In one of my favorite Indigo Girls songs, there is a line that I have always related to: "When God made me born a Yankee, he was teasin'." Although I have not spent a lot of time in the South, I am endlessly fascinated by the complex history and culture of the world below the Mason-Dixon Line, and have often felt that my soul belongs in a warm, coastal place, illuminated by the blossoms of magnolias and rocking chairs on breezeways.
Due to the fortuitous intersection of the anniversary of the Civil War (or, depending on who you ask, the War Between the States) and a national history conference that my department was sending someone to attend, I just spent several days in Charleston, South Carolina, a city I have been desperate to visit.
Like a genteel Southern lady should, Charleston seemed to welcome me in like an old friend, and within hours, I was thoroughly entranced by her rows of historic homes, bright vegetation, pervasive connection to 300 years of history, and the lilting accents of the natives. Although my non-history-nerd relations might laugh, there were moments when I closed my eyes and could almost sense the wide-brimmed hat and sweeping skirts, or at different moments, hear the calamity of war and horrific sounds of a slave market.
Amidst moments of imagination, there was a reality of Southern life that came alive for me in the form of the local cuisine. I am not one to turn down any type of local fare, but the food in Charleston elicited a reaction of familiarity and instant infatuation that I have rarely experienced. The cuisine is a mixture of European, African and Caribbean that has marinated for three centuries and emerged as intensely flavorful and comforting, a source of great local pride.
The first night, I ate fried green tomatoes, followed by catfish with cheesy grit cakes and okra, quite possibly the most Southern meal I could have imagined. The grits were nothing like the runny, grainy mess I had imagined; they were creamy and buttery and seemed to belong to the okra, as if they were part of the same plant. The second night, I had she-crab soup (quite a difference between he and she crabs, according to the locals), with crab cakes, Carolina red rice and collard greens. The greens, like the grits, were a food that raised suspicion, but I discovered in the hot, wilted greens an unexpectedly rich flavor of vinegar, hamhocks and garlic. The final night, I gave in and ordered fried chicken, which was so beautifully crunchy that I almost forgot that it was absolutely unhealthy.
My constant companion, throughout this culinary adventure, was a glass of sweet tea. For Midwesterners, iced tea is served unsweetened, unless you add a packet of Sweet and Low or Splenda yourself. But in the South, sweet tea is brewed sweet, and the result is perfect companion to the spicy, buttery, or peppery meal on your plate. I think I drank five or six glasses each day, reveling in the knowledge that no matter where we were in Charleston, the sweet tea would be waiting for me.
Although the Yankee in me to too strong to suppress at this point, I will always feel an overwhelming desire to be intimate with the South. Maybe it is the history, or maybe it is the natural elements, maybe it is the fact that I would wear a hoop skirt to clean my house and stroll down Summit Avenue, if such behavior was not viewed as completely weird. Or maybe it is the allure of how all of those elements meld so seamlessly in something as simple as a bed of grits or a glass of sweet tea.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
In Defense of Meatloaf
It is a nightly source of frustration that our preschooler, the child of two foodies, refuses to eat most anything but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and grapes. Tonight, I labored over lobster and asparagus risotto, patiently stirring up a minor masterpiece, only to watch my child stare blankly at her plate and sit with an unchewed piece of delicious, buttery lobster in her mouth for twenty minutes.
Every night, I use my best negotiation skills to get something other than noodles into my child's stomach. I am not above pleading or bribery or threats, but even with my best tactics, dinner generally becomes a forty-five-minute showdown.
There are a few exceptions to this battle of wills. Cheesy pasta is one. Grilled cheese is another. Any of the usual childhood fare generally goes down pretty easily. But remarkably, the grown-up food that always disappears from her little pink plate is one that often frightens off the actual grown-ups: meatloaf.
The word "meatloaf" sounds slightly horrific. A "loaf of bread" brings to mind an aromatic, butter-slathered treat. But a "loaf of meat" sounds ghastly, a lump of dry crumbly hamburger served as a method of torture, probably alongside some manner of wilted Brussels sprout or other scary vegetable.
