Today was the last day of the season for the farmer’s market, so I stocked up on a few items. I tried to buy something from each vendor to encourage them to return next summer. It’s a good thing we have a second freezer in the basement to hold everything while we go into hibernation for the winter.
I bought some cilantro, banana-walnut bread, chocolate banana bread, indian corn, Honeycrisp and Jonagold apples, mozzarella, Purple Viking and All-Red potatoes.
Today was also a pickup day for the meat CSA, which will continue through December.
This month’s mystery bag contained a whole chicken, a ham steak, pork chops, bacon, and hot Italian sausage. I added the breakfast sausage patties and two fresh pork bellies.
Tomorrow’s belated Halloween dinner will be the roasted chicken, mashed purple potatoes, and orange cauliflower puree. And those two pork bellies? I’m teaching He Who Will Not Be Ignored how to make our own bacon. But that will be another post.
Sixteen years ago today, Diane and I were married at Dwight Chapel at Yale University. After months of wrangling and planning a ceremony and reception that remained firmly in our control, the actual day itself was a blur, full of the little crises that define modern weddings. Fortunately, the events I do recall have fixed that day firmly in my memory:
God made an unexpected appearance at the ceremony. Despite our insistence on secular vows, the Honorable Donald W. Celotto (for whom Diane had clerked in the New Haven Superior Court) read the xtian vows handed to him by his secretary. She was convinced we had made a mistake and took it upon herself to correct our error. Witnesses reported that the sound of my neck snapping from the double-take could be heard outside the chapel.
The friends I had invited to be ushers showed up wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. They pretended to run security checks on everyone they seated. When I was escorted out for the start of the ceremony, I heard one of them mutter into his sleeve “The fox is in the chicken coop.” The rest had reached into their jackets, as if readying their sidearms.
I had invited Bill Bensberg, and old high school buddy and brilliant organist, to play at the wedding. He agreed so that he would have a chance to play a Rudolf von Beckerath pipe organ. His description of the music he’d chosen: “Pachelbel in, Aida out, and I’ll fake the rest.” Which he did, from memory.
Judge Celotto, an Amy veteran and Yale graduate, berated me for scheduling a wedding on the same day as the Army-Navy football game. I thought I had been diligent in avoiding the day of the Harvard-Yale game.
Diane’s Uncle Jim berated me for scheduling a wedding on the first day of turkey hunting season in Pennsylvania. I engaged him in a lengthy conversation about the merits of the box and flap types of turkey calls (I had seen a demo a month earlier at the Franklin County Fair), leaving him convinced his great-niece had married “a fine, outstanding gentleman.”
After the reception, we had a casual party for our friends. We checked out or newly-received swag, ate pizza, and tried to figure out a new card game called Magic: The Gathering.
What I didn’t know at the time was how that day would be a precis of the chaos that our lives became. But we’re still together sixteen years later, having added more chaos in the person of He Who Will Not Be Ignored, and I wouldn’t trade away a day of it.
I lost a web site client today. I didn’t get a “we’re going a different way” email, there was no phone call informing me that my services were no longer required. In fact, I didn’t speak to the client at all. I was forced to deduce I had been kicked to the curb from my prior experience with similar situations.
Just as Elisabeth Kübler-Ross was able to quantify the five stages of grief, I have been cataloging the stages of shoddy treatment of web designers. It always begins the same way: I get an email from some chirpy twenty-something named Tracy, asking me to please provide the information necessary to access the client web site or domain registry. I always respond the same way, refusing to deliver any information until I have spoken to the company owner, my client. (For some reason, all Tracys are unspecified “assistants” with broad authority to do everything.)
Requests to give up secure information should always be treated as potential scams, something that the Tracys of this world can’t fully comprehend. This leads to stage two of the process: Instead of calling me to verify her identity, Tracy sends me an email requesting the same information. That request is also denied.
