Let’s say you find yourself one night driving down a dark residential street, when suddenly, at the far reaches of your car’s headlights, you spot a fleeting movement… a person, no, two people out in the middle of the street. What are they doing? As you drive closer you see they are now standing to the side of the street, looking up at a big tree in front of a house. The woman points at the tree and turns to the man who is gazing at the tree contemplatively… but still… something seems not quite right… hmmm, you wonder why the man is wearing shorts with black socks and wingtip shoes… perhaps he is from Bermuda? And the woman, high heels with sweatpants? What is going on?!?
Well, if this happens to you, please stop to say hello, since it is most likely RWT and me out practicing our waltz. Yes, we sneak out in the dark of night and dance in the street in front of our house. Luckily, we can practice most of our dancing in the cool privacy of our dining room which has been semi-permanently rearranged with all the furniture shoved down to one end to create an ~12’ square dance floor. This works great for the non-traveling dances… cha-cha, rumba (our favorite), salsa and swing, but for the dances that circle the dance floor (waltz, foxtrot and tango), it is simply too small.
When we first started ballroom dancing, we practiced the traveling dances by going around the inside of the house (which fortunately, as the infamous Miss Marcia S would say, “has good flow”)... dining room to family room (watch out for the footstool!) to kitchen (aack, don’t hit your elbows on the second doorway!) to the study (no, don’t do that turn on the carpet, my shoes stick too much!) to the living room (ouch, you backed me into the couch!) and back to the relatively spacious dining room. But now that we are advancing in our dancing, we’re starting to do more and more fancy moves that require additional space for our flailing arms and legs. So outside it is…
At the moment we are working on a waltz move affectionately referred to by our dance teacher as the “18-steps from hell” (a reverse turning box). Basically we have to waltz as we’ve learned it for the last nine months, only do all the moves backward. And then alternate between the two directions. Truly mind boggling and results in a lot of stepped-on toes (usually mine). However, things are progressing well and I can even follow RWT’s leads as he randomly (at least from my viewpoint) decides which way we are turning and if I should be stepping forward with my right foot or my left or stepping backward with my left foot or my right…
Meanwhile, our neighbors lie in their beds at night wondering why they keep hearing a faint “one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…” Just wait until we start working on our tango!
15 June 2005
14 June 2005
Fear of Yeast
Not to sound like a broken record (hmm, maybe that phrase should be updated to “a broken CD”), but I was reading my food forum and there was a discussion on...
...the mediocrity of store-bought pizza dough. No, I am not talking about the dough already formed into large disks or (shudder) already topped, but the kind of dough available at “upscale” markets such as Trader Joe’s or Wegmans. It comes as a little blob in a bag and it is up to the consumer to stretch it, top it and bake it.
Frankly, this idea drives me nuts!!! (Even more than the thought of spending $$$ for those meringue cookies at Trader Joe’s and I know that many of you have heard me rant on and on about that topic, so I’ll drop it… for now.)
Flour, water, yeast and salt (and possibly a little oil in there too). People are buying a simple mixture of flour, water, yeast and salt. If you have the flour, water, yeast and salt, a bowl, a spoon and a little arm strength, there is no reason why you cannot make a superior product to pre-made dough you can buy.
Although many folks have a hard time believing this, there really is no magic involved in making bread. No special skills, no ritualistic sacrifices to the gods of baking, not even any essential special equipment (not that you can’t use special equipment, my pantry is testimony to that). The toppings for pizza are more of a cooking challenge than the crust!
So for the record, here are my basics of bread:
-- Yeast. Do not be afraid. Go to the grocery store and buy the little packets of yeast that are located in the baking aisle. The brand and type (rapid-rise, instant or regular) are not that important at this point. But be sure to check the back of the envelope to see that the yeast is not past the expiration date. And under no condition buy the cakes of fresh yeast in the refrigerated section. While fresh yeast can be wonderful, more often, it is simply dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead yeast will do nothing for you or your bread.
-- Flour. Buy unbleached. Save the bleached flour for your biscuits, cookies and pie crusts. Buy King Arthur brand if you can find it (many Safeway's carry it now). Gold Medal is my second choice, but most any unbleached flour will work. Like the various types of yeast, specialty flours (such as bread flour) are for when you are more experienced. And when you are ready to get into that level of baking, you’ll know it, so don’t give it another thought for now.
-- Water. Out of the tap. Don’t worry about the chlorine content – the yeast are much tougher than many make them out to be. If you are mixing the water with just yeast, it should be warm. If you are adding the water to a yeast/flour mixture, it should be as hot out of the tap as possible.
-- Salt. Table salt, iodized salt, non-iodized salt, kosher salt, sea salt, gourmet salt hand-harvested under a full summer moon by a guy named Pierre from a pristine ¼ mile stretch of coast in Brittany… It does not matter that much. The only point of concern is that the large-grained salts do not measure the same as a small-grained salt. Generally the volume given in most recipes is geared toward small-grained table salt, so if you use kosher salt, you might need a little more. But, frankly, you probably won't be able to tell anyway. Just don’t forget the salt. Unsalted bread is definitely an acquired taste.
-- Other ingredients. Oil, butter, eggs, sugar, nuts, fruits, vegetables, meats, flavorings, other grains and specialty flours. All can be added in various amounts, but I suggest avoiding them until you get a feel for basic dough. A surprising amount of flavor can be obtained just from flour, water, yeast and salt.
-- Proofing the yeast. Don’t. Really. Unless the yeast is beyond the expiration date marked on the package it will be alive. Trust me. This is the 21st century. We have the technology. (And many rapid-rise yeasts are so speedy they can easily starve to death in ten minutes in a pool of warm water containing only a teaspoon or so of sugar or flour. Don’t be that cruel!)
-- Mixing. Unless you are looking to get things up and running really, really quickly (and this exception is used in the recipe below), mix one half of the total amount of flour and the rest of the dry ingredients together and then dump in the wet ingredients. Mix with a stand mixer or by hand with a strong spoon.
-- Kneading. How much kneading depends on what you want in your final product. In fact, some gluten (the stuff that makes dough stretchy and able to rise) will form on its own without any help from you at all. Use the recipe as a guide and trust what you feel. The only advantage to hand kneading over kneading with a mixer is that when you knead by hand you cannot help but notice when the dough has had enough.
-- Consistency. How much flour to add while kneading… err of the side of too little. This is the point were most people get themselves into trouble. Some of the best breads come from the wettest doughs. If using a pan with sides and with enough time in the oven, pretty much any dough firmer than a milkshake consistency can be made into a bread. Free-form loaves obviously need a bit more body. But while your first attempts may not be pretty and tall, any free-form bread will be edible as long as it does not run off the baking stone and burn on the bottom of the oven. A rule of thumb is to never make your dough firmer than the consistency of playdough (the commercial kind, not the really soft homemade kind my mother made for me).
-- Rising. Long rises, short rises, one rise, multiple rises, cool rises, warm rises, cold rises, no rise! A myriad of options. All will affect the texture and taste. Warmer = Faster. Cooler = Slower + More Flavor. Experiment. Have fun. This stage is pretty difficult mess up.
-- Forming and Proofing. Stretching the top of the surface of the formed loaf will make it look nicer, but will not really affect the taste. So don’t stress out about this step. Worry more about the proofing (the final rise before baking). If the formed dough is over-proofed, it can deflate in the oven, or even worse to witness, as you are carrying it to the oven. Don’t let any dough proof more than double in size, and most doughs don’t even need that much of an increase (and a few are not proofed at all). And remember, you can almost always take over-proofed dough (before it is baked) and reform it and start the proofing step over.
-- Baking. Buy a baking stone. Or better yet, two. Put one on the lowest rack in your oven and the other on the highest rack. Preheat your oven at least 45 minutes before you bake with the stone(s) in the oven so they are nice and hot. Bake your breads on the lower stone with the upper stone as close above as possible without touching the baking loaves (take into account the bread might also rise some during baking). Bake your loaves until they are well-browned (short of burning it, it is hard to over-bake bread) and loaf-shaped breads should sound a bit hollow when tapped on the bottom (you’ll need to tip them out of the pan to check if they are not free-form loaves.)
And that is it. Yes, it looks like a lot of steps, but it is really a simple and, more importantly, a forgiving process. Keep in mind that it is only flour, water, yeast and salt. If things go horribly wrong, toss it and start over (although I’ve never made a bread that could not be eaten in some form – turn a dense loaf into bread crumbs, make croutons, strata, bread pudding…). Experimentation is the real key to becoming a good baker, so have good time, go wild. Get flour all over yourself and your kitchen. Bread baking is kitchen chemistry at its most fun. Overcome that fear of yeast!
