We're Movin' On Up!

Perhaps some of you may have noticed that my postings have been less frequent as of late. Well, I haven't found a new love, nor have I had a baby, nor have I won the lottery. The big news is that as of August 1st, I will no longer be a resident of the balmy Bay Area. My husband and I will be moving to New York City.

Anyone who has made the cross-country move knows what I mean when I say, "It's a giant pain in the ass!" With packing up belongings, finding a place to live, waiting for the said belongings to reach NYC, etc., it's going to be a little difficult to get around to cooking, and to blogging. As I pack away my pots and pans, I think about favorite dishes that have been made with them. Having been born and raised in the Bay Area with a wealth of California produce, I am sad to see the local spherical summer fruits roll away. But I am excited to explore a new city (one as rich and lively as New York), to sample new cuisines, and to buy new groceries.

So until I return to the blogosphere (which won't be too terribly long, I hope) I leave you with the Dancin' Man from Central Park. Obviously, he's excited about the move as well.

A 30-Minute Meal

I must admit, I am not the hugest fan of the 30-minute meal, at least not for dinner anyway. Maybe it is simply that I am at a different place in my life. One where time is not of the essence, but I actually enjoy the time that I spend in the kitchen, chopping, roasting, preparing. But there are times when I do get dinner on the table in a speedy fashion, and I must say that when I do, I feel as if I have won a race. And the prize for my accomplishment? A delicious and satisfying meal.

An assemblage of all things tasty and bright, I like to call this dish deconstructed asparagus and hollandaise. Hollandaise can be a bit much; wobbly and heavy, it reminds me a bit of that dreaded (to me) condiment-- mayonnaise. But an egg, fried crisply in olive oil, sunny side up, yolk waiting to be punctured and swiftly oozing around a plate of roasted asparagus, now that is gastronomic heaven. The asparagus, tossed in olive oil, and seasoned with salt and pepper, is quickly roasted in a hot oven. Bright and shimmery, I line the asparagus up like soldiers and slide the egg on top.

The egg begins to casually droop, languishing over the spears. I quickly sauteed some garlic chives for some interest, and a depth of flavor, and sprinkled the saute over the egg and asparagus. For the final addition, I baked some crisp-soft, freshly made croutons, torn helter-skelter from a sourdough baguette. A final sprinkling of salt and pepper, and that's it. Supper is prepared, and awaits hungry mouths.

A little bit of everything all rolled into one. Some bread to soak up the yolk, some egg white, perfectly cooked, to eat with the asparagus spears, and me, a happy diner. So yes, the meal was prepared in 30-minutes (even less, I think!). But give this meal a shot, and you will see, time is not truly the point.

That's Just Sour Grapes (no, really)!

Usually I tend to be a rather shy person, quiet until I really get to know a person. But take me to a grocery store, and I get positively verbose. I love to chat with strangers in the check-out line about what they are buying. It is very voyeuristic. For those moments you get a glimpse as to what type of person they are. Do they have pets, children? Are they health nuts, junk food junkies? And occasionally someone has something in their cart with which I am unfamiliar. In those cases I have to ask them what it is they're buying; and what they plan on doing with it.

Last week I was waiting in an endless line at Berkeley Bowl (a ginormous grocery store with an unbelievable ethnic and produce section). I noticed the woman ahead of me in line with a large bag of tightly clustered, tiny, grape-like bunches. I was immediately intrigued, and asked her what they were. Her reply was sour grapes. She explained they were tart, underripe fruit, that are available for only a short amount of time each year. She buys them in bulk when she can, freezes them, then simmers the clusters whole in vegetable dishes, especially acidic ones. I had been waiting in my endless line too long to get out and retrieve some, but I knew this was a fruit I definitely needed to try.


The next week, with lines much shorter at the Bowl, I purchased a small bundle of sour grapes, and went right home to do some research. The research itself wasn't too fruitful (pardon the pun). But I did discover that sour grape extract, a highly concentrated version of the juice, is typically used in Iranian vegetable dishes, imparting a subtle, yet tart flavor. I popped one of these chartreuse orbs into my mouth to taste them raw. They weren't kidding when they called these things sour grapes-- they are T-A-R-T! But simmered quickly in vegetables, they were delicious.

The closest I can come to describing the flavor of cooking with sour grapes is-- more. More acidic, more tart, more tasty. I had simmered the cluster with summer squash and freshly diced tomatoes. Seasoned very simply with a bit of salt and pepper, and a touch of chili flake, I added the cluster as the tomatoes broke down to create a sauce. I then simmered the whole concoction until the heat from the mixture began to burst the individual grapes. The grapes lost there beautiful vibrancy, and deflated a bit, but they imparted a wonderful mix of acid and savory to an otherwise plain vegetable medley. The tomatoes were an ideal antidote to the sour grapes, the two flavors playing off one another magnificently.

And a funny thing happened at the market that week. While I was in line buying my sour grapes, a woman in line with me turned and asked me what I was buying, and how I cooked the grapes. I told her the little bit that I knew, so hopefully she will buy some sour grapes at the grocery soon. Let the chain continue.

Pop-A-Licious

One of my earliest "cooking" memories is making popsicles with my mother. Mom had this set of popsicles moulds, nothing special, just empty, oblong shaped moulds, each with a brightly colored, reusable popsicle stick. Intended for children, they even had cut-outs of circus animals emblazoned on the stick. We never made outrageous frozen treats-- simply frozen juice, or even lemonade, set to freeze for a few hours until pops were made. I think it was my mother's attempt to raise a healthy child by avoiding processed, overly sugary snacks, but what I was always fascinated with was the prospect of freezing a liquid into a solid. That something so ordinary could magically transform into a frozen treat amazed me.

Well, those particular moulds are long gone; the child that they once served is now a married adult. But each summer, as the months progress and the temperature rises, I think back fondly to those cylindrical moulds, and all of the marvelous treats I would make with them today if given the chance again. So when I was at Ikea, imagine my glee when I spied, stacked in not-so-neat piles near the registers, slightly different, though infinitely useful, popsicle moulds. I restrained myself, and purchased only one set, allowing for 7 popsicles to be made, and ran home, the "cooking" wheels spinning in my head.

My first trial was a success! Yoghurt and Strawberry Cream Pops, with their dual tones and flavors only look difficult to make. If you can make a smoothie, you can probably make these pops. Taking advantage of the beautiful berries at the market right now, I brought home a pint, with the intention of making a sweet, pulpy concoction. I whirred the cleaned strawberries in the blender, thinned the mixture out with a bit of water, then set the strawberries to simmer on the stove with about a quarter cup of sugar, and a split vanilla bean. Once the strawberry smoothie reached a boil, I turned off the heat, and let the mixture set in the pan while I went to work on the yoghurt.

I took vanilla yoghurt, thinned out with a touch of milk, and kissed it with a bit of sugar (but just a bit, I wanted these to be "grown-up" popsicles) to make the yoghurt mixture. Then I began to pour the liquids into the moulds, careful to make sure the first batch of liquid came no higher than the popsicle stick would clear. I set these first smoothie cubes to freeze before adding the alternating liquid. A few hours wait while the liquid froze, then, pop! A new popsicle for the girl who longed to make her own sweet treats. And it only took me how many years to get my hands on popsicle moulds?