Stage three: Tracy finally breaks down and calls me. When I ask why the information is required, the response is a variation on “I’m new here and I’m trying to pull all of this information together.” At this point I know that I’m history, so I make a game out of forcing Tracy to tell me that I’m fired, which she refuses to do. She’s part of the new team that will revitalize the company of at least improve their Google search rank (or so they believe), so she doesn’t want to be the target of my dissatisfaction. I tell her that her boss has always had all of that information, and that it would be irresponsible of me to divulge passwords in a phone call. Besides, how do I know Tracy really works for my client?
Stage four is were the game gets interesting. Since I’m usually both the technical and administrative contact for most of the web sites I set up and design (“Could you do that for us? I don’t understand how any of that stuff works?”), I get email notifications any time someone other than me logs into the account and tries to change the permissions. It has occurred to Tracy at this stage that she can cut me out of the process by granting herself access. She’d have more success claiming she was the daughter of a Nigerian prince who had to move a large sum of money out of the country. I let her stew for a day or two until she realizes that nothing will happen without my cooperation.
And leads to stage five: The client herself calls me and breaks the bad news, which she had hoped Tracy would have been able to handle (and hiring Tracy is beginning to look like a questionable decision). When I ask why I’m being let go, the answer will be either “we’re going in a new direction” (as if I’m incapable of change), or a variation of the Google search rank nonsense. Now that I’ve been told straight up that I’ve been fired, I tell the client that I will re-send the email she sent me at the beginning of our work together, in which she provided me with all of the usernames and passwords for her site accounts.
If these clients had been a bit smarter, and remembered that they always had the information they needed, months would have gone by before I realized that something was amiss. All I ask for is honesty and fair dealing. If you treat me like a part of your team, you get my loyalty and commitment to your project. Treat me like the help, and I’ll make your life difficult. The choice is always yours.
Anthony Bourdain has turned to the realm of animation to purge the demons that plague his sick, twisted mind. The level of insult he’s permitted with No Reservations isn’t sufficient to express his true thoughts about some aspects of the food celebrity business, so he’s launching Anthony Bourdain’s Alternate Universe as a web-only series in 2010. Here’s a teaser trailer:
… these dark, nasty, frequently foul two minute long web extras are not a replacement for No Reservations. They are not a pilot for some new, family friendly, watered down follow on. They are instead brief, often violent, alt versions of No Res — representing things we could never have done on the actual show — or the way things should have gone on the show — or animated acknowledgments of what already went terribly wrong on the show. Or, for example, my take on the network’s “Travel Bug” promo campaign — about which I was, shall we say…dubious.
Rather than leaving us hanging until the new year, Bourdain has released this episode:
He also takes full responsibility for the content:
I wrote the damn things — so there’s nobody to blame but me if they’re not as quick, nasty — and funny as I think they are. And I want to thank Andrew Zimmern and Samantha Brown in advance — for their extraordinarily good humored participation in one particularly lurid episode. I hope we don’t freak out their fan base.
I can’t wait for the rest. But what he said about Alton Brown — them’s fightin’ words.
At the end of August 1977 I packed everything I owned into the family Toyota, which Dad drove all the way to Cambridge, Massachusetts. I was heading to MIT, and as we got closer to our destination I could barely sit still. We made the right turn from River Street to Mass. Ave. (a turn that I’ve taken thousands of times since), and drove the few blocks to the main campus. Dad saw the buildings first – “Look, there’s the little dome!” – but my eyes were elsewhere: we had pulled up alongside the building that housed The New England Confectionery Company. “Look, that’s where they make Necco Wafers!” (Dad still hasn’t forgiven me for screwing up what should have been a treasured memory.)
My dorm was downwind of the factory, so my morning walks to classes were suffused with the unsubtle scents of the eight wafer flavors. I soon found myself giving each day a color to match a flavor: “It’s a purple day,” “It’s a white day,” etc. I could see the water tower on the roof, painted to lok like a roll of wafers:
Everyone knew the color-to-flavor mapping: white = cinnamon, purple = clove, pink = wintergreen, brown = chocolate, black = licorice, orange = orange, yellow = lemon, and green = lime.