And for all of you who are buying pizza dough, please, please, please try this recipe:
QUICK & EASY PIZZA DOUGH
Makes one large pizza
2 cups water, warm
2 teaspoons dry yeast (this will be a partial envelope)
2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon salt
2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
In a large bowl (or bowl of mixer), sprinkle the yeast over the water and stir until it dissolves. Stir in the 2 cups of flour and the salt and stir briskly until smooth, ~2 minutes (~30 seconds if using the flat beater in a mixer). Mix in the remaining 2 cups flour and stir ~2 minutes longer (~1 minute if using a mixer). Stir just until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and the flour is incorporated. The dough will be fairly wet and sticky.
Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise until doubled in volume, 30 to 40 minutes. (Or, for more flavor, cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight. Remove the dough 2 hours before shaping and let it sit, covered, before proceeding with the recipe.)
Preheat the oven to 500 degrees. If you have a pizza stone put it on the bottom rack of the oven (and if using a stone, preheat the oven ~1 hour before baking).
Oil a half-sheet or pizza pan generously with the olive oil (for ease in removal of the baked pizza, I like to line the pan with a piece of parchment paper and lightly oil the parchment). Pour the dough onto the pan, scraping it from the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula or flexible dough scraper. Liberally oil your hands and the surface of the dough with olive oil and gently press and stretch the dough with your fingertips until it covers the whole pan.
Immediately, place the plain crust (without toppings) in the oven (on top of the baking stone if you are using one) and reduce the oven temperature to 450 degrees. Bake for ~20 until the crust just starts to color. Remove from the oven, top with your desired toppings and bake an additional 15 to 20 minutes until the toppings are heated through and the cheese is lightly browned.
(Adapted from a recipe in No Need To Knead by Suzanne Dunaway)
...the mediocrity of store-bought pizza dough. No, I am not talking about the dough already formed into large disks or (shudder) already topped, but the kind of dough available at “upscale” markets such as Trader Joe’s or Wegmans. It comes as a little blob in a bag and it is up to the consumer to stretch it, top it and bake it.
Frankly, this idea drives me nuts!!! (Even more than the thought of spending $$$ for those meringue cookies at Trader Joe’s and I know that many of you have heard me rant on and on about that topic, so I’ll drop it… for now.)
Flour, water, yeast and salt (and possibly a little oil in there too). People are buying a simple mixture of flour, water, yeast and salt. If you have the flour, water, yeast and salt, a bowl, a spoon and a little arm strength, there is no reason why you cannot make a superior product to pre-made dough you can buy.
Although many folks have a hard time believing this, there really is no magic involved in making bread. No special skills, no ritualistic sacrifices to the gods of baking, not even any essential special equipment (not that you can’t use special equipment, my pantry is testimony to that). The toppings for pizza are more of a cooking challenge than the crust!
So for the record, here are my basics of bread:
-- Yeast. Do not be afraid. Go to the grocery store and buy the little packets of yeast that are located in the baking aisle. The brand and type (rapid-rise, instant or regular) are not that important at this point. But be sure to check the back of the envelope to see that the yeast is not past the expiration date. And under no condition buy the cakes of fresh yeast in the refrigerated section. While fresh yeast can be wonderful, more often, it is simply dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead yeast will do nothing for you or your bread.
-- Flour. Buy unbleached. Save the bleached flour for your biscuits, cookies and pie crusts. Buy King Arthur brand if you can find it (many Safeway's carry it now). Gold Medal is my second choice, but most any unbleached flour will work. Like the various types of yeast, specialty flours (such as bread flour) are for when you are more experienced. And when you are ready to get into that level of baking, you’ll know it, so don’t give it another thought for now.
-- Water. Out of the tap. Don’t worry about the chlorine content – the yeast are much tougher than many make them out to be. If you are mixing the water with just yeast, it should be warm. If you are adding the water to a yeast/flour mixture, it should be as hot out of the tap as possible.
-- Salt. Table salt, iodized salt, non-iodized salt, kosher salt, sea salt, gourmet salt hand-harvested under a full summer moon by a guy named Pierre from a pristine ¼ mile stretch of coast in Brittany… It does not matter that much. The only point of concern is that the large-grained salts do not measure the same as a small-grained salt. Generally the volume given in most recipes is geared toward small-grained table salt, so if you use kosher salt, you might need a little more. But, frankly, you probably won't be able to tell anyway. Just don’t forget the salt. Unsalted bread is definitely an acquired taste.
-- Other ingredients. Oil, butter, eggs, sugar, nuts, fruits, vegetables, meats, flavorings, other grains and specialty flours. All can be added in various amounts, but I suggest avoiding them until you get a feel for basic dough. A surprising amount of flavor can be obtained just from flour, water, yeast and salt.
-- Proofing the yeast. Don’t. Really. Unless the yeast is beyond the expiration date marked on the package it will be alive. Trust me. This is the 21st century. We have the technology. (And many rapid-rise yeasts are so speedy they can easily starve to death in ten minutes in a pool of warm water containing only a teaspoon or so of sugar or flour. Don’t be that cruel!)
-- Mixing. Unless you are looking to get things up and running really, really quickly (and this exception is used in the recipe below), mix one half of the total amount of flour and the rest of the dry ingredients together and then dump in the wet ingredients. Mix with a stand mixer or by hand with a strong spoon.
-- Kneading. How much kneading depends on what you want in your final product. In fact, some gluten (the stuff that makes dough stretchy and able to rise) will form on its own without any help from you at all. Use the recipe as a guide and trust what you feel. The only advantage to hand kneading over kneading with a mixer is that when you knead by hand you cannot help but notice when the dough has had enough.
-- Consistency. How much flour to add while kneading… err of the side of too little. This is the point were most people get themselves into trouble. Some of the best breads come from the wettest doughs. If using a pan with sides and with enough time in the oven, pretty much any dough firmer than a milkshake consistency can be made into a bread. Free-form loaves obviously need a bit more body. But while your first attempts may not be pretty and tall, any free-form bread will be edible as long as it does not run off the baking stone and burn on the bottom of the oven. A rule of thumb is to never make your dough firmer than the consistency of playdough (the commercial kind, not the really soft homemade kind my mother made for me).
-- Rising. Long rises, short rises, one rise, multiple rises, cool rises, warm rises, cold rises, no rise! A myriad of options. All will affect the texture and taste. Warmer = Faster. Cooler = Slower + More Flavor. Experiment. Have fun. This stage is pretty difficult mess up.
-- Forming and Proofing. Stretching the top of the surface of the formed loaf will make it look nicer, but will not really affect the taste. So don’t stress out about this step. Worry more about the proofing (the final rise before baking). If the formed dough is over-proofed, it can deflate in the oven, or even worse to witness, as you are carrying it to the oven. Don’t let any dough proof more than double in size, and most doughs don’t even need that much of an increase (and a few are not proofed at all). And remember, you can almost always take over-proofed dough (before it is baked) and reform it and start the proofing step over.
-- Baking. Buy a baking stone. Or better yet, two. Put one on the lowest rack in your oven and the other on the highest rack. Preheat your oven at least 45 minutes before you bake with the stone(s) in the oven so they are nice and hot. Bake your breads on the lower stone with the upper stone as close above as possible without touching the baking loaves (take into account the bread might also rise some during baking). Bake your loaves until they are well-browned (short of burning it, it is hard to over-bake bread) and loaf-shaped breads should sound a bit hollow when tapped on the bottom (you’ll need to tip them out of the pan to check if they are not free-form loaves.)
And that is it. Yes, it looks like a lot of steps, but it is really a simple and, more importantly, a forgiving process. Keep in mind that it is only flour, water, yeast and salt. If things go horribly wrong, toss it and start over (although I’ve never made a bread that could not be eaten in some form – turn a dense loaf into bread crumbs, make croutons, strata, bread pudding…). Experimentation is the real key to becoming a good baker, so have good time, go wild. Get flour all over yourself and your kitchen. Bread baking is kitchen chemistry at its most fun. Overcome that fear of yeast!
And for all of you who are buying pizza dough, please, please, please try this recipe:
QUICK & EASY PIZZA DOUGH
Makes one large pizza
2 cups water, warm
2 teaspoons dry yeast (this will be a partial envelope)
2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon salt
2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
In a large bowl (or bowl of mixer), sprinkle the yeast over the water and stir until it dissolves. Stir in the 2 cups of flour and the salt and stir briskly until smooth, ~2 minutes (~30 seconds if using the flat beater in a mixer). Mix in the remaining 2 cups flour and stir ~2 minutes longer (~1 minute if using a mixer). Stir just until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and the flour is incorporated. The dough will be fairly wet and sticky.
Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise until doubled in volume, 30 to 40 minutes. (Or, for more flavor, cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight. Remove the dough 2 hours before shaping and let it sit, covered, before proceeding with the recipe.)
Preheat the oven to 500 degrees. If you have a pizza stone put it on the bottom rack of the oven (and if using a stone, preheat the oven ~1 hour before baking).
Oil a half-sheet or pizza pan generously with the olive oil (for ease in removal of the baked pizza, I like to line the pan with a piece of parchment paper and lightly oil the parchment). Pour the dough onto the pan, scraping it from the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula or flexible dough scraper. Liberally oil your hands and the surface of the dough with olive oil and gently press and stretch the dough with your fingertips until it covers the whole pan.
Immediately, place the plain crust (without toppings) in the oven (on top of the baking stone if you are using one) and reduce the oven temperature to 450 degrees. Bake for ~20 until the crust just starts to color. Remove from the oven, top with your desired toppings and bake an additional 15 to 20 minutes until the toppings are heated through and the cheese is lightly browned.
(Adapted from a recipe in No Need To Knead by Suzanne Dunaway)
13 June 2005
Cheesy Taste?
I went to a cheese tasting last night with my food group where we tasted ten “uncommon” Italian cheeses:
1. Pecorino Brinata – a very mild soft sheep’s milk cheese only aged for 20 days. Not only does the rind look like that of a brie, it tastes just like a young brie also.
2. Caprino with Truffles – a fresh goat’s milk cheese covered with fresh truffle slices after it is aged. While the taste of truffles surprisingly permeates throughout the cheese, it is strongest near the side closest to the truffles.
3. Rochetta – this cheese was the one that made the evening worth it for me. It is a rather innocuous cheese made from a mixture of cow, goat and sheep milk, but is one of those cheeses that’s great to serve to company. Tasty (and salty) without being overwhelming.
4. Pecorino Toscano – a 30-day sheep’s milk cheese. Nothing spectacular about this cheese other than it showed the differences between a very slightly aged Pecorino (the Brinata) and how a different style of rind treatment can affect the texture of the cheese (this one is much firmer).
5. Castelmagno – a very rare cow’s milk cheese that is notable mainly for its flakey texture. Don’t get me wrong, it has a great taste, but the mouthfeel is what really stands out.
6. Piave Vecchio – another cow’s milk cheese and my favorite of the evening, especially to eat by itself as a snack. It is similar to a Parmigiano Reggiano, but with a more nutty flavor. It also has that firm texture with bits of crystallinity that I adore in a cheese.
7. Parmigiano Reggiano Cravero – a very nice 2-year-plus aged cheese. But nothing new or noteworthy (and it seemed to suffer from following the Piave Vecchio, I would have preferred to taste it first of those two).
8. Vento de Estate – a sheep’s cheese with a very floral flavor. It’s wrapped in hay for aging and has a very herbal (and almost minty) flavor the closer you get to the rind.
9. Ubriaco – a cow’s milk cheese soaked in wine and then aged under pressed grape skins (the “must” from wine making). Initially pleasing fruity flavor that after a few bites started to taste just like Juicy Fruit gum.
10. Pecorino Fossa – another sheep’s milk cheese (as are all Pecorino cheeses) but this one is buried in the ground after its initial 3-month aging. The smell is exactly that of a horse ring – a dusty, horsey smell with a hint of manure. And it tastes exactly how thrush (an anaerobic bacterial infection horses get in their feet) smells. Exactly. All I could think of was that someone needed to squirt some Koppertox (a dark green copper solution that is used to treat thrush) on the cheese!
As people where posting about their favorite cheeses from the tasting on the food forum afterwards, someone asked (and I am paraphrasing from memory) if anyone had taken the time to memorize which cheeses were goat, sheep or cow milk cheeses, how they differed from each other and which areas in Italy produced which cheeses.
The post made me wonder if it isn't simply enough for someone to discover just one more new cheese they like? Something other than the usual Parmigiano Reggiano or Pecorino or Gorgonzola... especially if the person is not a cheese aficionado. Is learning anything additional just more Parmigiano Reggiano grated on the Fettuccine Alfredo?
For those with a foundation of cheese tasting experience to build on, it is certainly worth the extra effort to ensure that the background data is considered and learned during a tasting. But I worry that stressing the factual aspects can be too much of a deterrent to the beginner. If they think they must walk away from a cheese tasting knowing this, that and the other, the whole thing can become too daunting and they may not ever go to one.
Isn't any broadening of one's horizons desirable? Even if just by a millimeter? While working in various scientific fields, I've observed that with a totally novel idea the most one might be able to hope for after the initial exposure is a vague impression tucked away in the back of the mind. Full understanding is rarely something that occurs immediately. It requires contemplation and re-exposure.
So for beginning cheese tasters, I think just encountering the range of flavors is a great beginning and simply deciding which flavor is preferred is an even larger step. Being able to recite from memory the origin, history and trivia of various cheeses is something that will come with time and experience (and, often, the chagrin of those around you who tend to quickly tire of the subject).
Anyway, I’ll climb down from the cheese-box now. And you… yeah, you… don't take my word for it... go out and taste some cheese!
1. Pecorino Brinata – a very mild soft sheep’s milk cheese only aged for 20 days. Not only does the rind look like that of a brie, it tastes just like a young brie also.
2. Caprino with Truffles – a fresh goat’s milk cheese covered with fresh truffle slices after it is aged. While the taste of truffles surprisingly permeates throughout the cheese, it is strongest near the side closest to the truffles.
3. Rochetta – this cheese was the one that made the evening worth it for me. It is a rather innocuous cheese made from a mixture of cow, goat and sheep milk, but is one of those cheeses that’s great to serve to company. Tasty (and salty) without being overwhelming.
4. Pecorino Toscano – a 30-day sheep’s milk cheese. Nothing spectacular about this cheese other than it showed the differences between a very slightly aged Pecorino (the Brinata) and how a different style of rind treatment can affect the texture of the cheese (this one is much firmer).
5. Castelmagno – a very rare cow’s milk cheese that is notable mainly for its flakey texture. Don’t get me wrong, it has a great taste, but the mouthfeel is what really stands out.
6. Piave Vecchio – another cow’s milk cheese and my favorite of the evening, especially to eat by itself as a snack. It is similar to a Parmigiano Reggiano, but with a more nutty flavor. It also has that firm texture with bits of crystallinity that I adore in a cheese.
7. Parmigiano Reggiano Cravero – a very nice 2-year-plus aged cheese. But nothing new or noteworthy (and it seemed to suffer from following the Piave Vecchio, I would have preferred to taste it first of those two).
8. Vento de Estate – a sheep’s cheese with a very floral flavor. It’s wrapped in hay for aging and has a very herbal (and almost minty) flavor the closer you get to the rind.
9. Ubriaco – a cow’s milk cheese soaked in wine and then aged under pressed grape skins (the “must” from wine making). Initially pleasing fruity flavor that after a few bites started to taste just like Juicy Fruit gum.
10. Pecorino Fossa – another sheep’s milk cheese (as are all Pecorino cheeses) but this one is buried in the ground after its initial 3-month aging. The smell is exactly that of a horse ring – a dusty, horsey smell with a hint of manure. And it tastes exactly how thrush (an anaerobic bacterial infection horses get in their feet) smells. Exactly. All I could think of was that someone needed to squirt some Koppertox (a dark green copper solution that is used to treat thrush) on the cheese!
As people where posting about their favorite cheeses from the tasting on the food forum afterwards, someone asked (and I am paraphrasing from memory) if anyone had taken the time to memorize which cheeses were goat, sheep or cow milk cheeses, how they differed from each other and which areas in Italy produced which cheeses.
The post made me wonder if it isn't simply enough for someone to discover just one more new cheese they like? Something other than the usual Parmigiano Reggiano or Pecorino or Gorgonzola... especially if the person is not a cheese aficionado. Is learning anything additional just more Parmigiano Reggiano grated on the Fettuccine Alfredo?
For those with a foundation of cheese tasting experience to build on, it is certainly worth the extra effort to ensure that the background data is considered and learned during a tasting. But I worry that stressing the factual aspects can be too much of a deterrent to the beginner. If they think they must walk away from a cheese tasting knowing this, that and the other, the whole thing can become too daunting and they may not ever go to one.
Isn't any broadening of one's horizons desirable? Even if just by a millimeter? While working in various scientific fields, I've observed that with a totally novel idea the most one might be able to hope for after the initial exposure is a vague impression tucked away in the back of the mind. Full understanding is rarely something that occurs immediately. It requires contemplation and re-exposure.