In reality, meatloaf made right is the best kind of comfort food. Mine, made with tomato sauce and rolled around a generous helping of cheese, is my grandma's recipe. Every time I make it, I feel like I'm channeling the finer elements of domesticity: hearty meals around a crowded table, setting the foundation for childhood memories of full bellies and lively discussions. Maybe it's my Midwestern heart, but the familiarity of meat and potatoes, particularly in the form of a warm, melty meatloaf and a-little-lumpy mashed potatoes, makes me feel at home in a way that few other foods can.
If you have been long separated from meatloaf, I encourage you to give it another chance. It is not fancy, or sophisticated, and we all eat ours slathered in ketchup, but you might be surprised at how un-frightening it can be. Just ask my three-year-old. It is on her short list of "best foods ever."
Every night, I use my best negotiation skills to get something other than noodles into my child's stomach. I am not above pleading or bribery or threats, but even with my best tactics, dinner generally becomes a forty-five-minute showdown.
There are a few exceptions to this battle of wills. Cheesy pasta is one. Grilled cheese is another. Any of the usual childhood fare generally goes down pretty easily. But remarkably, the grown-up food that always disappears from her little pink plate is one that often frightens off the actual grown-ups: meatloaf.
The word "meatloaf" sounds slightly horrific. A "loaf of bread" brings to mind an aromatic, butter-slathered treat. But a "loaf of meat" sounds ghastly, a lump of dry crumbly hamburger served as a method of torture, probably alongside some manner of wilted Brussels sprout or other scary vegetable.
In reality, meatloaf made right is the best kind of comfort food. Mine, made with tomato sauce and rolled around a generous helping of cheese, is my grandma's recipe. Every time I make it, I feel like I'm channeling the finer elements of domesticity: hearty meals around a crowded table, setting the foundation for childhood memories of full bellies and lively discussions. Maybe it's my Midwestern heart, but the familiarity of meat and potatoes, particularly in the form of a warm, melty meatloaf and a-little-lumpy mashed potatoes, makes me feel at home in a way that few other foods can.
If you have been long separated from meatloaf, I encourage you to give it another chance. It is not fancy, or sophisticated, and we all eat ours slathered in ketchup, but you might be surprised at how un-frightening it can be. Just ask my three-year-old. It is on her short list of "best foods ever."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
An Evolving History of Food with Friends
I am not alone, as a wife and mother in my early 30s, in feeling very much defined by those two roles. Although I do work full-time at a job I love, many of my thoughts and most of my evenings are taken hostage, albeit willingly, by the needs of two adorable children and one fantastic husband.
Every once in a while, however, I glimpse a flash of my life pre-family and yearn, just a little bit, for the days when Saturdays were completely mine, when leaving the house was a 30-second grab-the-purse-and-go affair, when more books were read than gathered dust, rather than vice versa.
A never-fail remedy for this lapse into "where did my 20s go?" nostalgia is a night out with my high school girlfriends. Many women, I think, have some version of this group: a handful of women you have known since junior high or high school or college who, despite gaps in your friendship due to distance or life changes, remain a cherished link to a time when you began the slow move out of childhood.
We do not meet up often, simply because of the inevitable busyness of our lives, but when we do, it is a gathering of several hours over a meal at a restaurant or our homes that always leaves me feeling both slightly older and slightly younger. These are women that I have known for almost 20 years. Back then, we were girls navigating the labyrinth of high school as a herd, following a similar path that would quickly diverge after graduation. Now, some of us are wives, some of us are mothers, all of us are working in different careers, and all of us have settled back in our home state, after some detours along the way.
The other night, after we all gathered at Chef Matt's restaurant, I thought about all the meals that I have shared with these women throughout my life and how those meals changed as we did. In junior high, we consumed untold amounts of pizza and Coke in our parents' basements. In high school, we spent hours at Bakers Square and Perkins, eating chicken strips and pancakes and likely irritating every other patron in the store with our nonstop laughing at nonsense. In college, we ate handfuls of Doritos to balance out the beer.
Now, although more grown-up and slightly more subdued, we still get together around dinner tables. We eat at nicer restaurants now, or potluck in our own dining rooms, but the spirit of our gathering is still the same. We all have the grown-up lives we never thought would come, but manage to maintain the connections that brought us together when we were young.