Necco realized that it owned prime real estate in the Cambridge technology zone, so they sold the property and relocated to Revere, taking all of their original wafer-making equipment with them. Novartis A.G., a global pharmaceutical company, purchased the building and gut-renovated it, preserving the original façade and the water tower. They sponsored a contest to solicit a new design for the tower, finally choosing this design from humdreds of submissions:
It’s a double helix, which is obvious for a company like Novartis, but it’s a double helix whose backbone and base pairs match the wafer colors. I miss the old tower, but I have come to accept the new design.
But today’s news in the Boston Globe is harder, if not impossible, to accept: Necco Wafers will now be all-natural. It seems like a good idea to eliminate any artificial flavorings or colors. The flavorings were never a problem, the company always used natural sources. But the colors are a different situation: seven of the eight colors can be reproduced with vegetable sources like beet juice, purple cabbage, and tumeric. But not green. That color couldn’t be reproduced consistently.
You can see the manufacturing process in the middle of this clip of the yahoos from New England Cable News:
The color overhaul also involves a flavor overhaul:
According to Jackie Hague, Necco’s vice president of marketing, switching to all-natural flavors and colors “would draw young mothers concerned about their children’s diet.” The new cinnamon flavor is “less like Red Hots”, the new lemon, “less like paper candy dots and more like lemon meringue pie filling.” The chocolate flavor—previous a vanilla flavor “with a hint of chocolate flavoring”—switches to a more intense all-cocoa flavor.
That citation from Wikipedia (boy, they’re quick on the update) includes quotes from food critic Corby Kummer’s article “Sugar and Spice” in The Atlantic. That article also includes this photo of the new wafers:
I’ll admit that green was never my favorite wafer – that honor goes to pink/wintergreen – and I’m willing to give up a ritual I’d established as a boy in which I always ate the citrus trio together, but to have to accept this new color palette? It’s an outrage, and all in the name of marginally “healthier” wafers? C’mon, people – it’s fucking candy, not a Martha Stewart accessory!
I’m on a mission to stockpile the old wafers before they’re replaced in inventory. I’ll be at Target the minute they open on Sunday morning to grab all of the closeout Necco Halloween wafers I can carry. If I’m careful, I can ration my purchase to last a few years. It’s not like the wafers go bad, and I owe it to my childhood.
I haven’t written a recipe post in more than a month. It’s not because I haven’t been cooking, it’s because I’ve been cooking simple dishes. Now that fall is officially here, the meals will become more complex because I can use the oven again, and nothing says “fall” to me more than a classic tarte Tatin.
Despite its classic status, I had my first taste of this dessert only 13 years ago under memorable circumstances. She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were in New York City to see the premiere of Recreation, a play written by Penn Jillette of Penn and Teller. When the play was over, our friends took us to what I thought at the time was a French bistro for drinks and dessert. I was reminded yesterday that the “bistro” was Nougatine, the bar at the front of Jean-Georges on Central Park West. We were surprised that they seated us just for dessert, but it was late and we’d be an easy service.
Before I could read the dessert menu, someone snatched it out of my hand, telling me “You’re ordering the tarte Tatin. Trust me.” He was right, the dish was a revelation: caramelized apples, flaky pastry, a bit of tangy crème fraiche on the side – I was amazed that something made from so few ingredients could taste so good. And then, I promptly forgot about it for five years.
I had a kitchen full of apples, the result of two apple picking play dates with friends of He Who Must Not Be Ignored. I had already made apple preserves, I couldn’t bear the thought of eating another apple crisp (even though the wife’s version is to die for), and there was no way I was going to bake apple pies – I know my limitations. It was then that I found the tarte Tatin recipe in the January 1996 issue of Cook’s Illustrated, the recipe I used here.
There are only six ingredients in the entire recipe. I started by making the pastry, assembling 1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour, 1/4 cup confectioner’s sugar, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 stick of butter cut into 1/4-inch pats, and 1 large cold beaten egg.
I mixed the dry ingredients in a food processor, scattered the butter over the top, and mixed again for about ten seconds until the mixture resembled cornmeal.
I transferred this to a bowl, added the egg, and stirred with a fork until it clumped into little balls.