So for beginning cheese tasters, I think just encountering the range of flavors is a great beginning and simply deciding which flavor is preferred is an even larger step. Being able to recite from memory the origin, history and trivia of various cheeses is something that will come with time and experience (and, often, the chagrin of those around you who tend to quickly tire of the subject).
Anyway, I’ll climb down from the cheese-box now. And you… yeah, you… don't take my word for it... go out and taste some cheese!
12 June 2005
Butcher’s Cave
We spent a lot of time hiking around Joshua Tree National Park when we lived in the Mojave desert. Initially we stayed on the well-known trails, but then I started corresponding with a man who grew up in the area and he told me about all sorts of interesting hikes not listed in the guide books. In fact, the park rangers tend to remain pretty mum about some of these places because they are filled with petroglyphs and other archeological finds.
One of these “secret” locations is Butcher’s Cave. Park rangers say that when the cave was “discovered” in the 1920’s, there were over 50 big horn sheep skulls inside and anthropologists speculate the cave was used for butchering. Hence the name. But our experience makes us suspect something different…
Our hike started a bit south of the base of Queen Mountain and from there it was up and over a pretty steep ridge into a valley filled with Western tanagers in full red and yellow breeding plumage. They were flying about everywhere as we walked along through some oaks toward the next small ridge. Then, in the midst of doing a bit of rock scrambling to get over the ridge, we were stopped by the calls of rock wrens and spent about ten minutes frozen in place trying to spot one of those furtive little birds. Although not our initial focus for the day, it was turning into a great birding hike!
The directions from my pen pal said to hike down the next large wash and then branch off to a smaller wash directly across from a rock formation of three big rectangular blocks in the cliff face. Well, you’d think we’d be able to notice something that was literally as big as a house, but no… so after going too far (when the big wash started to bear south, we knew we’d missed our turn), we turned around, trudged about a half of a mile back through the sand and found the smaller wash. We didn’t mind the backtracking, it goes with navigating around that part of the park (in fact, the area adjacent to where we were hiking is called “The Wonderland of Rocks” and is a veritable maze) and can result in the discovery of all sorts of interesting things (but that story is for another day).
The side wash lead to another smaller wash and then to yet another small valley, very similar to the first, but this one also contained phainopeplas (for you east coast people, picture a svelte, black cardinal) and black-throated sparrows. Definitely a good birding day. The map showed one more small hill to cross and we’d be in the valley containing Butcher’s Cave.
We crested the ridge and expected to see the cave entrance on the far side of the valley, but there were numerous rock formations on the valley floor blocking the view. Eventually we hiked around enough of them that... there it was… Butcher’s Cave.
The cave is not at the level of the valley floor (and since the rocks are constantly eroding and filling the valleys of the park with sand, the cave was even higher up in prehistoric times) and we had to do a bit of rock scrambling to get up to the opening. RWT went in, I took this picture…
… and then he wanted to leave. Immediately. Now RWT is not one to notice the subtleties in life, but even he felt what the voice inside my head had been screaming (Amityville Horror-like) since we’d entered that valley… “get out”. There was something not right about this area. In general, most of the park has a nice, feel-good vibe to it. It can be harsh, daunting and incredibly dangerous, but not scary. However, this valley and particularly the cave were somehow different. Creepy. Bad. A purely instinctive feeling that we should not be there.
Since both of us were in complete agreement, we didn’t hang around to picnic at the cave as we’d planned. And then, as we were walking out of the valley we noticed it… no birds. None. No bird songs. Totally, eerily silent.
If the surrounding areas had not been filled with birds, we would have written it off as one of those bad birding days when all the birds seem to be napping or gone off on holiday. But as soon as we were back in the next valley, there was a pair of blue-gray gnatcatchers chattering at us from a creosote bush. And a flock of bushtits in a desert willow further down the side wash. We ended the hike by climbing up the back side of Queen Mountain and reversing the route of a previous hike (not the easiest or most direct way back to the car, but it was fun).
RWT and I often talk about that day and wonder if we were imagining things. We never had the opportunity to go back to Butcher's Cave, but even if we did, I doubt we would be able to overcome our first oh-so-strong and oh-so-negative impressions. Regardless, we’ll never know what the early people who lived there did in that cave, there were no petroglyphs and the skulls are long gone. But I disagree that the cave was used simply for butchering sheep, it is too difficult to get to and way, way too ominous.
One of these “secret” locations is Butcher’s Cave. Park rangers say that when the cave was “discovered” in the 1920’s, there were over 50 big horn sheep skulls inside and anthropologists speculate the cave was used for butchering. Hence the name. But our experience makes us suspect something different…
Our hike started a bit south of the base of Queen Mountain and from there it was up and over a pretty steep ridge into a valley filled with Western tanagers in full red and yellow breeding plumage. They were flying about everywhere as we walked along through some oaks toward the next small ridge. Then, in the midst of doing a bit of rock scrambling to get over the ridge, we were stopped by the calls of rock wrens and spent about ten minutes frozen in place trying to spot one of those furtive little birds. Although not our initial focus for the day, it was turning into a great birding hike!
The directions from my pen pal said to hike down the next large wash and then branch off to a smaller wash directly across from a rock formation of three big rectangular blocks in the cliff face. Well, you’d think we’d be able to notice something that was literally as big as a house, but no… so after going too far (when the big wash started to bear south, we knew we’d missed our turn), we turned around, trudged about a half of a mile back through the sand and found the smaller wash. We didn’t mind the backtracking, it goes with navigating around that part of the park (in fact, the area adjacent to where we were hiking is called “The Wonderland of Rocks” and is a veritable maze) and can result in the discovery of all sorts of interesting things (but that story is for another day).
The side wash lead to another smaller wash and then to yet another small valley, very similar to the first, but this one also contained phainopeplas (for you east coast people, picture a svelte, black cardinal) and black-throated sparrows. Definitely a good birding day. The map showed one more small hill to cross and we’d be in the valley containing Butcher’s Cave.
We crested the ridge and expected to see the cave entrance on the far side of the valley, but there were numerous rock formations on the valley floor blocking the view. Eventually we hiked around enough of them that... there it was… Butcher’s Cave.
The cave is not at the level of the valley floor (and since the rocks are constantly eroding and filling the valleys of the park with sand, the cave was even higher up in prehistoric times) and we had to do a bit of rock scrambling to get up to the opening. RWT went in, I took this picture…
… and then he wanted to leave. Immediately. Now RWT is not one to notice the subtleties in life, but even he felt what the voice inside my head had been screaming (Amityville Horror-like) since we’d entered that valley… “get out”. There was something not right about this area. In general, most of the park has a nice, feel-good vibe to it. It can be harsh, daunting and incredibly dangerous, but not scary. However, this valley and particularly the cave were somehow different. Creepy. Bad. A purely instinctive feeling that we should not be there.
Since both of us were in complete agreement, we didn’t hang around to picnic at the cave as we’d planned. And then, as we were walking out of the valley we noticed it… no birds. None. No bird songs. Totally, eerily silent.
If the surrounding areas had not been filled with birds, we would have written it off as one of those bad birding days when all the birds seem to be napping or gone off on holiday. But as soon as we were back in the next valley, there was a pair of blue-gray gnatcatchers chattering at us from a creosote bush. And a flock of bushtits in a desert willow further down the side wash. We ended the hike by climbing up the back side of Queen Mountain and reversing the route of a previous hike (not the easiest or most direct way back to the car, but it was fun).
RWT and I often talk about that day and wonder if we were imagining things. We never had the opportunity to go back to Butcher's Cave, but even if we did, I doubt we would be able to overcome our first oh-so-strong and oh-so-negative impressions. Regardless, we’ll never know what the early people who lived there did in that cave, there were no petroglyphs and the skulls are long gone. But I disagree that the cave was used simply for butchering sheep, it is too difficult to get to and way, way too ominous.
11 June 2005
Peony Envy
There is a street near our house that is appropriately named Mansion Drive. It gracefully curves up a hill and is bordered by huge lots hosting similarly sized houses… colonnaded southern-style homes, dignified and tastefully painted colonials (no hot pink or lavender shutters on this street) and the most gorgeous Arts & Crafts style house I’ve ever seen (whenever I’m over that way, I go by just to look at that house and by now the owners probably think I am casing the place).
The yards of these houses are also spectacular – filled with majestic oaks and magnolias, brimming with shrubs and perennials and everything tended with the most love and affection that money can buy. Even the street itself is smooth, without potholes (recently resurfaced while other more deserving but less affluently named streets are neglected) and has a charming tree and plant-filled island dividing it at the apex of the hill.
