The Seltzer Man Cometh

I moved from Berkeley to New York in August, that sticky month of the year, when the city smells like the armpit of a sweaty construction worker, and you really wish that it were permissible to just run around the crowded streets in your underwear. But when Brian and I arrived, in typical Northern California fashion, we still had our light sweaters to ward off a chill in the evening. We learned quickly that a sweater was never needed in August in New York. And that same summer, I also learned about the wonders of seltzer water.

We had been in the city a total of two days. We were still waiting (not-so) patiently for our furniture, which had been sent ahead to arrive from California. We were sleeping on our new “Klik-Klak” sofa-cum-bed-cum-dining table-cum-coffee table-cum-every piece of furniture you would ever need. We Klik-ed and we Klak-ed this sofa for the two weeks it took the rest of our belongings to find its way from the other coast. But I digress, we had been in the city just two days, barely a weekend’s worth of time, when we were invited to a dinner party.

It was at a friend of a friend's house, no one we really knew, but this couple opened up their apartment, and cleared space at the dining table to feed these two new New Yorkers. In typical Manhattan fashion, we were told to be at their apartment in Chelsea, at 8 o’clock. We arrived, and then the rest of the guests invited arrived by 9. After mingling, and noshing on mixed nuts all washed down with a chilly glass of white wine, we sat down to eat at 10. On a Wednesday night.

After hours of good conversation, chilled pea soup, and a large handful of steamed shrimp awaiting a quick shedding of their peel before being popped, naked and unadorned, into one’s mouth, we had drank all of the wine, and had to switch to seltzer. Maybe it was the heat-- at midnight our hosts had shut off the persistent rattle of the air conditioner, and threw open the windows, allowing in the drone of the city, or maybe those shrimp were actually thirst-inducing, whatever the reason, we went through bottles of seltzer that night like, well…it was water.

And since that day, I can’t get enough of the stuff. I would say that I drink seltzer water now, much more than I consume still water. You could say that I even have seltzer coursing through my veins.

October, is a very festive time of year. Gourds abound, it is the month of Halloween (my favorite childhood holiday), and it is my birthday month. And this year I received the greatest of all gifts from the greatest of all friends—home delivery of the king of all drinks, seltzer. Each Saturday there is a buzz at my door, and I let in the seltzer man. Up the four rickety flights of stairs he trudges and drops off 10 of these stunning vintage glass bottles filled with effervescent, nose-tickling, crystal clear seltzer. Each time I open the fridge, a bottle is standing their waiting for me. Perfect. Maybe next year, when I turn the big 3-0 I’ll get home delivery of a genuine soda jerk to go with my glorious seltzer filled bottles.

A Salad and a Scarf-mina

Farewell dear, sweet corn. Goodbye bright melon salads, see you next year. And don't think I have forgotten about you smooth, seedy summer squash. I'll pick you all up next June, when the weather's warm, and tank tops beckon my shoulders out into the sunshine. For now, there are new foods churning their way into my psyche. I mean, it is October for heaven's sake!

The weakening sun hides behind the ever-burgeoning clouds, and it's warm one moment, cool the next. I leave the apartment with a light jacket and scarf-mina (one part scarf, the other part pashmina) firmly affixed round my neck one moment, only to remove the jacket, and blot the perspiration from my brow with said scarf-mina, the next. This of course, translates into stomach confusion for my appetite-- a salad...no, a stew...no, a salad.

Well, what about a hearty salad, how does that sound to a fall appetite? A fall salad sounds quite alright, especially one with roasted beets, kohlrabi, and a hint of salty blue cheese.

I had seen kohlrabi many times before at the market, and always up for exploring the world of new veggies, I brought a small pile home with me. For those of you who aren't familiar with this knobby little vegetable it's a member of the cabbage family, and grows just about anywhere. It can be eaten raw, or eaten roasted, or cooked in a variety of ways. I peeled my kohlrabi, and crunched away. I chewed. And chewed. And then I decided to roast it. With a mild flavor, a bit like jicama crossed with a tart, green apple (although some people say it reminds them of eating broccoli stems), I thought this would be the perfect roasting vegetable.

I sliced the kohlrabi, tossing it in olive oil and giving it a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Then I set the slices to roast for 40 minutes at 425 degrees. I also roasted the beets in foil packets for a bit longer, at the same temperature. Removing the roasted veg from the oven, I cooled them to room temperature. Then I set to work assembling the salad: peppery arugula, creamy and salty blue cheese crumbles, and of course the roasted beets and kohlrabi. Dressed in a simple balsamic-Dijon vinaigrette, this salad was the perfect autumnal feast. Try it yourself wrapped in a scarf-mina, jacket on the side.

Inspiration Strikes

Ho-hum and La-dee-dah...

I have been uninspired lately. Hey, it happens to the best of us (at least that is what I keep telling myself). Maybe it has been this unseasonably warm weather. This August-like heat and humidity in October (yes, October!) has me all confused. Do I grill a piece of fish and just pretend it's summer, or do I toil over a pot of stew and just say, "Warm weather, be damned! Bring on the fall already!"

I have turned into one of those wishy-washy shoppers for which I normally have little patience. You know the ones, standing in the middle of the produce aisle of the market, not a clue as to what to bring home with them, deliberating, while their cart stands empty and nowhere near them. The broccoli or the fennel? No, the carrots or the tomatoes? Usually I sigh loudly in front of these people, grab my bulb of fennel, then maneuver my shopping cart around them. But, I have become one of those deliberators. I have eaten one too many salads lately because of my lack of inspiration. Something had to be done.


So I packed up my empty, uninspired belly, and brought it to the Union Square Greenmarket, hoping that my mind would begin racing, and my taste buds would begin percolating. And it did. This is a truly weird and wonderful time to be at the farmer's market. The pumpkins and coarsely-skinned winter squash are jockeying for space next to piles of late-season corn and crunchy romano beans. The crisp, fragrant apples are shouldering for a place near the slightly bruised nectarines and summer stone fruit. But what really caught my eye were these beautiful little eggplant.

Bright and diminutive, these fairytale eggplant were the first vegetables to really grab my attention, followed by branches of tiny cherry tomatoes. A last hurrah to the summer season, these veggies were just as stunning as they were delicious.
Simple, simple, simple. I first beheaded the eggplant, trimming off their green tops, and then gently sauteed them in olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. They began to soften, their skin turning from that almost ostentatious purple to a blistering brown. I removed them from the pan, and put them in a warm oven, and brought out the lovely tomatoes. Setting them in the hot pan, the little cherries begin to sputter and pop, leaking out some of their sweet juices. I charred the skins, giving them a sweet, yet smoky flavor. Then I added the eggplant back to the pan, and got ready to serve.

The eggplant were tender, seedless, and almost buttery, like a new potato, and the tomatoes were so sweet, playing nicely off the deep, rich flavor of the eggplant. So inspiration struck again. Let's hope it sticks around for awhile.