Visions of Milkmaids Danced in My Head

There has been much talk on-line about butter lately. These are food bloggers mind you, so the chat has been espousing its merits, not detracting from its creamy goodness. There are many different kinds of butter, in many different price ranges available in the market these days, but the Butter that deserves capitalization is Plugra.

Plugra, meaning literally "more fat," is just that. A spread with a lower water content, and higher butterfat, leading to a impossibly creamy, delightfully rich concoction for anything you choose to slather it on. Plugra makes me think of cows chomping on cud in rolling green pastures in the Swiss countryside, jolly milkmaids carrying pails of fresh cream to be churned into rich sweetcream butter, and portly bakers, rolling pounds of butter into silky smooth sheets of puff pastry. And no, it doesn't matter that Plugra is actually made in the USA. Chilled slightly, then taken and smeared liberally on a crusty tear of bread, makes for a superb midday snack.

I can't wait to try it on some warm, fresh-from-the-oven sourdough; but I guess that will have to wait. I tried making baguettes over the weekend. Let's just say I had some of the longest, toughest, most unleavened breadsticks of my life. But I am not discouraged (frustrated yes, but discouraged no). I still have my starter, and it is back to the drawing board. I will learn how to work with this touchy starter, and I'll show you dear reader its rewards as soon as I have some.

The Final Goo

Well, it's over. Ten days of wait and worry are over, and my starter is now complete. I fed it one last time, mixed, and waited. The scent was surprisingly not like a fruity, alcohol-based dessert, rather a tangy, tart, sourdough fragrance was emitted from the goo. I now have my sourdough starter indefinitely. Stored in the refrigerator, and fed monthly, this goo can be responsible for many loaves of bread, pizza doughs, foccacias, and even English muffins. I have yet to bake with it though, so I suppose that will be the true test of both my competence and the hardiness of my goo.

Goo: Day 9

What looks like hummus, and smells like Banana's Foster? Goo, that's what. For the last few feedings, when I take the plastic cover off of the starter, I am overcome with a peculiar, fruity, grain alcohol scent. The scent mellows as I stir the starter, reserve 1/4 cup, add the 1/2 cup lukewarm water, and 2/3 cup bread flour. But upon leaving, the fermentation starts again, the starter turns from a lumpy porridge consistency, to a bubbling liquid. Let's just say I would not want to consume any starter for fear of intoxication the likes that I have never experienced before. I mean, this stuff smells positively hallucinogenic! But, only one more day, one more feeding, and the process is complete.

S'marshmallows

At the risk of sounding too much like Rachel Ray, with her overly perky demeanor, abbreviations to drive you mad (e.v.o.o), and trenchant abuse of portmanteau words-- I made s'marshmallows. What is a s'marshmallow? A delightful combination of homemade marshmallows, neatly affixed to soft graham cracker, then slathered in creamy milk chocolate.

It all started with my very first taste of homemade marshmallows. Sweet Adeline is a sunny, fairly new, bakery that opened near me. On my last visit, I tried their version of homemade marshmallows-- pillow-soft, clouds of pure white fluff, rolled in confectioner's sugar. They were delicious, so delicious in fact I decided to go home and make some for myself. A quick internet search led me to the Barefoot Contessa's recipe; with only 1 1/2 cups of sugar (some recipes called for up to 3), I figured these wouldn't be too cloyingly sweet. Well, I was correct about them not being overly sweet, but I had no idea what a sticky mess I would be in for.

Now I am not schooled in the ways of candy making, but I will give anything a shot once, especially if the final product is to be consumed with gusto after a meal. It wasn't that anything was particularly difficult about the instructions, set gelatin to bloom in the bowl of a mixer while the rest of the ingredients are brought to a boil and cooked until 240 degrees is reached. The next step seemed almost simpler, slowly pour the syrup into the gelatin and beat at high speed for about 15 minutes. Certainly I can leave a machine to do the work for me; I am a member of this highly-automated society. It was just getting this sticky, now white, sugary dream out of the mixer and into the prepared pan that had me yelping for mercy in a confectionery confusion.

It seemed that every object that I touched, was soon to have large smudges of fluff on it. The mixture had so thickened during the beating, that pre-marshmallow now clung steadfastly to both the whisk attachment and the bowl. I did my best at extracting the mass from the bowl, but it was like The Blob-- the more you touched it, the more it grew. Finally, the bowl was about as clean as I knew that I would get it. I quickly pushed the mixture into every crevice of the pan, doused the marshmallows with more confectioner's sugar, then waited the requisite 12 hours before consuming.

And for all of the trouble, the toiling, and back breaking labor (alright, it wasn't that bad), they were scrumptious. Enjoyed plain, or souped up to make a bite-size s'marshmallow, I can honestly say, I would make them again. I just have to figure out a way to enjoy homemade marshmallows, and still maintain my sanity.