I would not trade my life or my family to have those younger years back, even for a day, but I love that I, and a half-dozen of my oldest friends, can still conjure them up in our 30s version of the Perkins camp-out. In 50 years, as we are sharing half-sandwiches at our 4:00 dinners, I believe those younger years will still be alive for all of us.
Every once in a while, however, I glimpse a flash of my life pre-family and yearn, just a little bit, for the days when Saturdays were completely mine, when leaving the house was a 30-second grab-the-purse-and-go affair, when more books were read than gathered dust, rather than vice versa.
A never-fail remedy for this lapse into "where did my 20s go?" nostalgia is a night out with my high school girlfriends. Many women, I think, have some version of this group: a handful of women you have known since junior high or high school or college who, despite gaps in your friendship due to distance or life changes, remain a cherished link to a time when you began the slow move out of childhood.
We do not meet up often, simply because of the inevitable busyness of our lives, but when we do, it is a gathering of several hours over a meal at a restaurant or our homes that always leaves me feeling both slightly older and slightly younger. These are women that I have known for almost 20 years. Back then, we were girls navigating the labyrinth of high school as a herd, following a similar path that would quickly diverge after graduation. Now, some of us are wives, some of us are mothers, all of us are working in different careers, and all of us have settled back in our home state, after some detours along the way.
The other night, after we all gathered at Chef Matt's restaurant, I thought about all the meals that I have shared with these women throughout my life and how those meals changed as we did. In junior high, we consumed untold amounts of pizza and Coke in our parents' basements. In high school, we spent hours at Bakers Square and Perkins, eating chicken strips and pancakes and likely irritating every other patron in the store with our nonstop laughing at nonsense. In college, we ate handfuls of Doritos to balance out the beer.
Now, although more grown-up and slightly more subdued, we still get together around dinner tables. We eat at nicer restaurants now, or potluck in our own dining rooms, but the spirit of our gathering is still the same. We all have the grown-up lives we never thought would come, but manage to maintain the connections that brought us together when we were young.
I would not trade my life or my family to have those younger years back, even for a day, but I love that I, and a half-dozen of my oldest friends, can still conjure them up in our 30s version of the Perkins camp-out. In 50 years, as we are sharing half-sandwiches at our 4:00 dinners, I believe those younger years will still be alive for all of us.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Modified February "Food Week"
Each year around this time, restaurants in Minneapolis and St. Paul prepare pre-fixed, coursed menus for lower prices, as part of a wonderful event called Food Week. Maybe it is a way for restaurants to strut their stuff a little, to lure in customers who are normally Applebee's-goers, or simply to provide one bright moment at the end of a claustrophic winter.
Chef Matt and I used to attend Food Week, pre-kids, but have dropped off somewhat in the past few years. Nevertheless, we still like to peruse the Food Week menus online and sigh at little at the amazing concoctions chefs present for this fantastic week of local cuisine.
Although we cannot attend the official event anymore, we managed to create a Food Week of our own. Last week, as I acknowledged the passing of another year of my life, we scheduled a series of delicious meals, both restaurant-made and homemade, and decided that Food Week on your own terms can be almost as fabulous as the real thing.
We started with Valentine's Day, a holiday we do not usually celebrate. But other people do, so coupons for cheap food abound. With the kids at daycare, we split a giant plate of barbecue and a steamy bread pudding over lunch, because nothing says romance like "Hey, you have barbecue sauce all over your face."
Two days later, we called in a grandma and went to a local swanky steakhouse that, luckily for our checkbook, is in the same family of restaurants as Matt's. The server wheeled out the cuts of meat on a cart, including one actually named a "Bludgeon of Beef," and I sensed a small twinge of something feral deep inside as I ordered 24 ounces of steak, just for myself. I felt a little like a rich man's wife that night; that is, until I packaged up half of the food we ordered and silently began to plan how I could use the leftovers in several meals at home.
