I am Tired. Weeknight tired. Although the Super Bowl of cooking is coming up (read "Thanksgiving"), I am creating simplicity for the additions to our table. Buttermilk Lemon-Lime Pound Cake. Roasted Brussell Sprouts with Bacon and Onion. That's stuff that is easy, or at least comfortable for me to execute. I always say -- don't use this day to whip out the recipe you wish you knew how to cook. Just be thankful for food, family, friends.
Did I mention food? Well, here are some of the foods I'm thankful for ...
-- the loaded baked potato at The Royal American
-- avocado smoothies with local honey
-- shoepeg corn
-- fresh, amazing October beans from Rosebank CSA
-- Roots Ice Cream
-- oh yeah, King of Pops too
-- Hilton Head Popcorn
-- Cardinal Gin
-- soda water
-- a roasted chicken on a cold night
-- pita bread, warm and dipped in tzatziki
-- banana pudding, from my mom's table
-- local fish, local shrimp, local oysters
... and friends and family to enjoy all of this with ...
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
The Turnip Chronicles I: Epic Fail
Screenplay by Stephanie Burt
[fade in]
A woman in black stilettoes and pencil skirt comes out of a local business with a resuable grocery bag as the sun is setting behind the building. She opens the back car door, sitting the bag on the back seat, and excitedly rifles through the contents. Her face falls when she spies something in the bag, and she abruptly sits it in the floorboard, shuts the door, climbs back in the driver's seat and drives off.
[cut to the interior of a house, a kitchen, very small but filled with modern appliances]
Scene 1
Woman in knee-length boots and dress opens the fridge and pulls out a bunch of turnips, green tops still intact, and places them on the cutting board. She then turns, hits the preheat button on the stove, then exits the scene.
Scene 2
Woman in toile-patterned pajama pants and tank top walks into the frame and makes a beeline for the Charles Shaw merlot on the edge of the counter. She takes off the wine saver top, opens cabinet, pulls down a glass and pours wine as she looks at the turnips on the cutting board. She takes a big swig. That's right, swig. Not sip. Then she pulls out a half sheet pan from the bottom of the oven.
Woman #1: I hate this drawer [struggling]
She sits cookie sheet on top of stove. She then turns to turnips, washing carefully, trimming greens and discarding, then takes out her off-brand chef's knife and slices turnips ultra thin, taking slices and putting them in a bowl. Tosses slices with olive oil and garlic salt and garam masala, then arranges turnip slices on cookie sheet. Opens oven door, slides cookie sheet in oven, then closes door. Walks out of frame.
Scene #3
[oven timer beeping]
Woman #1: Ok, let's check this out. The smell is what I remember, but I'm hoping for the best.
Woman opens door. Steam and smoke billow out. Woman feebly waves pot holder in defense.
[smoke detector starts screeching]
Woman #1: Alright! alright! [waving pot holder wildly above her head in direction of smoke detector].
She returns her attention to the oven, using the same potholder to quickly remove the sheet pan, sit it on top of the oven, and then push some buttons that turn the oven off.
Woman #1: [large sigh] These turnips were picked in vain! [camera zooms in toward pan]
Woman tilts pan over the trash can. A few chips fall into the can, but most of the turnip chips stick and she is forced to set pan back down on top of the stove.
.JPG)
Fade to black [literally]
The Turnip Chronicles II -- Coming Soon.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Vintage Kitchen for OKRA
I am so thrilled to be able to announce this: I have a food column.
While other middle school girls were descending into major crushes of New Kids on the Block, I was beginning to read Kathleen Purvis (I liked music but I didn't wallpaper my room with pics like one of my friends did). Purvis just happened to be the food editor of my local paper, but she was funny and informed and very honest, and I liked her. She was my food writer, my first food writer, though it was later that I realized that she is a really good and respected food writer. In short, she is beloved.
Well, today, I think back on that middle school girl. I have my own food column, which is different than just writing about food. A column is my personal voice, my personal platform, and I am happy that it has landed at OKRA.
Click here to read my first full article as the "Vintage Kitchen" columnist for OKRA, an online magazine of the Southern Food and Beverage Museum. Thanks to the mighty and magical photographer Leslie McKellar who is my friend and generously shot this piece. She makes me look good. But the food is the thing; it's always the thing, and writing about it makes me happy. Feeding you makes me happy too. Or just talking about how you feed others, so never stop telling me why you like it.
