pecking the ground. When they look at us, they show off their classic beaky profiles. This is really happening!

My daughter gets her first taste of urban chicken farming.

 Within a week, the goofy joy of the chickens fades. Two of the chickens have started cock-a-doodle-doing in the mornings. Our neighbors are not loving the amount of poop they have to scoop to keep things sanitary. And the birds are getting harder to wrangle when they fly the coop. Sadly, our neighbors admit defeat and the three chickens (or one chicken and two roosters) go to live on the farm in Braddock. Yes! There is a farm in Braddock!

But my dream of farm fresh eggs, laid by happy, healthy chickens I know personally has taken hold. And then I discover Rent the Chicken.

  image from http://www.rentthechicken.com/p/blog-page.html

 For a not insignificant sum ($350), you will be the happy recipient of two chickens, a coop, all the food needed for the season, water and food dishes, as well as guidance and instructions on how to care for them from the merry months of May through November. AND you will get 8-11 eggs per week!

For now, I’m going to have to settle for eggs from the farmer’s market, delicious because they are from happy, well-treated chickens, but chickens I have not met nonetheless. But come some May in the (I hope not so distant) future, my backyard will become the home to two happy, goofy, joyful chickens. And with the option to adopt the chickens at the end of the season, perhaps they will become more than just guests, but family.

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First Forages

By Hannah Ridge

Every spring brings with it optimism. Each day is longer than the last and even the sleepiest trees betray a verdure eagerly peeking from behind the veil of the last frost. Spring bursts at the seams with impatient plans for sunlit outings: picnics, camping, fresh spring water, and foraging for wild edibles. I had never “foraged” before and Tim had a lot to teach me. What I really wanted was a ramp, a wild leek. And I had waited all winter.

The beginning of April was still crisp, and by the time it thawed, Tim and I had only been able to get as far as Frick Park. But we had Mother’s Day off, and planned a trip to Greensburg for a cookout at his parents’ house. Greensburg being outside the city, we decided to go for a hike before lunch with his family. I was excited to explore anything other than the well-marked paths of Frick Park with the cacophony of passing traffic ricocheting off the trees.

It was in this forest somewhere in Westmoreland County (I’ll never tell!) that I got the one ramp I had been waiting for, and many more that we couldn’t carry. I had strayed from Tim’s determined stride down the path, and was exploring when I heard Tim excitedly yell my name. I tramped back toward the path as fast as I could, trying to avoid the spider webs that bridged the saplings, wondering anxiously what it was. Did he catch a frog? Is he hurt? Am I lollygagging? Or... maybe... did he find a ramp patch? Sure enough, a little farther down the path I found him, grinning and shaking a single onion with stringy roots, streaks of purple along the stem, and broad, green leaves.

Even though it was only May, I knew this would remain the best moment of my spring. I looked around the clearing. Wild leeks were everywhere, and this patch had probably been untouched all season. After much celebration and disbelief, Tim and I got to work digging up as many as we could, which wasn’t even a tenth of the patch. Unprepared for such a harvest, we only had Tim’s backpack to carry them.

I don’t know how many we took. We gave a handful to my dad, who had never tried them. We made pesto from the leaves, cutting it with homemade basil pesto after the taste proved unbearably sharp. The stems, weighing a full pound, we pickled with cider vinegar, fennel seed and green peppercorns. A little over a month later, they continue to develop in the back of our fridge.

I don’t know how good they will taste; I’ve never pickled anything before. I certainly wish I had tried pickling them a few different ways, for the sake of posterity. But next spring, we will visit that spot more than once as we find and create recipes for the wild leeks. And that morning satisfied for me the optimism so ingrained in the essence of spring.

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For Annie in Little Rock

By Kyle E. Wolff

Annie,

Last night I had a dream we were in my kitchen baking pies. Our bodies were covered with long, linen night dresses the color of cream that hit the cold tile every time we moved. Our feet were bare and our brown hair was long, wavy and tangled to our backs. The back door off the kitchen was open and outside it was dawn. The sun was beginning to rise over the hills. It was silent in the kitchen except for the stainless steel knife slicing tomatoes. If we listened close enough, we could hear the juices from the plump red giants slide down onto the cutting board and gather a little puddle underneath themselves. We didn’t talk to each other like we usually do when we are together, chattering away effortlessly. We were quiet and dedicated to those tomato pies.