But every time I go down Mansion Drive I find myself wondering… is all the beautiful perfection on the inside too? Do the resident’s lives match the exterior? Grand, sumptuous, impressive and full. Or are they more like the peonies blooming in their flower beds? Showy and beautiful until flattened to the ground by the first summer thunderstorm. Does wealth buy happiness or (as an old friend says) does it merely pay the postage and handling? Or does wealth have little to do with one’s satisfaction with life?
I’ve noticed that in the front of one of the stately colonials on the street is a very big, very dead oak and, since it could easily fall and damage the house, I speculate why they do not have it removed... maybe the oak is a reminder of a beloved spouse who has also died. Or the owners are so busy that having the tree taken out is just something on a long list of household chores and they can never quite find the time to call a tree service. Or all their spare money is tied up in the house, the cars or college tuition, just like 99% of other people.
What is my point in all of this? I really don’t think I have one. Would I want to live on that street? Sure, who wouldn’t (especially in that Arts & Crafts house – the new couches would go perfectly). Would it be worth changing my life as it is right now to be able to afford to live there? No. So for now, I’ll stay in my austere, rented colonial on a marginally fashionable street and just visit Mansion Drive and admire and wonder…
The yards of these houses are also spectacular – filled with majestic oaks and magnolias, brimming with shrubs and perennials and everything tended with the most love and affection that money can buy. Even the street itself is smooth, without potholes (recently resurfaced while other more deserving but less affluently named streets are neglected) and has a charming tree and plant-filled island dividing it at the apex of the hill.
But every time I go down Mansion Drive I find myself wondering… is all the beautiful perfection on the inside too? Do the resident’s lives match the exterior? Grand, sumptuous, impressive and full. Or are they more like the peonies blooming in their flower beds? Showy and beautiful until flattened to the ground by the first summer thunderstorm. Does wealth buy happiness or (as an old friend says) does it merely pay the postage and handling? Or does wealth have little to do with one’s satisfaction with life?
I’ve noticed that in the front of one of the stately colonials on the street is a very big, very dead oak and, since it could easily fall and damage the house, I speculate why they do not have it removed... maybe the oak is a reminder of a beloved spouse who has also died. Or the owners are so busy that having the tree taken out is just something on a long list of household chores and they can never quite find the time to call a tree service. Or all their spare money is tied up in the house, the cars or college tuition, just like 99% of other people.
What is my point in all of this? I really don’t think I have one. Would I want to live on that street? Sure, who wouldn’t (especially in that Arts & Crafts house – the new couches would go perfectly). Would it be worth changing my life as it is right now to be able to afford to live there? No. So for now, I’ll stay in my austere, rented colonial on a marginally fashionable street and just visit Mansion Drive and admire and wonder…
10 June 2005
[Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By]
I have received an inquiry as to how is the easiest way to know when I've posted something new here on my blog. A couple of options that I have personal experience with:
When I want to keep up on changes to a website (such as when ColeHaan.com puts new shoes on their sale page), I use a service called Watch That Page. It is free, you just need to sign up with an email account. Then you can enter the address for the page you are interested in and whenever something new is added to that page, Watch That Page will send you a notification via email. The only downside is that it is not immediate since the Watch That Page computer only checks for changes once a day.
Or, if you look in the bottom right corner of your browser window and you see a little orange square with a white dot and a couple of curved white lines, you have the option of using a Live Bookmark for this site. Click on it, follow the directions to add a Live Bookmark to your bookmark list, and then when you scroll over it the bookmark with your mouse, you can see if there are any new topics posted. Unlike the above option, this will show changes immediately. The downside -- you'll need to check yourself (but you won't have to open the page to do so) and Live Bookmarks do not work in Microsoft Internet Explorer (to my knowledge).
Lastly, I am making the attempt to post pretty much daily, but you know how real life can occasionally take precedence over the virtual world. So just stop on by and there should be something new!
When I want to keep up on changes to a website (such as when ColeHaan.com puts new shoes on their sale page), I use a service called Watch That Page. It is free, you just need to sign up with an email account. Then you can enter the address for the page you are interested in and whenever something new is added to that page, Watch That Page will send you a notification via email. The only downside is that it is not immediate since the Watch That Page computer only checks for changes once a day.
Or, if you look in the bottom right corner of your browser window and you see a little orange square with a white dot and a couple of curved white lines, you have the option of using a Live Bookmark for this site. Click on it, follow the directions to add a Live Bookmark to your bookmark list, and then when you scroll over it the bookmark with your mouse, you can see if there are any new topics posted. Unlike the above option, this will show changes immediately. The downside -- you'll need to check yourself (but you won't have to open the page to do so) and Live Bookmarks do not work in Microsoft Internet Explorer (to my knowledge).
Lastly, I am making the attempt to post pretty much daily, but you know how real life can occasionally take precedence over the virtual world. So just stop on by and there should be something new!
Down Under
Caution: I’m in a mood. Read at your own risk!
It is just one of those days. I am down, dull, depressed, distressed, dissatisfied, despondent, dejected, disconsolate, disheartened, demoralized, dim-witted, dismal, driveling, dreary, dingy, drab and discouraged. Why? No good reason whatsoever.
I got plenty of sleep last night and woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Went downstairs and removed the sandwich-making-related stain from RWT’s new shirt (some tamarind paste leaked in the refrigerator, ran onto the bottom of the mayo jar and then mysteriously transferred itself to RWT’s shirt cuff). Still felt okay, maybe a little tired… And that was when I made what was my big error in judgment. I decided to go back to bed.
Zzzzzzz. 9:30. Ugh. I dragged (another “d” word) myself down to the basement to workout. 20 minutes on the treadmill. I’m tired. 20 minutes lifting weights and doing sit-ups. Blech. 20 more minutes on the treadmill. Need to fight a really strong urge to go upstairs and lay on my bed... the desire to watch the end of the soap I have taped wins out. 20 more minutes lifting weights. I had just better do the whole workout. The last 20 minutes on the treadmill. Phew! Over. Finally.
A shower might help… no. I inadvertently turned up the water too high and the world’s smallest hot water heater ran out of hot water while I was in the midst of conditioning my hair. Brrr. And speaking of my hair, it hurts. I leave it down, it bugs me, I put it up, it bugs me. Taking scissors to is surprisingly tempting. I also itch. I am covered with mosquito bites from weeding yesterday. Even though I wore sweatpants, one of those evil critters flew up my pant leg and chewed on my calf. Hmmm, maybe all the mosquito poisons are affecting my brain…
Perhaps reading my favorite food forum will cheer me up... Nope. Lots of new posts filled with witticisms and amusing insights, but it just doesn't work to lift my spirits. Everyone else seems to be in a good mood, why not me?!? The dog can tell I am in a bad mood and has made herself scarce. She’s no dummy (and is probably on the phone extension upstairs warning RWT).
I'm also feeling homesick, which is a bit strange since I've lived in so many locales and really have no place to call "home" (other than where I am currently living at the moment). But that feeling was probably triggered by the fact that RWT is going to the west coast next week while I'll be stuck in this hot, sticky jungle. Specifically, he's off to the Seattle area where my favorite aunt and two of my good friends live. No humidity, good food, good company, vistas...
Well, enough of my whining. Shoe shopping, the usual remedy for a bad mood, is out since I am trying to conserve money after the big couch purchase. There is only one thing to do... carbs and cheesy television. So if you need me, I’ll be sitting in the big poofy chair in front of the t.v., a large bowl of kettle corn in my lap, watching season three episodes of Andromeda.
It is just one of those days. I am down, dull, depressed, distressed, dissatisfied, despondent, dejected, disconsolate, disheartened, demoralized, dim-witted, dismal, driveling, dreary, dingy, drab and discouraged. Why? No good reason whatsoever.
I got plenty of sleep last night and woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Went downstairs and removed the sandwich-making-related stain from RWT’s new shirt (some tamarind paste leaked in the refrigerator, ran onto the bottom of the mayo jar and then mysteriously transferred itself to RWT’s shirt cuff). Still felt okay, maybe a little tired… And that was when I made what was my big error in judgment. I decided to go back to bed.
Zzzzzzz. 9:30. Ugh. I dragged (another “d” word) myself down to the basement to workout. 20 minutes on the treadmill. I’m tired. 20 minutes lifting weights and doing sit-ups. Blech. 20 more minutes on the treadmill. Need to fight a really strong urge to go upstairs and lay on my bed... the desire to watch the end of the soap I have taped wins out. 20 more minutes lifting weights. I had just better do the whole workout. The last 20 minutes on the treadmill. Phew! Over. Finally.