While other middle school girls were descending into major crushes of New Kids on the Block, I was beginning to read Kathleen Purvis (I liked music but I didn't wallpaper my room with pics like one of my friends did). Purvis just happened to be the food editor of my local paper, but she was funny and informed and very honest, and I liked her. She was my food writer, my first food writer, though it was later that I realized that she is a really good and respected food writer. In short, she is beloved.
Well, today, I think back on that middle school girl. I have my own food column, which is different than just writing about food. A column is my personal voice, my personal platform, and I am happy that it has landed at OKRA.
 |
| My headshot for The Vintage Kitchen. Image by Leslie McKellar. |
Click here to read my first full article as the "Vintage Kitchen" columnist for OKRA, an online magazine of the Southern Food and Beverage Museum. Thanks to the mighty and magical photographer Leslie McKellar who is my friend and generously shot this piece. She makes me look good. But the food is the thing; it's always the thing, and writing about it makes me happy. Feeding you makes me happy too. Or just talking about how you feed others, so never stop telling me why you like it.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Cracked Conch Cracks My Heart Wide Open
Lime. Salt. Blue water close and reaching to the horizon. Let's face it, the first time I had cracked conch, I was set up to love it. But over the years, I've had it many more times, and it's become one of those "vacation" meals, you know, the one that you're like, "Aah, NOW there it is. I'm really here" kind of taste bud experience?
Well, it was already dark on a Sunday evening, and I was here in the land of Lowcountry marsh, not on vacation on a dock, my eyes not filling with the Caribbean blue that I crave just before I go to sleep. Still, I was in for a treat, I knew. There are some meals that you know you are not going to be able to recreate. Fine. But to eat a meal that you know is only a mirage as you're still chewing is a kind of desperate joy.
The conch was from the Bahamian out island of Andros. It was clean and milky white, not gray like the stuff you can get here. It was imported on a personal flight, a checked baggage of deliciousness that was worth any customs hassle.
We were about to have cracked conch from a home kitchen. First, we had to flatten it "like it's done something to your Mama." Pound it thin, sprinkle salt and pepper directly on the meat, dredge it in an egg wash first, then flour laced with Adobo.
And at every step, squeeze a lime on it. Before the dredging. After the dredging. After frying (which you do until it reaches golden brown deliciousness.) And serve it with a slice.
Now, at this point, I always liked a little heat, but I didn't realize that I was working with a new level. What new level? This:
Good stuff. One drop, awesome. Bring it. Two drops, of course. I'm a professional. Three drops, oh, I've gone too far. Is it hot in here or is it just me?
But the cracked conch was ... heartbreaking. With every bite, I knew I couldn't cook this again, make this happen again. This was it.
Well, it was already dark on a Sunday evening, and I was here in the land of Lowcountry marsh, not on vacation on a dock, my eyes not filling with the Caribbean blue that I crave just before I go to sleep. Still, I was in for a treat, I knew. There are some meals that you know you are not going to be able to recreate. Fine. But to eat a meal that you know is only a mirage as you're still chewing is a kind of desperate joy.
The conch was from the Bahamian out island of Andros. It was clean and milky white, not gray like the stuff you can get here. It was imported on a personal flight, a checked baggage of deliciousness that was worth any customs hassle.
We were about to have cracked conch from a home kitchen. First, we had to flatten it "like it's done something to your Mama." Pound it thin, sprinkle salt and pepper directly on the meat, dredge it in an egg wash first, then flour laced with Adobo.
And at every step, squeeze a lime on it. Before the dredging. After the dredging. After frying (which you do until it reaches golden brown deliciousness.) And serve it with a slice.
Now, at this point, I always liked a little heat, but I didn't realize that I was working with a new level. What new level? This:
.JPG) |
| Matouk's Calypso Sauce is the new level |
But the cracked conch was ... heartbreaking. With every bite, I knew I couldn't cook this again, make this happen again. This was it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Tuesday Night Tortilla
I don't have a microwave.
I know. This means, to some of you at least, that I can't cook fast food. That, when I'm hungry, I can't eat when I want to. That it has to be roasted chicken, short ribs, or nothing.
Wrong. Have you ever died in 20 min. from hunger? Uh, no.
Well then. You can have this on a Tuesday evening, like I did last night. I have discovered these habanero-lime tortilla wraps from Trader Joe's. They make goat cheese and tomatoes a meal, but more importantly, they make weeknight "cooking" easy -- without a microwave.
.JPG)
I had tilapia in the freezer ... now I am not 100% sure it was tilapia because it wasn't labeled, and I don't purchase that anymore, but still. It was there; I needed to use it. Enter the tortillas.