I don’t remember, Annie, if we could smell the pies in the dream. All I remember is stacks of tomatoes on the corner of our cutting boards and the cream-colored night dresses that hung over our thin bodies. The tomatoes were so juicy, we kept licking our fingers, so it must have been summertime, the tomatoes fresh off the vine, ready to explode.

Yesterday Annie, when I wasn’t dreaming, I planted about three hundred tomatoes into the wet earth. I followed behind a rickety tractor holding trays and trays of tomato transplants. The tractor had a contraption that with each wheel rotation a clamp came down and poked a hole into the ground. I would pull the dirt from the hole towards me with the four fingers of my right hand, with the plant in my left. Then I tugged at the plant’s roots a bit and plopped it into the hole. I used both my hands to pile dirt and nutrients from the ground to form a hill around the tomato. After we finished three rows, I looked back over my sun-burnt shoulder and squinted my eyes in satisfaction. Sweat and dirt grazed my face. The air was stale and buggy and my right thigh was already cramped from all the squatting. But looking over my shoulder was like looking into the future. A future full of tomato pies, tomato sandwiches, tomatoes covered with pesto and mozzarella, tomatoes plain with just a dash of salt.  

And then last night I dreamt of us in the kitchen baking tomato pies as the florescent sun crept over earth. We each had a cutting board, a knife and a bowl full of tomatoes which we sliced thin and stacked into high piles. We put them on the corners of our cutting boards and moved on to the next tomato. It seemed so vivid, you and me, in the kitchen baking pies wearing night dresses as everyone else we knew slept underneath soft sheets .

 *

Tomato Pie made for dreams

 Two pre-made pie crusts (freezer section)

Two large juicy tomatoes (fresh of the vine preferably)

Fresh basil

Mayo (Hellman’s is the best—adds to the sweetness)

Two big bags of Shredded Sharp Cheddar cheese

Salt + Pepper

Precook pie crusts without anything in them at 375 degrees for about ten minutes.

While the pie crusts are cooking slice the tomatoes thin, and mix the mayo and cheese together in a mixing bowl. I would say two parts cheese, one part mayo. Use one bag per pie!

Pull out the pie crusts, layer the tomato slices around the base, sprinkle S & P, layer some basil on top of tomatoes, then put the cheese/mayo mixture on top, spreading it evenly around the pie. Sprinkle a little more S & P, and if you want to get fancy pretty, you can stick the basil into the cheese mixture and make a pretty design—the standard is three small basil leaves pressed into the cheese in the middle of the pie—the stems touching and the leaves shooting out towards the crust. Get creative! Sometimes, I cut the basil into words and write messages on the pies.

Pop the pies back in the oven for twenty to thirty minutes—depending on the oven.  Keep checking on the pie until the top gets a little golden brown.

Serve with love, with people you love. Or with strangers. This pie brings people together in reality and in dreams.

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Saved by Cake

By Whitney Hayes

On a Monday night, I dance around my apartment and listen to Frank Sinatra sing about potato chips while trying not to think about the pain in my arm as I whisk cake batter for nine minutes. I like New York in June, how about you? I like a Gershwin tune, how about you? I hum myself through the tight circular motions of the whisk immersed in absurdly thick mixture. I focus on my breathing. At five minutes, I wonder if perhaps the batter is stirring me, but I continue to hug the plastic bowl to my ribcage, continue to check the stopwatch at regular intervals, and I wait for my mind to land on a wish.

I felt superstitious about this cake before I even purchased the ingredients to make it. The cake, a Greek dish called phanouropita, is a class assignment. I read its history and learned that centuries of Orthodox women have made this cake to honor St. Phanourios, the finder of lost things, so he will reveal to them something missing. When I learned this, I knew my own rendition of the dish would have intention behind it. I want to use my cake to find something lost.

What I want to find is a piece of myself. Since arriving to graduate school, I have felt that I lost something vital. I have not been able to pinpoint the exact time and location of the loss, nor can I name suspects or motives, but after an ugly breakup and a stressful start to my summer, I know I need change. Anxiety has taken up residence in my stomach lining. I worry about money and my future, I worry about love, I worry about my unending to-do list that accompanies a masters program. I want to shed all of this worry with the possibility of phanouropita. I want to be saved by cake.