A shower might help… no. I inadvertently turned up the water too high and the world’s smallest hot water heater ran out of hot water while I was in the midst of conditioning my hair. Brrr. And speaking of my hair, it hurts. I leave it down, it bugs me, I put it up, it bugs me. Taking scissors to is surprisingly tempting. I also itch. I am covered with mosquito bites from weeding yesterday. Even though I wore sweatpants, one of those evil critters flew up my pant leg and chewed on my calf. Hmmm, maybe all the mosquito poisons are affecting my brain…
Perhaps reading my favorite food forum will cheer me up... Nope. Lots of new posts filled with witticisms and amusing insights, but it just doesn't work to lift my spirits. Everyone else seems to be in a good mood, why not me?!? The dog can tell I am in a bad mood and has made herself scarce. She’s no dummy (and is probably on the phone extension upstairs warning RWT).
I'm also feeling homesick, which is a bit strange since I've lived in so many locales and really have no place to call "home" (other than where I am currently living at the moment). But that feeling was probably triggered by the fact that RWT is going to the west coast next week while I'll be stuck in this hot, sticky jungle. Specifically, he's off to the Seattle area where my favorite aunt and two of my good friends live. No humidity, good food, good company, vistas...
Well, enough of my whining. Shoe shopping, the usual remedy for a bad mood, is out since I am trying to conserve money after the big couch purchase. There is only one thing to do... carbs and cheesy television. So if you need me, I’ll be sitting in the big poofy chair in front of the t.v., a large bowl of kettle corn in my lap, watching season three episodes of Andromeda.
09 June 2005
If someone makes a joke in the woods…
… and no one is there to hear it, is it funny?
A venerable friend once commented that a message I sent him was too funny not to be shared. But can humor really be wasted? Is it like money in that famous line from Hello Dolly… "Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless it's spread around encouraging young things to grow." Just how big of an audience does humor need?
In the course of my average day, there are numerous things that make me laugh. Sometimes the humor comes from an outside source, such as every time someone on television says “new-cue-lar” (which is pretty often lately). But most commonly the thought originates in my own head and never escapes from the deep, dark, twisted recesses of my brain. Occasionally, I’ll have the urge to tell the dog about whatever it is that’s cracking me up, but unless it contains the words “walk”, “frisbee”, “squirrel”, or “Sadie”, she rarely finds it very amusing. And even if I did share it with another person, would they laugh at it? Or would it be just one of those “you had to be there” type things, with the “there” being inside my skull?
Which leads to the question of why people’s sense of humor varies so greatly… I’ve always assumed that it is due to life experiences and how one is raised (nurture instead nature). Outside of immediate family, I’ve only known a few people who I would say are totally in sync with my (rather eccentric) sense of humor. RWT and I certainly do not always agree on what is funny. I love movies in the style of Airplane, but he gets far more amusement from watching me laugh at them (however, he does like Monty Python flicks, so go figure). On the other hand, RWT thinks it is hilarious to mislead people as to my real personality (such as convincing a co-worker that I was a biker-chick with tattoos) and cracks up when they finally meet me. Obviously, for me, this tends to lead more toward confusion than laughter.
But I read in the newspaper last week they’ve found the part of the brain that controls the ability to understand sarcasm (click). So physiology is involved in at least certain aspects of humor and this could explain why most men find The Three Stooges funny, but women generally do not. Or why puns seem to be the humor of choice for so many engineers and scientists – maybe the pun-humor area is located next to the mathematical/analytical thinking area? (And this finding could really help me understand the behavior of some of my in-laws…especially since I’ve always suspected the possibility of brain damage.)
Perhaps the bottom line is that when humor is shared with a larger audience, there is more a chance that it will really resonate with someone. However, my point of view is that humor is not wasted if it brightens the day of just one person. And even if I am the only one laughing.
A venerable friend once commented that a message I sent him was too funny not to be shared. But can humor really be wasted? Is it like money in that famous line from Hello Dolly… "Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless it's spread around encouraging young things to grow." Just how big of an audience does humor need?
In the course of my average day, there are numerous things that make me laugh. Sometimes the humor comes from an outside source, such as every time someone on television says “new-cue-lar” (which is pretty often lately). But most commonly the thought originates in my own head and never escapes from the deep, dark, twisted recesses of my brain. Occasionally, I’ll have the urge to tell the dog about whatever it is that’s cracking me up, but unless it contains the words “walk”, “frisbee”, “squirrel”, or “Sadie”, she rarely finds it very amusing. And even if I did share it with another person, would they laugh at it? Or would it be just one of those “you had to be there” type things, with the “there” being inside my skull?
Which leads to the question of why people’s sense of humor varies so greatly… I’ve always assumed that it is due to life experiences and how one is raised (nurture instead nature). Outside of immediate family, I’ve only known a few people who I would say are totally in sync with my (rather eccentric) sense of humor. RWT and I certainly do not always agree on what is funny. I love movies in the style of Airplane, but he gets far more amusement from watching me laugh at them (however, he does like Monty Python flicks, so go figure). On the other hand, RWT thinks it is hilarious to mislead people as to my real personality (such as convincing a co-worker that I was a biker-chick with tattoos) and cracks up when they finally meet me. Obviously, for me, this tends to lead more toward confusion than laughter.
But I read in the newspaper last week they’ve found the part of the brain that controls the ability to understand sarcasm (click). So physiology is involved in at least certain aspects of humor and this could explain why most men find The Three Stooges funny, but women generally do not. Or why puns seem to be the humor of choice for so many engineers and scientists – maybe the pun-humor area is located next to the mathematical/analytical thinking area? (And this finding could really help me understand the behavior of some of my in-laws…especially since I’ve always suspected the possibility of brain damage.)
Perhaps the bottom line is that when humor is shared with a larger audience, there is more a chance that it will really resonate with someone. However, my point of view is that humor is not wasted if it brightens the day of just one person. And even if I am the only one laughing.
08 June 2005
Dancing with Border Collies
A warning: The following topic has a rather small audience, but I really needed to get it out of my head. So in attempt to keep everyone’s interest, I alternated it (paragraph by paragraph) with another story (about my first border collie). Sort of like Simon & Garfunkel did with the lyrics of “Scarborough Fair” (which I never, ever noticed until RWT pointed it out -- he has an odd passion for both 60’s folk rock and contemplating song lyrics and I keep telling him that those artists were doing major drugs and the lyrics make no sense whatsoever, but he still insists on delving into their meaning.) And good luck making any sense of this!
I finally got around to reading the food section in last week’s paper and discovered a sad item… Melrose in the Park Hyatt will be closing on 31 July for a complete renovation and “re-concept”.
RWT and I went to Melrose for our anniversary in May and had a rather disappointing meal that cost a considerable amount of money. So then why is the news of their closure sad? Melrose is the only place I know of in the area that provides fine dining and ballroom-style dancing.
The night we went to Melrose, everyone on our side of the tragically L-shaped dining room (with the exception of a group of women having a business meeting) got up to dance at one point or another during the evening. And they were all obviously experienced dancers. So I suspect the other patrons were there for the dancing more than the food, which was also our primary reason for choosing Melrose for our anniversary dinner.
The dance floor at Melrose is basically an overgrown entryway with waiters adeptly charging across it at full speed, but at least it is a place to dance. We don’t have much interest in going out to a smoke-filled bar or deafeningly-loud club, but want to be able to get up between the main course and dessert and do the rumba or to linger over dessert and dance a tango. Melrose offered that.
In addition to navigating between people foxtrotting & waltzing, the staff at Melrose is also well trained to wait for those couples to return to their tables before clearing away plates or bringing out the next course, so things ran smoothly considering all the interruptions to the service. And, although the music provided by the live band did not always provide an easy tempo for us novices, dancing was at least an option and we managed to dance to many of the songs. It was a fun night for us overall.
It makes me start to wonder if RWT and I have simply come too late to social ballroom dancing. Did we arrive just in time to witness its demise? But one would never think that was true if they went to Melrose on a Saturday night and saw all the people who were there obviously to dance first and eat second.
Why are there no other places around here to get good food and dance all in one location? There are plenty of salsa dancing venues. Numerous milongas (where one goes to dance the Argentine tango). Bars & nightclubs abound. And there are also dedicated ballroom dance halls, but eating the food there is risking one’s health and the vibe is definitely more competitive than social. So even with the overpriced, mediocre food, we’d go back to Melrose, just for the ambiance and the dancing.
And wouldn’t a place like Melrose only with better food for less money have an even larger following? I do think there is an audience (exactly how many is the question) who want to put on nice clothes, go to someplace elegant & classy, eat a good meal and do some dancing. I like to think that a restaurant providing that would be a success, but I am afraid we’ll just never find out.