Goo: Day 7

It smells like a goo-lag in here! Sourdough starter, at least that's what it smells like it is, is growing strong and taking over my house. The starter was up for another feeding, so I discarded all but 1/4 cup, added 1/2 cup lukewarm water, and 2/3 cup bread flour, and stirred. The proportion of rye flour is getting smaller and smaller, but the stink is getting larger, and more potent. The starter truly smells like a combination of sourdough bread, and grain alcohol. Mmm, fermented. We'll see.

Green and Goo

August. The hottest month of the year. Sticky, sweltering heat causing rivulets of sweat to cascade down your back landing in moist puddles in the crook of your spine. Early evening walks, when the heat breaks, and you are left with a dusk so pleasant, that you turn off the air conditioner and throw open the windows. These are the summer days I dream about, but here in the Bay Area, I don't get them much. It has been downright cold. Not freezing, get out the gloves and scarf sort of weather, but cold, as in, better gather a sweater before going out, the bay fog clinging to the coast until mid-afternoon cold. And frankly, what is a bourgie to do when faced with such a climate? Well, she makes a batch of soup that's what, casting guilt aside as she toils over the stove. Besides, it is not as if she must frolic outside, enjoying the beautiful weather.

Pea soup is such a versatile thing. I make vats of Split Pea Soup with Ham in the wintertime. Handfuls of dried, yellow-ish split peas, simmered for hours with a salty ham hock, makes a hearty stew-like soup to enjoy on a cold winter's night. And in the spring and summertime, I make hardly cooked, fresh, shelling peas quickly pureed with mint, so clean and crisp to the palate. This combination of peas and mint is not a new one. In fact it seems that every cookbook I pick up as of late has their recipe for this light soup. For this incarnation, I picked up Fresh Every Day by Sara Foster. Foster, who now owns Foster's Market in Durham, North Carolina, used to work as a chef for Martha Stewart's catering company. She first tasted this soup, or so the intro to the recipe says, when Martha made it for the kitchen staff's lunch with fresh English peas and butter lettuce from her garden. Isn't that quaint, couldn't you just die!?! Nevertheless, the soup is pretty darn good.

I served the hors d'oeuvre de rigueur with this shockingly green soup: thinly sliced radish lain on a baguette, slathered with sweet cream butter, with a sprinkling of coarse kosher salt. The ideal accompaniment to round out a light and nourishing meal. This soup was the perfect meal to have in prevention of my having one big pity party. Sure it's cold outside, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the bounty of the season. If you would like the recipe for Sweet Pea Soup with Fresh Mint, you can find it in the Daily Specials section.

And now, an update: Goo Day 5. As the French would say, my slop is appropriately de-goo-tante. For once in my life I am entirely following directions closely. After discarding all but 1/4 cup of my starter, I have mixed the remaining with 1/2 cup lukewarm water, and fed it an additional 2/3 cup bread flour. What I have is a gurgling, belching, semi-liquid matter, as I should have. Stay tuned for Goo Day 7: the feeding continues.

Goo: Day 3

Two days have passed, and the feeding has begun. Like a boa constrictor consumes it daily diet of rodents, and small jungle creatures, so too has my rye flour engulfed the 2/3 cup of bread flour it was fed last night. The rye flour was puffy and swollen looking upon its consumption, so there was definitely some fermentation going on. I added the bread flour, stirred to mix, now I wait another two days before feeding number two.

When I stirred the mixture it was very thick. The consistency was definitely more than, "a thick pancake batter," as the recipe said it would be. I would equate it to a lumpy, dense scone batter, but pancake batter is sort of subjective, right? It alarmed me enough so that I asked Brian, "And just what do I do if this doesn't work out, and here I am documenting it online, for all the world to see my embarrassment." His remark, "If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out, and you'll try another recipe." So, with much trepidation, I give you Goo Day 3.

The Long Road to Sourdough

I admit it, maybe it has something to do with the fact I am a Bay Area native, and here sourdough is like pablum, but I love sourdough bread. The tang, the crumb, the subtle puckery nature, it makes my heart go pitter pat. To me, even a bad loaf of Colombo Sliced Sourdough makes pretty good toast slathered with butter, and the end piece of a sourdough baguette, still slightly warm, crust shiny and bubbled from The Cheese Board, is sublime.

I had done some reading on baking sourdough bread, and I will be the first to tell you-- the task seemed a bit daunting. For those of you who don't already know this, sourdough bread is made from what else, sourdough starter. This starter is different from other forms of bread in that it is yeast-free, or rather no prepared yeast is added to it. A combination of rye and bread flours, and lukewarm water, is fermented and invigorated for days, and makes the living organism that is a sourdough starter. Many bakeries that bake sourdough bread products, have several containers of sourdough starter that are decades old. When fed and cared for regularly, a starter will last indefinitely. Just think of it as house plant, or a small child.