On my actual birthday, my parents made a February-Thanksgiving feast, with turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and encouragement to eat more. And finally, in a culmination that is becoming tradition at our house, Matt made homemade gnocchi, a pillowy potato dumpling with a hint of the potato-graininess amidst an otherwise smooth, chewy texture. He tossed the gnocchi in a cream sauce with lobster and peas, and for that moment of bliss, February in Minnesota melted away and we were eating four-cheese gnocchi at a dusky restaurant in Rome.
It is certainly not plausible, or healthy, to eat this way every week. But once, or twice, a year, a personal Food Week is a welcome getaway from the drudgery of the usual ... especially if you can get it for cheap, or free at your parents' house.
Chef Matt and I used to attend Food Week, pre-kids, but have dropped off somewhat in the past few years. Nevertheless, we still like to peruse the Food Week menus online and sigh at little at the amazing concoctions chefs present for this fantastic week of local cuisine.
Although we cannot attend the official event anymore, we managed to create a Food Week of our own. Last week, as I acknowledged the passing of another year of my life, we scheduled a series of delicious meals, both restaurant-made and homemade, and decided that Food Week on your own terms can be almost as fabulous as the real thing.
We started with Valentine's Day, a holiday we do not usually celebrate. But other people do, so coupons for cheap food abound. With the kids at daycare, we split a giant plate of barbecue and a steamy bread pudding over lunch, because nothing says romance like "Hey, you have barbecue sauce all over your face."
Two days later, we called in a grandma and went to a local swanky steakhouse that, luckily for our checkbook, is in the same family of restaurants as Matt's. The server wheeled out the cuts of meat on a cart, including one actually named a "Bludgeon of Beef," and I sensed a small twinge of something feral deep inside as I ordered 24 ounces of steak, just for myself. I felt a little like a rich man's wife that night; that is, until I packaged up half of the food we ordered and silently began to plan how I could use the leftovers in several meals at home.
On my actual birthday, my parents made a February-Thanksgiving feast, with turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and encouragement to eat more. And finally, in a culmination that is becoming tradition at our house, Matt made homemade gnocchi, a pillowy potato dumpling with a hint of the potato-graininess amidst an otherwise smooth, chewy texture. He tossed the gnocchi in a cream sauce with lobster and peas, and for that moment of bliss, February in Minnesota melted away and we were eating four-cheese gnocchi at a dusky restaurant in Rome.
It is certainly not plausible, or healthy, to eat this way every week. But once, or twice, a year, a personal Food Week is a welcome getaway from the drudgery of the usual ... especially if you can get it for cheap, or free at your parents' house.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Second-Trimester Love Letter
Dear Baby,
It's your mommy again. By this time, you are more aware of me around you, and I have felt your little kicks and punches for weeks now, mostly when I am very still. It is always a comfort to me, every time I feel the little popcorn tumbles within.
Second trimester is somewhat of a honeymoon period for both of us. You still have room to swim, and I still have room to breathe. These are the months sandwiched between the sickness and dry cereal, and the swollen ankles and unsightly waddle. You are behaving more and more like you will in the outside world -- swallowing and blinking and sleeping for long periods -- and I can take great pleasure in this miracle, while still able to put on my own socks.
As your taste buds form, your little memory will begin to store away the flavors that you will later recognize while perched in your high chair. Sometimes I look at your sister and brother and wonder if their wild love of bananas stems from my daily intake of the lovely yellow fruit, or if their stubborn refusal to eat plain white rice was born of my preference for potatoes.
I hope that you will not only absorb a taste for all the foods that I love, but also a love for food in general. For your sake, I will eat a thousand different things so you will have an experienced palate coming into this world. The first time your sister tried lamb, wrapped in a warm pita and drizzled with tangy tzatziki sauce, she devoured it like she'd eaten it every day of her life. Your brother, first presented with scrambled eggs, could not get them in his chubby little hands fast enough.
It won't be long until I am too big to fit anything in but juice and applesauce. Until the third trimester arrives, though, your early culinary education will continue to include courses in French, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Mediterranean and American. When you are old enough to eat such things on your own, when the days of rice cereal are over, I will be sure to look for the gleam of recognition in your eyes the first time you taste a spoonful of lamb ragout and hope, just maybe, that you will fall in love with it, too.