I gathered the dough together, wrapped it in plastic, and shaped it into a disc about 4 inches in diameter.
After chilling in the fridge for 40 minutes, I rolled out the dough on a floured counter until it was 12 inches in diameter.
I moved the crust onto a rimless cookie sheet, covered it in plastic, and returned it to the fridge.
While the crust chilled, I prepped the apples. I used two each of Jonagold, Blushing Gold, and Gala apples, along with another cut-up stick of butter and 3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon of granulated sugar.
I cored, peeled, and quartered the apples, using a melon baller to scoop out the tough center that surrounds the seeds.
I melted the butter in a 9-inch nonstick skillet, removed it from the heat, sprinkled the sugar over the top and swirled the pan until the butter and sugar were incorporated. Then I arranged the apples in the skillet. It was a bit tricky to get started since the apples have to be stood on the short edge, but once I got four slices in place I was able to use both hands to place the remaining slices.
I returned the skillet to high heat and cooked until the liquid in the pan turned rich amber like maple syrup, about 15 minutes.
I removed the pan from the heat, and, using a paring knife, flipped the slices over.
I returned the pan to high heat and cooked for another five minutes to cook the uncaramelized sides. I removed the pan from the heat, took the crust out of the fridge, and slid it off the sheet so that it was centered on the rim of the pan. I tucked the overhang into the pan, pressing it against the sides.
I baked the pan in a 375° oven for 30 minutes, until the crust was golden brown, then cooled it on a rack for 20 minutes.
I loosened the edges from the pan with a thin plastic spatula, placed a serving platter over the pan, and inverted the tart onto the platter. You can scrape off any apples that stick to the pan and place them back on the tart, but I didn’t need to do that (see first photo).
The hardest part of the recipe was next: wait about 15 minutes for the caramel to cool from runny to thick before eating. During the wait I made a faux crème fraiche by beating together heavy cream and sour cream in a 2:1 ratio. Time to serve:
Another study in contrasts: sweet apples vs. tart crème, crispy, flaky crust vs. soft apples, warm tart vs. cold topping. It took a lot of willpower to eat only one slice.
I recently compared the steps in the Cook’s recipe with Julia’s recipe in Mastering Vol. 1, and I don’t think I would have been as successful with her version. She calls for slicing the apples 1/8 inch thick, layering them in a baking dish with the butter and sugar, covering the dish with the crust and baking everything at once. I’m convinced that would result in a soggy, insufficiently browned tart due to the water content released from the apples in a closed container. I’m fortunate to have tried the other recipe first, otherwise la tarte des demoiselles Tatin would have been added to my “fail” file.
(Thanks to Phyllis Bregman for jogging my memory. How could I have forgotten Jean-Georges?)
Natural selection is in full force at the market this week, having winnowed out any vendors that don’t sell root vegetables, baked goods, or meat. As usual, I needed all of those things, so I did my part to provide more evolutionary pressure.
The mixed cherry tomatoes are from the greenhouse instead of the field, but I’ll buy local tomatoes until they disappear. I grabbed another ham steak (mmm… ham), some leeks, purple cauliflower, apples (Roxbury Russets, to be discussed in a post next week), herbed chevre, and watermelon radishes.
I had been keeping an eye out for this radish variety since I saw Mario Batali using them on an episode of Iron Chef America. As you can see, they look like watermelons:
They also have a sweetness I don’t usually associate with radishes. The slices were crisp and delicious, a sprinkling of salt accented the sweet and peppery flavors. (And how about that composed food shot, eh?)
And, of course, the baked goods:Fresh eggs, brioche loaf, a pumpkin pie, a bar of the Taza Special Edition Chiapan chocolate, and “oreos” from the Hi-Rise bakery.
One more week to go, then painful withdrawal symptoms.
Taza Chocolate sent me an email today announcing the availability of this year’s Special Edition Stone Ground Chiapan Chocolate. I’ve tasted last year’s edition (is “edition” really the appropriate description for a short-run foodstuff?), it’s definitely good chocolate, but the stuff costs $9.50 for a three-ounce bar. I’ll buy a bar or two this year because I want to support my neighborhood chocolate factory, but it’s hard to justify the expense when it works out to fifty dollars a pound. (It’s a fair price, given that Taza was able to obtain only 17 sacks of beans from the region.)