What I think about now as I shuffle my feet across the tile and whisk to Frank’s voice is that maybe I just want to find my confidence again. I want to believe in my life without needing to control it. This epiphany feels subtle amidst my burning forearms, but also important. It feels like a wish.

Frank finishes singing, I finish stirring, and I transfer my dough and intentions into the pan. I mentally wind the epiphany into a tight ball as I slide my cake into the hot oven. I don’t cross myself or say a prayer, but I do blow a kiss to the heap of dough resting in the pan before I close the metal door. I set my timer and wait.

Soon the cake pushes out warm cinnamon air and I smell the other ingredients start to braid together in confectionary harmony. The aromas make me realize that I have not baked in over six months, maybe longer.  When I cook for myself lately, I tend to use the stovetop. I stir and taste constantly and am always an active member of the process. It feels odd now to walk away from the kitchen while my cake bakes. It feels odd to leave it alone. 

                                                      **

 Inevitably, I burn my saint cake. I slid a knife into the center three times before I took it out, but the bottom has still been edged in dark shadow. I saw into the thick loaf and find the center doughy and slightly uncooked. I understand now that baking is less about control and more about trust, which perhaps unearths the reason that it has been absent in my life. I don’t trust the process anymore.

I try a piece of my cake anyway. The charcoaled bottom tastes of smoke but the inside feels soft and plump. The texture holds as I bite into it and a layer of spiced sweetness covers my tongue like autumn, like Christmas, like memories of mulled cider and home all at once.

I look at the triangular portions of cake steaming their plastic bags and know that to believe in this tradition is to believe that St. Phanourios will reveal good fortune. And before I even have to give it away, I feel the cake’s effects. Just to bake this thing and give it a purpose meant to have confidence. I trusted in my cake—trusted that I had whisked enough or added enough baking powder or used enough orange juice. I trusted the heat and the timer and the knife through the rounded top, and even though my phanouropita did not turn out as planned, I at least believed in it.

I think of the current ingredients of my life—writing and school and teaching, waitressing shifts and half-marathon training, long-distance friendships and my role as Maid of Honor to my sister. I envision them all going into a large plastic bowl stirred together. I slide the mixture into the pan and blow it a kiss. Now I must walk away and let it bake.   

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Pimm's O' Clock

By Rachael Dymski

“Five of you and one of me, it must be Pimm’s O’Clock.”

A regular refrain in the summer months of my childhood home— a sprawling five-acre garden on the outskirts of Buffalo—  “Pimm's O’Clock” is my favorite time of day, as well as the only math equation I can always get right (Solution? No matter how many there are of you or me, it is always Pimm’s O’Clock). For me, the months of July and August may as well have a bottle of Pimm’s and thickly sliced lemons engraved into their early evening hours. 

I stand in the kitchen with my mother and sisters, bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor, pressed against each other at the counter. We slice oranges, lemons, and cucumbers, dumping them into tall transparent pitchers. The room is hot, sweltering, in fact, and we edge toward the open window in hope of a breeze. My mother, who grew up twelve miles off the coast of France and so naturally has a strong opposition to air conditioning, thinks about getting a sweater. We, her grown-up children, take ice cubes from the blue trays in the freezer, sliding them down our sticky backs  and holding them to our foreheads when she is not looking, careful not to place those ones in the pitchers. 

     My mother then divides the Pimm’s, a pink tinted English gin, among the pitchers and mixes it with a different soft drink in each one: lemonade, sprite, ginger ale. The drink is the color of dark tea, made with spices and citrus fruit.  She accents the drink with a few sprigs of mint. My sisters and I arrange snacks onto floral trays: strawberries so ripe they can barely contain their juice, dipped in a dark chocolate and cold from the fridge, mixed nuts coated with sea salt, slices of thick French bread and smelly cheeses bought this morning from the market. Carefully, we carry all our preparations outside and across the lawn, where the five o’clock hour casts a golden glow on the table with the umbrella. We summon my father, my brother, and whatever family from England is over at the time. It is Pimm’s O’Clock.