Recently I purchased the The Cheese Board Collective Works, a fabulous cookbook of the bread, pastry, cheese, and pizza, by the Cheese Board Collective. The Cheese Board is a bustling, amazing cheese shop cum bakery in Berkeley, CA. Besides being an entirely egalitarian, successfully worker owned co-op, this shop also has the largest selection of some truly interesting cheeses, and the most friendly, knowledgeable staff of anywhere I have been. From the more unique, semi-hard cheeses from Spain, to the more traditional, creamy ricottas (they have 5 kinds), to the various types of scones, muffins, and flat breads, I confess, the reason I return to the Cheese Board, time and again, is the sourdough bread.

Inspired by my latest cookbook purchase, and encouraged by my insatiable desire for sourdough bread (and I can't camp out at The Cheese Board's doorstep), I decided to make my own starter. The Cheese Board cookbook, in the spirit of "share and share alike" gave me step-by-step instructions to begin my culinary travails. I think what will be the most trying aspect of the process for me will be patience. It takes a minimum of 12 days, to get the starter going-- 12 DAYS. I am not the most patient of human beings. But when I think of the living organism that I will have in my hot little hands, in less than 2 weeks, it makes me giggle in gleeful anicipation. Check back in at Nosheteria for the latest thumbnail pics of the starter in its creation. We'll call this Goo Day 1. It is simply a mixture of rye flour and water. Stay tuned as the feeding begins.

Livin' the Good Life in Van Nuys

I confess, or Brian does in fact, that his parents do not live in LA proper, they call the Valley home. The Valley is suburban sprawl at its most perverse, where one town seamlessly blends into the next, and north and south of Ventura boulevard delineate the right, from the wrong sides of the tracks. But there are good things to be had in the Valley: the Schindler house, in its dilapidation in Woodland Hills; bookstores with smelly, old copies of Charles Lamb's collected works; and Dr. Hogly Wogly's Tyler Texas BBQ in Van Nuys.

The bright green astro turf beckoned me inside, and the smoke from the BBQ lay thick in the air. Carnivores need be the only diners to apply for a plum dinner seating at this local joint. With a quick glance at the menu, of hot links, various types of pork products, both beef and spareribs, chicken, and the brisket, Brian and I, encouraged by our fellow diners, decided to split the two way combination of beef brisket, and spare ribs. When the meat arrived, not swimming in BBQ sauce, but resting haphazardly in a plate of rich au jus, with a small pitcher of sauce on the side, we knew that we were in for a gluttonous treat. The spareribs were succulent, the meat literally falling from the bone, no need to exercise the canines. And the brisket was not the typical fatty and tough pieces of meat; these were prime cuts of beef, fork tender and still juicy.

Now in my history, BBQ joints are not known for their sides, but this was not the case for Dr. HogWog. We selected the baked beans; delicately sweetened with brown sugar, and clearly given a boost with liquid smoke; and cole slaw, tangy yet not too vinegary, nor swimming in heavy mayonnaise-based dressing. These sides were so ideal, we actually ordered more to round out the meal. Each diner was given a flaky, chewy, homemade dinner roll, the size of a hamburger bun, to sop up the liquid heaven that was left on the plate.

When the bill came, wetnaps and toothpicks included, and I sat back, surprised by just how much Texas BBQ was consumed during my dinner hour. And when I read "Was it as good for you?" fadingly emblazoned on the tray, I nodded solemnly in agreement. Dr. Hogly Wogly's is the best thing to come out of Texas, and one of the best things about the Valley.

In Homage to the Original

When I first started this site, and was diligently searching the web, looking for proper names, I did a search for "nosheteria," the perfect combination of the words cafeteria (a place many of us have fond, or not so fond memories of) and nosh (a common Jewish colloquialism meaning a snack). At the time, only one result came up on Google, an Epinions rating of a favorite restaurant, Canter's Deli in LA, mentioning that this was "a late night nosheteria." And so the love affair was quickly cemented.


I love Canter's Deli. Not because it's the greatest Jewish food around (because it's not), and not because it is open 24 hours a day (although that is wonderful), but because it is what it is-- an old school deli, plastic banquettes still intact, with a truly bizarre clientele. To get the full realization of Canter's, it is necessary to dine there in the late evening hours, when the Kibbitz Room, the attached bar next door is in full swing. The glaring lights of the neon marquee beckon you to come inside for a bowl of chicken soup and a bagel. Cruising past the deli and bakery cases housing rows of rugelah, and towers of babkas in the foyer, it's not even necessary to request a booth-- at Canter's that's all they have.