It's your mommy again. By this time, you are more aware of me around you, and I have felt your little kicks and punches for weeks now, mostly when I am very still. It is always a comfort to me, every time I feel the little popcorn tumbles within.
Second trimester is somewhat of a honeymoon period for both of us. You still have room to swim, and I still have room to breathe. These are the months sandwiched between the sickness and dry cereal, and the swollen ankles and unsightly waddle. You are behaving more and more like you will in the outside world -- swallowing and blinking and sleeping for long periods -- and I can take great pleasure in this miracle, while still able to put on my own socks.
As your taste buds form, your little memory will begin to store away the flavors that you will later recognize while perched in your high chair. Sometimes I look at your sister and brother and wonder if their wild love of bananas stems from my daily intake of the lovely yellow fruit, or if their stubborn refusal to eat plain white rice was born of my preference for potatoes.
I hope that you will not only absorb a taste for all the foods that I love, but also a love for food in general. For your sake, I will eat a thousand different things so you will have an experienced palate coming into this world. The first time your sister tried lamb, wrapped in a warm pita and drizzled with tangy tzatziki sauce, she devoured it like she'd eaten it every day of her life. Your brother, first presented with scrambled eggs, could not get them in his chubby little hands fast enough.
It won't be long until I am too big to fit anything in but juice and applesauce. Until the third trimester arrives, though, your early culinary education will continue to include courses in French, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Mediterranean and American. When you are old enough to eat such things on your own, when the days of rice cereal are over, I will be sure to look for the gleam of recognition in your eyes the first time you taste a spoonful of lamb ragout and hope, just maybe, that you will fall in love with it, too.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Eating Our Way Through the Great Vacation Spots of the World
Last weekend, we flew to Phoenix for a family get-together and spent three days plucking fresh oranges from the trees and soaking up a bit of much-needed Vitamin D. In the depths of January, Arizona and its cerulean sky were a welcome distraction.
"Vacation" means something different to everyone, whether it is simply not being at work for a few days or a year's worth of planning for a grand three-week European tour. For us, most vacations involve some sort of family event, usually because we can crash in a guest room and spend the weekend digging through someone else's refrigerator. Any other type of vacation, as far as Chef Matt and I are concerned, should be driven by the local cuisine. Amazing landscapes and national monuments are a secondary perk, ranked behind the foods that lend cities their character and culture.
Before I met Matt, I traveled to New Orleans for a few days to visit friends. I spent a sunny morning sipping coffee and eating powdery beignets at Cafe du Monde, one of the treasures of the Big Easy. We ran the gamut that weekend, sampling decadent gravy cheese fries, hideous but delicious crawfish, spicy homemade jambalaya, and an amazing concoction called alligator cheesecake.
During our honeymoon in Italy, we tackled all the Italian classics: margarita pizza, caprese salad, fresh pasta with arrabiatta sauce, bolognese, gnocchi, tiramisu, gelato, and melty prosciutto and mozzarella paninis. We wore paths between restaurants and street vendors, pausing between to take in the David and St. Peter's before seeking out the next cheesy, saucy, creamy miracle of cooking.
Vacations will be few and far between in our future, but sometimes, when we sit and dream about the places we have not seen, our dreams begin and end with the menu. Boston will be a race to consume as much seafood as possible, Charleston will be plantation tours sandwiched between fried green tomatoes and spongy biscuits, Austin will be plates of barbecue eaten to a soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Paris will be a weeklong orgy of bordelaise, fine chocolate pastries, and boeuf bourguignon.
Cuisine is a defining characteristic of most places on earth, and reveals much about the people and history of those places, in ways far different than art and architecture and music. Food illuminates the soul of a city. Seeing the Eiffel Tower is a grand thing, but doesn't it look that much more incredible while clutching a crepe and anticipating a plate of ratatouille?
Friday, January 21, 2011
...As Visions of Steak and Lobster Danced in My Head
Like so many other couples, Chef Matt and I have lately been painstakingly trimming the fat from an already lean budget. We are relatively frugal people already, but the mildly depressing state of the economy has transformed us from a champagne taste on a beer budget to a champagne taste on a generic-juice-box budget. And inevitably, one of the first things to be shrink-wrapped is our food allocation.