**

     With two born-and-bred English parents, it’s no surprise, really, that I’ve been having a version of Pimm’s for nearly two decades now. My mother used to tint my sprite with raspberries, so that even at the tender age of four, I felt like one of the adults. Until about five years ago, Pimm’s could only be bought in Europe and at the Heathrow Duty Free, and so most of my early memories involving Pimm’s take place in a villa in the South of France, in the windy Lake District, near the beaches of St. Margaret’s Bay in Dover. In my memory, I am usually on a knee, of my grandad, my auntie, my father. I am lulled into a dreamy comfort by their sharing and  reminiscing, seduced into silence by their own soothing chatter until, eyes drooping, I am carried upstairs. Half conscious, my cousins and I put on pajamas and are tucked into our airy, salty sheets with a kiss.The windows are open, and as I drift off to sleep, smells of coffee mingle with the laughter outside. To this day, I cannot smell coffee without thinking, deep in the recesses of my mind, that I am loved.

**

     On the lawn, we raise our drinks to a toast, hands touching and glass clinking, the liquid spilling over and running onto the table. We sit back on cushioned chairs, in that sun’s fading light, stripped down to the bare essentials, soaking up, as you must in Buffalo, every minute of summer’s warmth. Completely unhurried, with no agenda other than to fully enjoy the food and the company, we visit each other in a way that can never be done in rushed conversation. We laugh over family memories and stories I can’t remember the original versions of: the time we went backpacking through the wilderness and it poured all four days, the time my grandad drove the tractor into the fence, the time we drove to Italy by mistake because my mother had the map upside down. We sit outside, until we are swollen from sandwiches, until our glasses are empty, until the fireflies flash around our table like strobe lights.

**

     Pimm’s, of course, was my first alcoholic drink, imbibed in the heart of the Newforest on another trip to England when I was sixteen. Elated that I could finally participate, and even more so, do it in the open, I drank two glasses, quickly. The sting of the gin was softened by the sprite, and the citrusy, minty aftertaste made the liquid go down smoothly. When my head started spinning I eagerly smothered folds of warm brie and fig onto buttery crackers and stuffed them into my mouth. 

     It’s a little weird, growing up in a town where your parents are the only two immigrants for miles. It’s uncomfortable, in school, to say words you thought were plain English, like kitchen roll, duvet, and queue, only to find out, in front of the entire third grade, that they are horrifically unAmerican. It’s also strange to go back to England, where all my family lives, and there, with my siblings, be counted as the odd ones out, the Americans. To be laughed at for the way we dress, to suddenly think we've been saying ordinary words like car and pants the wrong way our whole lives. “Just listen to that accent!” they say, and we wonder why we are to blame for being born in the wrong place.

     My cousins and I, whatever competition lay between us, whatever need we each had to prove our country and way of life was better, were all united by our love of Pimm’s, or rather, the atmosphere Pimm’s created. We all grew up craving that golden hour of snacks and fizzies, sitting around outside as the day squeezes out its last light, celebrating togetherness, each other, and the realization that not even an ocean could keep us from being close. It was as though those last drops of the sun also shed light on the fact that we weren’t so different after all. My brother Matt and my cousin Daniel always ate too much at dinner, that Emma wore her hair the same way I did, Rebecca and James had the same blue eyes. As we grew older, we exchanged the laps of our parents for a table of our own. By the time we were teenagers, we too brimmed over with stories, inside jokes and memories unique to the nine of us.

     It was Pimm’s and tiny sausages that we had to celebrate the wedding of my cousin Daniel. No sooner had they left the church than they were back inside, glasses in hand, asking us all to join them for “Pimm’s on the lawn” that was covered with bunting. It was Pimm’s, flavored with cucumbers, that we had in England the week my Grandad breathed his last, a horde of seventeen surrounding him to the end. It was Pimm’s that my immediate family sipped on back in Buffalo, our drinks mixing with salty tears, as we spoke about his life and mourned his loss.

**     

     Next week, I’m going back to Buffalo, with my husband who has also come to love the drink and its tradition. I stop by the liquor store to pick up a bottle. The clerk has never had Pimm’s before, but she tells me she’s heard it is a “very fashionable drink.” 

     “Yes,” I say with a smile, as I think of sweaty limbs touching, laughing hard into the dark night, arguing over the correct way to pronounce squirrel, and enough cheese to give everyone a stomach ache. “Very fashionable indeed."

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"...by cooking, we’re able to explore concepts of transfiguration and change that our culture doesn’t really honor in other arenas."

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London Pop-Up Restaurant Allows Patrons to Pay in Photos, Clever Advertising Stunt

There's a growing concern among many in the industry that photography is having a harder and harder time putting food on the table, but that certainly wasn

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Push the breakfast envelope with this savory oatmeal recipe by writer Sherrie Flick.