Confused? (BTW – Scarborough Fair is a waltz.)
I finally got around to reading the food section in last week’s paper and discovered a sad item… Melrose in the Park Hyatt will be closing on 31 July for a complete renovation and “re-concept”.
If they had a list of the world’s most sneaky dogs, my first border collie, Tasha, would have easily been in the top ten. Her needs always took precedence over anyone or anything else’s and she would go to great lengths to get what she wanted, especially when it concerned food.
RWT and I went to Melrose for our anniversary in May and had a rather disappointing meal that cost a considerable amount of money. So then why is the news of their closure sad? Melrose is the only place I know of in the area that provides fine dining and ballroom-style dancing.
Tasha did not start out as a food obsessed dog. In fact, early on in her life she was a bit picky like most border collies. There was a point in time when you could leave a plate of food on the floor, walk out of the room and she would not touch it. But then my mother got a hold of her during my junior year of college and my first couple of years with RWT (when I lived in apartments that did not allow dogs). After my mother convinced the dog that food was the end-all and be-all of the universe (my mother was good at doing this to people too!), Tasha turned into quite the little piggie.
The night we went to Melrose, everyone on our side of the tragically L-shaped dining room (with the exception of a group of women having a business meeting) got up to dance at one point or another during the evening. And they were all obviously experienced dancers. So I suspect the other patrons were there for the dancing more than the food, which was also our primary reason for choosing Melrose for our anniversary dinner.
People say that dogs cannot feel regret. Well, they never met Tasha. I arrived home from work one day, took a look at the dog and knew something was very, very wrong. She had “guilt” written all over her fuzzy black and white face. I walked with trepidation into the kitchen and saw it… an empty ziploc bag on the floor.
The dance floor at Melrose is basically an overgrown entryway with waiters adeptly charging across it at full speed, but at least it is a place to dance. We don’t have much interest in going out to a smoke-filled bar or deafeningly-loud club, but want to be able to get up between the main course and dessert and do the rumba or to linger over dessert and dance a tango. Melrose offered that.
When I had left for work that morning, the ziploc bag contained two freshly baked loaves of oatmeal maple bread. (Sometime while being brain-washed by my mother, Tasha had also learned that ziploc baggies always contained goodies and would rip into them no matter what the contents.) Now these were not petite little loaves of bread or light, airy loaves of bread, but big, hearty loaves. And they were nowhere to be seen. Well, that is not exactly true – one look at Tasha’s sides and it was pretty apparent where most of the bread ended up.
In addition to navigating between people foxtrotting & waltzing, the staff at Melrose is also well trained to wait for those couples to return to their tables before clearing away plates or bringing out the next course, so things ran smoothly considering all the interruptions to the service. And, although the music provided by the live band did not always provide an easy tempo for us novices, dancing was at least an option and we managed to dance to many of the songs. It was a fun night for us overall.
At that point I started yelling at the dog using a word that is particularly appropriate to call a female dog, plus a few other choice expletives. Tasha zoomed outside via the dog door and I followed to continue my tirade (and to look for the rest of the bread). As I was outside thoroughly cussing out the dog, I heard a noise from the neighbor’s yard. I looked over and there was the 10-year-old daughter of our neighbor hiding behind a tree. Our neighbor, the base chaplain. Great. So we took the lecture back inside.
It makes me start to wonder if RWT and I have simply come too late to social ballroom dancing. Did we arrive just in time to witness its demise? But one would never think that was true if they went to Melrose on a Saturday night and saw all the people who were there obviously to dance first and eat second.
After inadvertently expanding the vocabulary of my neighbor’s daughter, I walked into my living room (still yelling at the dog) and noticed that the pillows on my couch were all messed up. Aaaaack! Not only did that dog steal the bread, she was up on the couch too! I started straightening the couch pillows (while now yelling at Tasha about being on up the couch) when I stopped and started laughing hysterically.
Why are there no other places around here to get good food and dance all in one location? There are plenty of salsa dancing venues. Numerous milongas (where one goes to dance the Argentine tango). Bars & nightclubs abound. And there are also dedicated ballroom dance halls, but eating the food there is risking one’s health and the vibe is definitely more competitive than social. So even with the overpriced, mediocre food, we’d go back to Melrose, just for the ambiance and the dancing.
Stuffed way down in the corner of the couch and covered with the pillows was three-quarters of one of the missing loaves of bread. It was all covered in sand, and upon further exploration, I found a shallow hole dug in the back yard. The ground outside was too hard for proper burial, so Tasha stashed her treasure in the couch. That was funny enough, but what really cracked me up was the mental picture of the dog trying to get that large loaf of bread through the 8”-wide dog door. Did she try to walk through with it crosswise in her mouth and the bread hit on both sides of the door and stopped her in her tracks? Did she push it through? Did she go outside first and drag it out? I’m sure it was quite the dilemma for her at the time.
And wouldn’t a place like Melrose only with better food for less money have an even larger following? I do think there is an audience (exactly how many is the question) who want to put on nice clothes, go to someplace elegant & classy, eat a good meal and do some dancing. I like to think that a restaurant providing that would be a success, but I am afraid we’ll just never find out.
Luckily, there was no lasting harm done as a result of the bread theft. Tasha did not eat for two days, but was no worse for wear. I made more bread. The neighbor’s child eventually lost her fear of me. And my hissy-fit did nothing to stop the dog in her quest for self-indulgence. But I’ll save the story involving Tasha, a pound of M&M’s, a pound of Starburst and a ghostly, reappearing image of Christ for the next time I want to rant about dining and dancing…
Confused? (BTW – Scarborough Fair is a waltz.)
07 June 2005
Astilbe My Heart
Many of my military friends wonder why I spend so much time, effort and money gardening in yards that are merely borrowed for a few years. They figure “Why bother? You’ll just be moving soon” or “Why invest in improving someone else’s property?” But then I go out into my backyard to pot up some volunteer perennials for a friend’s new garden and I see this:
Learning a whole new set of plants to culture... First it was plants that grew in the season-less warm fog of coastal southern California, then in the southern end of a different state (Maryland) and in much more summer sun than we ever saw on the coast, then I really discovered what “full sun” meant in the Mojave desert and finally back to the east coast to figure out what to plant in the shade under the towering oaks of the northern Virginia suburbs. Worth it.
(Hostas and Daylily)
Sinking $$$ into a yard that I do not own and will have to walk away from in a year or two... Worth it.
(Veronica & Anna)
Hours spent pulling up fugitive lawn grass, chickweed, henbit, chokeweed, plantain lilies, that unknown weed we always call “the sacrificial weed” because everything (from aphids to flea beetles to slugs to deer) always chews on it first, and all those miles of mock strawberries that thrive in this wild, green jungle known as the mid-Atlantic states... Worth it.
(Nicotiana and Phlox)
Hauling and spreading tons of mulch in half-empty beds while waiting for my bargain-priced perennials to get big enough to keep the rabid weeds at bay... Worth it.
(Ligularia)
Suffering innumerable bites from Asian mosquitoes that are obviously confused regarding the time zone and are not sleeping during the day like the reasonable native mosquitoes... Worth it.
(back to front: Columbine, Nicotiana, various Heucheras & Hosta)
Taking a yard containing a bunch of huge beds filled only with impatiens and a few large shrubs and turning it into a blooming, thriving garden bursting with textures, colors and smells... Worth it.
(Ferns & Hostas)
Being able to share my plants and seeds with friends and neighbors for their gardens... So very worth it.
(Astilbe with Eupatorium in back)
06 June 2005
The Other Grandma
Before anyone starts to feel to sorry for me that I grew up with a mean, praline-rationing grandmother, you need to know about my other grandmother. Unlike my father’s mother who was a cerebral, WASP-y woman who could not cook to save her life, my maternal grandmother (always called Bama by her five grandchildren) was an Italian/Greek food pusher who pretty much resided in her kitchen. (My parents lived “A Big Fat Greek Wedding” ~40 years before it came out on film.)
Trips to Bama’s house were filled with eating that started the second we walked in the door…
Welcome! Have some food.
How was your trip? Have some food.
Tired? Have some food.
Happy? Have some food.
Sad? Have some food.
Have you lost weight? Have some food.
Bored? Have some food.
Did you fall down and skin your knee? Have some food.
Full? Have some food.
As if that were not enough, she would also send us out with our grandfather to get ice cream or doughnuts at least twice a day. And… “Oh, here is some candy. Would you like a cookie? They are just fresh from the oven…“ Luckily for my sisters and me, my mother concurred my grandmother’s food-centric views and additionally felt that grandparents are supposed to spoil grandchildren. Woo-hoo! We ran amok.
