Why I prefer taste over hearing

I had an interesting conversation with a colleague yesterday, a very smart man, professor of Romanticism, vegetarian, and somewhat obsessive cyclist. He told me this summer that he wants to weigh two pounds for every inch of his height, which would put him at ten pounds less than I currently weigh. He has about five inches on me, so I'm trying to discourage him from this extreme dieting plan.

I digress. We were having the standard, which sense would you give up first conversation. Amazingly, neither of us were high, nor were we eighteen year old philosophy "majors." We both agreed that sight is the most important sense. That seems a given to all except the most die-hard of musicians. He, however, said that he would give up his sense of taste long before his sense of hearing. This seems to me crazy, but perhaps you will think that I'm the crazy one when I say, in all seriousness, that I would gladly give up my sense of hearing before my sense of taste. The interesting this is that we both have the same reason for our very different responses: we both think that our chosen sense is crucial to some essential human experience, and that our lives would be flattened out and nearly unendurable without said sense. Perhaps the most interesting thing about this all is that we both actually used this language, even though we are both post-modernists who believe the entire concept of an "essential human experience" is mystifying bunk constructed by some big eastern syndicate.

I was thinking about this conversation as I made dinner tonight, and I am more convinced of my position than ever. Just to get rid of any unpleasant sense of suspense in this blog, I'll tell you right off the bat that dinner was good, but hardly great. It's just that the whole process confirmed why I love food and cooking so much. Here's the story: my grades are in, and I am officially on vacation for at least a week or so, so for the first time in a while I have some extra energy to devote to cooking. My idea for dinner tonight was a) to try something new and 2) to recreate an amazing dish I had in Florence last February. It was baked crespelle, filled with ceci beans (aka garbanzo beans, aka chick peas) and goat cheese. Crespelle are italian crepes, and traditionally used for cannelloni or manicotti (which are the same dish, just from different parts of the country) -- so much lighter and more delicate than some sort of dried pasta tube! The dish I had in Florence was so beautifully balanced: the beans were smooth and earthy and a little sweet, the cheese was melted and creamy and slightly tangy, and the crespelle themselves were lightly crisped.

I began the experiment with a ceci bean puree that I have made before, and that I love intensely. I sweat onions and carrots (have you all tried the amazing sugar carrots from Green Bluff? They sell them at Huckleberries -- so worth the extra money!) and maybe a very little celery in olive oil, hopefully with a couple of fresh bay leaves and/or rosemary and some flattened garlic. Once they are soft, add a can of Progressive ceci beans, drained, and some chicken stock, and simmer uncovered for about twenty minutes. When you are down to a couple of tablespoons of liquid, remove the herbs, and transfer everything to a food processor (or blender, or immersion blender -- you get the idea), and puree until very smooth. Add more liquid if the puree seems too thick or starchy; the consistency should be like loose mashed potatoes. Add salt and pepper to taste. I use this puree instead of mashed potatoes sometimes, dressed with just a little good olive oil, or, when I'm feeling really fancy, truffle oil.

Now I had my ceci beans, and some goat cheese, so it was time to work on the crespelle. I found a recipe: 2 eggs, 1 1/4 cup milk, pinch of salt, pinch of sugar, whisked together. Then whisk in 3/4 cup flour. Let stand for thirty minutes. Use about 3 tbls per crespelle, in a hot oiled non-stick 8 inch skillet. It took me a couple to get the hand of swirling the very thin batter to get a thin crespelle, and a few more to figure out how to flip them, but they weren't all that challenging. A silicon spatula helped with the flipping. I got about 12 good quality crespelle, which was about twice what I needed for my fairly small casserole and my small amount of filling.

I rolled my crespelle with the cheese and ceci beans, and here is where I went wrong. I should have just brushed with olive oil and put it in a hot oven. But, my head was turned with recipes for manicotti and memories of cannelloni, so I added a béchamel sauce and a little of Tulia's tomato sauce, which some grana on top. I baked it until it was hot and bubbly, and then broiled it until the cheese was brown. The result was tasty and satisfying, especially given my love of all things cheesy, saucy, stuffed, and baked. But, the goat cheese was all but lost, as was the balance and delicacy of the original dish.

So, hard to chalk this one up to a complete success, and yet it contained so much of what I love about food: the wonderful memory of Italy, and that big boisterous dinner with all my friends old and new from the conference. I remembered Marc trying to explain to Jeremy why Proust is the greatest modern novelist, and what is going on with the madeleines. I remember Mike's great ribbolita, a tuscan vegetable soup thickened with vegetables, and Erik's perfectly grilled swordfish. I remember Pat, the quintessential host, keeping the wine flowing and the toasts coming. And, I was able to be creative in my own small way -- researching some parts of the recipe, winging others on experience and hunch. At the end, I had something satisfying to share with Jeremy (he liked the finished product more than I did, I think). I know that, for many people, maybe even the majority, music offers this kind of rich experience, a blending of aesthetics, intellectualism, and memory. I like music, a lot, but what it offers me is just ambience compared to food.

Try the ceci puree. It's really good. And try the crespelle next time you are in the mood for cannelloni. They are totally worth it.

Saving face at Christmas time

There are two times of year when it is especially awesome to be a foodie: late summer, and now. Late summer rewards us with beautiful heirloom tomatoes and all the glories of the farmer's market. The holidays console us over the fact that we are half a year or half a planet away from a tomato worth eating by placing decadent, baked, roasted, high carb, high fat food wonderfulness in front of us, and telling us that we should eat it all in the name of festiveness. I say, yea for festiveness, and bring on the cookies!