Doing the math to calculate the per-pound cost reminded me of a great piece of investigative food journalism having to do with NÅKA Chocolate, a Dallas-based high-end boutique chocolatier that distributes through Nieman-Marcus. In December of 206, DallasFood.org published a ten-part series titled What’s Noka Worth?, in which they investigated various claims made by Noka to justify the insanely high prices they charge for their product.
The per-pound price of Noka’s chocolates ranges from $309 to $1,730. As the author explained:
Let’s compare that with the products of some commonly known chocolatiers. Godiva chocolates range from about $30 to $65 per pound. Joseph Schmidt chocolates range from around $30 to $55 per pound. Fran’s chocolates cost around $55 to $70 per pound. Michael Recchiuti’s chocolates run from $58 to $85 per pound. And La Maison du Chocolat ranges from about $65 to $85 per pound.
Noka’s pricing soars over that of most gourmet chocolatiers by a factor of five, ten, even twenty times or more.
To make some “apples to oranges” comparisons, Noka chocolates cost more than:
Foie gras — $50 per pound
Domestic sturgeon caviar — $275 per pound
American Wagyu and Japanese Kobe beef — $100 to $300 per pound
Sterling silver — $170 per pound
Marijuana in El Paso — $350 per pound
A fat stack of dollar bills — $454 per pound
Who would guess that the world’s most expensive chocolates (several times over) are made in a tiny kitchen shoehorned between a pair of hair salons in a half-abandoned strip mall in Plano, Texas?
I won’t ruin the punchline of this exceptional piece of reporting, but I will urge you to read the entire ten-piece series (plus postscript). Not only will you learn a lot about how chocolate is made and sold, but you’ll learn what the credulous will pay for packaging and marketing mystique.
As Homer Simpson one said “I smell a scam, or possibly scamola!”
Not the Deity, Mr. Deity. If you haven’t heard of him, visit his web site and get caught up on his doings.
Recently he’s been looking for a science advisor, and may have found one in PZ Meyers, biologist and writer of the blog Pharyngula: “Evolution, development, and random biological ejaculations from a godless liberal.”
Meyers seems to be a better fit than the previous candidate, Micheal Shermer, founder of the Skeptic Society and publisher of Skeptic magazine. Shermer’s only an agnostic, willing to make a deal with Mr. Deity:
Mr. Deity happens to be a big Penn and Teller fan:
And Penn is a fan of Mr. Deity, even if he works for Lucy:
Apples and squash everywhere, snow yesterday morning — it must be fall in new England. I was hit with a nasty cold this week, which kept me out of the kitchen for a few days, so I still have most of last week’s veggies to work with.
Still, I couldn’t pass up the mixed fingerling potatoes, butter and escarole lettuces, cherry tomatoes, yellow carrots, red bell peppers, and parsnips. I also stocked up on granola, coffee cake, chocolate banana bread, raspberries, and two sirloin strip steaks (tonight’s dinner, along with the carrots and celery root puree).
Sherman’s Market finally opened, promising New England-sourced groceries for the neighborhood. While there is a bit of overlap with the farmer’s market, they will be my new go-to source for local ingredients once the season ends.
Yes, that’s a jar of tomato sauce, an experiment. If it’s any good, I’ll have a fallback to keep in the pantry for last-minute dinners. I tried mostly baked goods today: brioche and rye breads, a walnut-cranberry roll, corncake biscuits, and some chocolate-hazelnut gelato.
Next week’s cooking challenge: Cooking for vegans. Probably pasta, with the (modified) jarred sauce. I’ll have to pass grated cheese separately, and the garlic bread will be off-limits to some of our guests. Because it isn’t garlic bread without garlic butter. I have to draw the line somewhere.
I moved the crust onto a rimless cookie sheet, covered it in plastic, and returned it to the fridge.