Modesto
But I am fortunate to have some of my grandmother’s old cookbooks and recipe cards so I do know that, like me, she was a copious note-taker regarding her cooking. All of her cookbooks are heavily annotated with changes, substitutions and comments on the tastiness of the resulting dishes. I have never had the opportunity to know my grandmother or to watch her cook from the perspective of an adult and avid cook myself. But when I make things from her recipes, I like to think about her cooking the same thing in her kitchen all those years ago. Now if she had only made pralines…
Trips to Bama’s house were filled with eating that started the second we walked in the door…
Welcome! Have some food.
How was your trip? Have some food.
Tired? Have some food.
Happy? Have some food.
Sad? Have some food.
Have you lost weight? Have some food.
Bored? Have some food.
Did you fall down and skin your knee? Have some food.
Full? Have some food.
As if that were not enough, she would also send us out with our grandfather to get ice cream or doughnuts at least twice a day. And… “Oh, here is some candy. Would you like a cookie? They are just fresh from the oven…“ Luckily for my sisters and me, my mother concurred my grandmother’s food-centric views and additionally felt that grandparents are supposed to spoil grandchildren. Woo-hoo! We ran amok.
But I am fortunate to have some of my grandmother’s old cookbooks and recipe cards so I do know that, like me, she was a copious note-taker regarding her cooking. All of her cookbooks are heavily annotated with changes, substitutions and comments on the tastiness of the resulting dishes. I have never had the opportunity to know my grandmother or to watch her cook from the perspective of an adult and avid cook myself. But when I make things from her recipes, I like to think about her cooking the same thing in her kitchen all those years ago. Now if she had only made pralines…
05 June 2005
The envelope please...
But I won't keep you in suspense any longer... here are the results... (for more discussion and testing methodology, see here.)
Raw Tomatoes:
(out of a possible 50 points)
37 points -- Hunts
34 points -- Ferrara
31 points -- Redpack and Sun of Italy
29 points -- Muir Glen and Cento DOP
26 points -- Furmano's
23 points -- Flora DOP
Butter Sauce:
(out of a possible 50 points)
34 points -- Furmano's
32 points -- Muir Glen and Redpack
29.5 points -- Hunt's
28 points -- Cento DOP
27 points -- Sun of Italy and Flora DOP
26.5 points -- Ferrara
Olive Oil Sauce:
(out of a possible 45 points)
31.5 points -- Hunt's
30 points -- Redpack
27 points -- Ferrara and Sun of Italy
24 points -- Muir Glen
23 points -- Furmano's
19 points -- Cento DOP
16 points -- Flora DOP
Total Scores:
(out of a possible 145 points)
98 points -- Hunt's
93 points -- Redpack
87.5 points -- Ferrara
85 points -- Sun of Italy and Muir Glen
83 points -- Furmano's
76 points -- Cento DOP
66 points -- Flora DOP
I'm not sure why the pricey imported DOP San Marzano tomatoes fared so poorly, but there was a definite metallic taste to them. And after discussing it at length, we attribute it to either the age of the tomatoes, the addition of basil (this is what I think is the culprit) or it is just the way San Marzano tomatoes taste. We briefly tossed about the theory that the off-taste came from the cans since neither of the imported tomatoes were in cans with a non-reactive interior coating. But that thought was blown out of the water by the fact that the highest scoring tomatoes, Hunt's, were also in non-coated cans.
For me, most of the other tomato brands were pretty interchangeable (with the main difference being the acidity levels). An interesting point was that while I found the Furmano's totally rank to eat raw (I even went back and cut into a different tomato to make sure I had just not initially tasted a random bad one), it was my favorite cooked into the butter sauce. So go figure.
My conclusions...
Once you cook canned tomatoes for an hour or so, add onions, garlic, spices & herbs and put them over pasta, the differences are negligible.
But sure to taste before salting. Some of the brands had considerable salt, while others seemed almost unsalted.
I will not be making 60+ mile trips to buy imported DOP tomatoes anytime soon!
02 June 2005
Great Feet!
I finally found the time to make some French-style macaroons. Here is my first attempt...
... and I am very happy with how they came out. I didn't have any light brown sugar (which was called for in the recipe),subbed dark-brown and you could tell since they are so delicately flavored. However, they tasted good that way too (just a little molassas-y). RWT really liked them a lot so future macaroon experimentation is not a problem (which it would have been if I had to eat all the tests myself!). Onward to other flavors!!!
... and I am very happy with how they came out. I didn't have any light brown sugar (which was called for in the recipe),subbed dark-brown and you could tell since they are so delicately flavored. However, they tasted good that way too (just a little molassas-y). RWT really liked them a lot so future macaroon experimentation is not a problem (which it would have been if I had to eat all the tests myself!). Onward to other flavors!!!
Raised by Wolves -- Incident #1
Are you lying on the floor under your desk having a heart attack?!?
This is not be confused with the issue of timeliness – that I comprehend all too well (also guilty). For most people, email is not immediate and if I need an answer right way, I’ll call on the phone. What bothers me is when they just never answer. Ever.
Did you see a heinous crime and are now in the witness protection program?!?
RWT says he has learned at his new job that when dealing with political staffers, a non-answer means “no”. Apparently it is viewed as a means of giving a negative reply that is not supposed to offend anyone. But in my work experiences (with more optimistic people perhaps), it can also mean they agree with the query and will only respond to correct misunderstandings.
What if you don’t have a positive answer but need to rectify a misconception?!?
Personally, I would much rather be told straight-out “no” or “yes” than to have to any ambiguity and have to speculate about what it going on (and plan for multiple contingencies).
Should I put one leaf in the dining room table or two?!?
And I understand if someone is simply not interested in the correspondence whatsoever. If a message sent to an individual who I’ve never written before goes unanswered, I have no problem with that. Perhaps they no longer use that email account, have a fear of computers or they don’t talk to strangers.
Do you think I am a stalker?!?
But it does always strike me as odd when contacting a commercial entity about something they are selling or service they offer and they do not seem to want my business.
Are you really sure you don’t want me as a loyal customer?!?
Also, I am not talking about situations where a conversation naturally peters out. Someone has to end it so we are not stuck all day long with a bunch of Chip & Dale-like “thank-you”, “thank-you too” messages bouncing back and forth. Although phrases such as “it has been nice chatting with you”, “thank you for your time” or “have a nice weekend” are always appreciated since they make things clear and give a bit of a sense of closure.
I’ve sat here for 10 minutes waiting for a reply to our back-and-forth… did you leave to go to the bathroom or for the rest of the day?!?
But the most truly puzzling instance is when someone asks you to expand on something (hence, showing interest in continued interaction), you answer their question and pose a reciprocal question which then goes without response. It is like they are curious about my thoughts/info./whatever, but do not wish to share theirs. My mother always taught me that one should not bring up a topic unless willing to talk about it.
Were you raised by wolves?!?
Oh well, as far as problems in the world, this is a minor one and if this is the worst I have to face, it is a very good day.
Am I lucky or what?!?
P.S. All questions posed here in italics are rhetorical and I certainly don’t expect an answer (unless you want to…).
01 June 2005
In My Wildest Dreams, Part I – The Saga Begins
Why the pair of earrings? You got me on that one. I am confident the shoes were because I took my new pair of dance shoes and wore them the first time at the lesson.
The Mario Batali reference is most likely because of the upcoming tomato taste test. The host for the event is also making a bunch of sauces and is using a Batali recipe. I don’t know who/what Batali’s mother was all about – she was an abstract figure throughout the dream.
And Peter Boyle from Everybody Loves Raymond? I think that was just because RWT was watching reruns earlier that evening.
The Dream: Dancing With the Stars meets Canned, Imported Tomatoes meets Furniture Shopping. Utter nonsensical adventures ensued which included (but were not limited to) dancing the waltz with a six-foot tall San Marzano tomato in and around different styles of beds as part of a competition.
The Reasons: I had this dream after spending the whole day making six versions of tomato sauce using six different brands of canned whole tomatoes (I’d hate to think of what my dream would have been if I had been cooking with diced, let alone pureed, tomatoes!). So that explains the tomatoes (I hope!).
Dancing With the Stars premieres tonight and I’ve been looking forward to watching it. Plus, RWT and I spent the evening practicing waltzing.
I think the furniture shopping reference needs no explanation at this point. But why beds instead of couches… ??? Maybe it was because I was actually in a bed – a rather obvious reference. I haved noticed that not all the components of my dreams are symbolic, some are merely situational.
Well, that is it for now. But don’t worry (or worry!), there will be more…
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