Cutting back to one haircut a year and virtually eliminating anything that's not mortgage, fuel or student loans do not induce the sort of panic that a slashed grocery bill does. How many things can I do with a can of refried beans? Is it even possible to stretch a box of rice for four weeks? Can I convince the clerks at Target to give me a bulk discount if I buy them out of spaghetti sauce?
I think every family has times when they alternate between Hamburger Helper and scrambled eggs for dinner, when creativity reigns in the kitchen, and when crickets are practically audible in the pantry. It is just as frustrating to a college student living on work-study and bad beer as it is to parents who go to bed some nights feeling a little too much like Tommy and Gina.
But one of the things my dear husband has taught me, besides the proper way to roast a red pepper, is that allowing yourself to dream can be therapeutic and energizing. For instance, we have a very detailed plan for spending our lottery winnings (our own restaurant, a historic mansion with a batting cage, and a a Tuscan castle, in case you were interested). I figured, then, that it wouldn't hurt anyone, least of all me, to close my eyes to the stacks of canned tomatoes and boxes of penne and envision all the beautiful things I would buy, with a limitless budget, at a lovely neighborhood carpeted market instead of the jumbled mass of humanity that is the discount store.
First, we would never be without a half a dozen delicious fancy cheeses. Imagine a grilled cheese with gouda and gruyere and a fine sharp cheddar! Next, I would stock up on every kind of high-grade meat and seafood available: sirloins, scallops, and a peppery thick-cut bacon for that grilled cheese. I would buy artisan bread, smear it with the creamiest homemade butter I can find, drizzle it with 20-year balsamic vinegar, and follow it up with lobster ravioli from an Italian deli and a creme brulee. I would toss my Campbell's Soup cookbook out the back door, and we would recreate every recipe in The French Laundry cookbook while drinking expensive imported wine.
Perhaps such fantasies are counterproductive; they will not make scallops appear in my refrigerator. But they do make the hot dish taste a little more like an airy souffle, and make me feel a little less like we are livin' on a prayer and more like we are livin' on Summit Avenue with no canned tomatoes in sight.
Cutting back to one haircut a year and virtually eliminating anything that's not mortgage, fuel or student loans do not induce the sort of panic that a slashed grocery bill does. How many things can I do with a can of refried beans? Is it even possible to stretch a box of rice for four weeks? Can I convince the clerks at Target to give me a bulk discount if I buy them out of spaghetti sauce?
I think every family has times when they alternate between Hamburger Helper and scrambled eggs for dinner, when creativity reigns in the kitchen, and when crickets are practically audible in the pantry. It is just as frustrating to a college student living on work-study and bad beer as it is to parents who go to bed some nights feeling a little too much like Tommy and Gina.
But one of the things my dear husband has taught me, besides the proper way to roast a red pepper, is that allowing yourself to dream can be therapeutic and energizing. For instance, we have a very detailed plan for spending our lottery winnings (our own restaurant, a historic mansion with a batting cage, and a a Tuscan castle, in case you were interested). I figured, then, that it wouldn't hurt anyone, least of all me, to close my eyes to the stacks of canned tomatoes and boxes of penne and envision all the beautiful things I would buy, with a limitless budget, at a lovely neighborhood carpeted market instead of the jumbled mass of humanity that is the discount store.
First, we would never be without a half a dozen delicious fancy cheeses. Imagine a grilled cheese with gouda and gruyere and a fine sharp cheddar! Next, I would stock up on every kind of high-grade meat and seafood available: sirloins, scallops, and a peppery thick-cut bacon for that grilled cheese. I would buy artisan bread, smear it with the creamiest homemade butter I can find, drizzle it with 20-year balsamic vinegar, and follow it up with lobster ravioli from an Italian deli and a creme brulee. I would toss my Campbell's Soup cookbook out the back door, and we would recreate every recipe in The French Laundry cookbook while drinking expensive imported wine.
Perhaps such fantasies are counterproductive; they will not make scallops appear in my refrigerator. But they do make the hot dish taste a little more like an airy souffle, and make me feel a little less like we are livin' on a prayer and more like we are livin' on Summit Avenue with no canned tomatoes in sight.
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