The holidays also bring wonderful social occasions, many of which ask one to bring a little something for the nosh table. I love appetizers, and I am unhealthily competitive, so between the two, I tend to go all out for these events. But, there is always a party too far -- one that starts too close to the end of work, or is hosted by people I don't much like, or I'm just tapped out in terms of creativity. But, my pride won't let me buy a pre-made crudite tray (or anything else pre-made). What's a foodie to do?

To help with this dilemma, here are three (and a half) tried and true, super easy noshes, suitable to bring to any party. They are all worth eating, are all festive, and are all guaranteed to protect your reputation as a cook:

1) Marinated feta. So easy, and yet so surprisingly good. Start with a hunk of feta, and it doesn't have to be anything special. Cut into chunks, and mix with about a 1/4 tsp red pepper flakes, 1/2 tsp garlic powder, and fresh and/or dried herbs of your choice. I particularly like fresh rosemary or dried oregano. You really can't go wrong. Pour on enough good olive oil (here's the place not to skimp) to moisten the whole mess, and then a little bit more. Stir, let sit at least ten minutes but up to a week, stir again, and serve with crackers or bread.

1 1/2: herbed goat cheese. This really isn't a separate recipe -- more of a variation on a theme. Take the same herb mixture (fresh really pays off in this one), and roll a log of decent quality chevre in it. Serve with crackers or bread.

2) Stuffed peppadews. This one comes from my friend Nicole, a simply sublime cook. Buy some of the bulk peppadew peppers. Stuff them with a decent quality chevre. The peppers are a little hot and a little sweet, and the cheese is creamy and a little tart, and the whole thing just works like magic. Nicole, I believe you have improved my life by turning me on to this recipe.

3) Warm smoked salmon spread. Mix 8 ounces of hot smoked salmon -- make sure you get one with no bones -- with 8 ounces of cream cheese, a little minced onion or green onion, a tablespoon of milk, and a tablespoon or more of horseradish (you want enough to taste it, but not enough to make it hot). Stir together, and transfer to a small baking dish, and heat in a 350 oven for about 15 minutes, or until it is hot all the way through. Serve with crackers or bread.

Thanksgiving Bliss

It's the end of the semester, and I should be grading. I've been grading non-stop for the last month, or at least it feels that way, which is why I am a month behind in blog posts and over a week tardy in singing the praises of my father's Thanksgiving. My dad can cook. He is largely hampered by having to cook for my mother, who does not have an adventurous palette. Things she doesn't like include: any cheese with noticeable funk, mushrooms, and salt. My father, who is a generous soul, believes my mother is a super-taster, and thus is overwhelmed by strong flavors. Me, I'm far less generous, so I just think she has an aversion to flavor. I remember her response when I asked her what the food had been like during a month long trip to New Zealand. "It was good," she said, "I suppose. If you like fresh herbs." Fortunately, my mother has a large list of good attributes to offset her gustatory shortcomings.

One of the results of the mother's food preferences is that my father has become a master of the basics. His vegetables are never mushy, his fish is always just the perfect side of flakey, and he can roast a mean bird. This year's fowl of choice was a ginormous fresh turkey from Costco. He stuffed the neck cavity but not the body cavity with my mother's traditional stuffing: pork sausage, seasoned bread crumbs, and diced apples. The rest of the dressing he roasted in a casserole, spooning some of the fatted drippings from the bird over the top during the last half hour of baking so that it tasted like turkey and had a glorious crunchy top. The bird he roasted almost entirely breast down. We took it out to flip it, only to discover that it was done early. Incidently, flipping a fully hot, twenty-three pound, partially stuffed turkey is difficult. We had clean towels and giant utensils, but we forget the most important equipment of all: safety glasses. A little bit of hot, fatty stuffing hit me in the eyebrow. Don't worry, it wasn't my scorning eyebrow, so I can still teach. But still, Norm Abrams would be so disappointed. Other than having to sacrifice my face for the meal, the meat was sublime. Dad worked a double thermometer, one in the dark meat and one in the breast meat. Both turned out beautifully, and the dark meat skin was dark and crispy. The picture does credit only to the frenzy this turkey caused on its arrival at the table.

The other result of my mother's palette peccadilloes is that when my dad and I get together, we feast ourselves on all that is strong, funky, and makes life good. When he visited Spokane in October, we went to Saunders for a cheese plate. I picked out a goat cheese that tasted like the inside of a none too clean barn, and Dad found a soft, fragrant blue. Mom got some sort of cheddar. In keeping with this tradition, I picked up a couple of fresh Oregon black truffles for Dad and I to play with for Thanksgiving. (I bought them at the Whole Foods in downtown Portland, but Huckleberry's also carries them during the season, which is right about now. I've even seen them at Rocket in the past, but I haven't seen there this year yet.)

Truffles taste like sweet earth. They are not exactly mushroomy, at least not the way criminis or even porcinis are. You feel the flavor as much as you taste it and smell it. They can overwhelm other flavors, and it is hard to think "delicate" and "truffles" in the same sentence. We knew that we wanted to do something with these nuggets of goodness that would showcase their flavor without killing the turkeyness of the star attraction. Dad and I hit the cookbooks while Mom went to the internet. We came up with a variation of the classic french Sauce Perigeaux. We grated about a third of the truffles into a cup or so of good Madeira and reduced it to a syrup. We added that to about half of the gravy, grating in the rest of the truffles. The result was rich, a little sweet, with a good hit of truffle balanced with the richness of the homemade turkey stock and pan drippings. Plus, the less adventurous eaters at the table still had half of the gravy.

At the end of the feasting, there was plenty of plain gravy left, but only about two tablespoons of the truffle gravy. Mom asked Dad if it was worth saving it, and he just grabbed a spoon and ate it like soup. I was jealous he got to it first.

I have a wonderful life, and I am thankful for more things than I can list. I want to add to that list that truffles grow in the Northwest. And that I will be done with this semester's grading in a few short weeks.