I always have chicken soup at Canter's, even in late July when LA is suffering through a heat wave that makes the flesh on the back of my arms stick to the leatherette veneer of the banquette. I have had the matzo ball, and it's pretty good for restaurant style matzo ball soup, unadorned, just a tennis ball-sized sphere floating in the clear chicken broth. But what I have is the dumpling to beat all Jewish dumplings-- kreplach. Doughy and thick, eggy, offering the slightest bit of resistance to the spoon, with a plain minced chicken filling, kreplach soup is the soup of champions! Many Jewish delis do not even have kreplach soup on the menu, or if they do it is just a wonton, setting in a bowl of tepid broth. But Canter's revels in the perogi-like presence of their kreplach, placing it squarely in a bowl of steaming hot, salty chicken broth. When you order kreplach soup from Canter's, that is what you get, no shreds of white chicken breast meat, not the odd carrot or two floating around haphazardly in broth. You get just chicken soup, with a couple of kreplachs; and you don't need anything more.


But perhaps what I love the most about a late night run to Canter's is the ambiance. Now I'm not talking about dimmed lighting, beautiful floral center pieces, and flickering candlelight sort of ambiance. What I am talking about is glaring fluorescent lights, the kind that give you a greenish cast, briny dill pickles replacing the quaint floral center pieces, and hoarse waitresses who have worked at years for Canter's, barking out "What can I get you?" all whilst wearing the faded "I Love Canter's Deli" t-shirt. Hipsters, old folks, and the odd celebrity (because it is LA) all dine together under the fluorescent lights, covered with a 1970's, translucent tiles, reminiscent of hyper-colored trees and leaves. The corned beef is good, the pastrami is fine, and the coffee is diner style and delicious, making no trip to LA complete without my fix from Canter's deli. And now, since this Nosheteria's inception, I've been able to build a lasting connection to this timeless, old haunt.

Camryn Manheim and the Giant Wiener

No trip to Los Angeles would be complete without a celebrity sighting. And this year's trip to LA was no different when I saw the perfect "C" level star, Camryn Manheim, strolling down the canals at Venice with her annoyingly precocious son in tow. Ah, I loves me some LA! Last year I had not one, but two celebrity sightings-- be still my beating heart. Elijah Wood (a bona fide "B" level celebrity) having a late night nosh at Canter's deli, and the piece de resistance, not George Clooney, nor Sharon Stone (both "A" levels), but the Oscar Mayer wienie mobile cruising down the 101 freeway, heading towards the Valley. My stomach is a-flutter simply recalling the one-ton giant, lumbering down the freeway, coughing plumes of exhaust, and distributing 100%, all-beef hot dogs to throngs of clamoring kiddies.

This year, I wanted to make the trip to LA as special as the last, so Brian and I whipped out our copy of Los Angeles: An Architectural Guide by David Gebhard and Robert Winter in hot pursuit of programmatic architecture. Programmatic architecture, also known as: mimetic, googie, "a duck," means a building shaped like what it is selling. This style of architecture is found all over this country, and was especially popular during the 1930's to the 1960's. Out of the many places in the USA that contain some programmatic relic from the past, Los Angeles is the mecca of this type of architecture.

The Tail-O-the-Pup, now located on N. San Vicente Boulevard, near the Beverly Center, was moved from it's original 1946 location, on the corner of La Cienga and Beverly Boulevard-- anything to preserve a little bit of true Americana. Forget about the Liberty Bell, the Empire State Building, we want our larger than life, wienies on a bun. Tail-O-the-Pup serves your average hot dog, boiled (or grilled for 50 cents extra), plus all of the fixings: chili, cheese, guacamole. Truth be told, it's just an ordinary hot dog served from an extraordinary hot dog shaped building.

From the 405 freeway it beckons to you like a beacon of grease and good-eatin', the enormous donut (it looks like the plain cake variety to me) that is Randy's Donuts. The ginormous donut is just a sign, but what a sign it is. Talk about making a building work for you! The vertical steel supports of the model, plunge right through the tiny, non-descript donut shop. And the donuts aren't half bad either. The coconut donut (pictured above) was a delight, a raised glaze donut, rolled in sweetened, snowy white flakes of coconut. Mmmm. A charm from 1954, this is the last Randy's Donuts around, they used to be dotted throughout Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley.

I think programmatic architecture is the way to go. It just makes everything so much simpler. For instance, who wouldn't want to buy their groceries from a building shaped like a giant grocery bag, or better yet a cart? Picture it now: driving home and pulling up to your shiny new, car-shaped garage, taking your house keys out and unlocking the door to your sofa-shaped home, no confusion about what is what. Programmatic architecture is the wave of future, at least it was 50 years ago.