A quick oven foil packet for the fish was all it took, 20 min., with lime and some salt and spices. Add spinach and avocado, and we have a meal. See? Non-processed food doesn't have to be hard. But having a killer tortilla wrap helps.
I know. This means, to some of you at least, that I can't cook fast food. That, when I'm hungry, I can't eat when I want to. That it has to be roasted chicken, short ribs, or nothing.
Wrong. Have you ever died in 20 min. from hunger? Uh, no.
Well then. You can have this on a Tuesday evening, like I did last night. I have discovered these habanero-lime tortilla wraps from Trader Joe's. They make goat cheese and tomatoes a meal, but more importantly, they make weeknight "cooking" easy -- without a microwave.
.JPG)
I had tilapia in the freezer ... now I am not 100% sure it was tilapia because it wasn't labeled, and I don't purchase that anymore, but still. It was there; I needed to use it. Enter the tortillas.
A quick oven foil packet for the fish was all it took, 20 min., with lime and some salt and spices. Add spinach and avocado, and we have a meal. See? Non-processed food doesn't have to be hard. But having a killer tortilla wrap helps.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Mango is Just a Playa
I have a love/hate relationship with mangoes.
First: the hate.
I see them on sale at the grocery store, with a sticker that says "RIPE". I narrow my eyes at the sticker. Really, I think? But in the end, I believe it, just like I do the guy who says, "Baby, you are very special to me."
I go home with high hopes, only to have them dashed the next day in the kitchen. The mango is not ripe, smells and tastes pine-y, and has a fibrous pit that takes up most of the fruit. Despite the sweet juice running over my fingers as I slice little pieces off, it's basically unsatisfying.
This has happened numerous times. Why? Because I remember the love. I want to experience the love again.
Second: the love.
I'd taken the Tequila Trolley across the border to Juarez, before the heavy start of the war zone it is today, but just enough of a rough spot to make it a bit exciting. Of course, I and my companion bailed the trolley and ended up walking most of the way to the market. I was young and silly, but really, what was I thinking, thinking how odd it was to pass a hospital where everyone bandaged was leaning and standing on crutches outside, smoking?
But, flippantly naive, we made our way safely to the market.
It was midday and we walked into the non-air conditioned hangar. The scent of overripe mangoes soon overtook me, and my eyes filled with the sights of counters for a fast meal, piles of fruit, cold soda of indiscriminate variety, and plenty of crafts. Mangoes were forever associated with my first foreign market.
A few years later, I tasted a mango as it should be, ripe from a tree from a neighbor's yard in Florida. It was hot and honey and sweet and all the things I wanted it to be in the exotic way that none of my cut-and-dried Carolina fruit had ever been.
I was hooked.
Finally: unrequited love resolved.
But since then, it's been back to the hate, back to the empty promises of the "RIPE" label in the produce section, so much so that I resolved to stop on-and-off dating such a player. I mean, really? Is it worth it?
Last night, I finally got what I was asking for, and it was because I refused to listen to the label. Yes, the mangoes were labeled "reduced for quick sale." But they smelled ripe and looked ripe, and I trusted my instincts instead of some story that the store was trying to tell me.
I picked some winners, bringing home four that sliced like butter and were honey and rich and orange and sweet, none of the bite and all of the kiss. Aaah. I added a little honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, and they were the dessert of late summer dreams, hurricane humidity in the air and the feeling of the end of long lazy days drowsy with heat.
First: the hate.
I see them on sale at the grocery store, with a sticker that says "RIPE". I narrow my eyes at the sticker. Really, I think? But in the end, I believe it, just like I do the guy who says, "Baby, you are very special to me."
I go home with high hopes, only to have them dashed the next day in the kitchen. The mango is not ripe, smells and tastes pine-y, and has a fibrous pit that takes up most of the fruit. Despite the sweet juice running over my fingers as I slice little pieces off, it's basically unsatisfying.
This has happened numerous times. Why? Because I remember the love. I want to experience the love again.
Second: the love.
I'd taken the Tequila Trolley across the border to Juarez, before the heavy start of the war zone it is today, but just enough of a rough spot to make it a bit exciting. Of course, I and my companion bailed the trolley and ended up walking most of the way to the market. I was young and silly, but really, what was I thinking, thinking how odd it was to pass a hospital where everyone bandaged was leaning and standing on crutches outside, smoking?
But, flippantly naive, we made our way safely to the market.
It was midday and we walked into the non-air conditioned hangar. The scent of overripe mangoes soon overtook me, and my eyes filled with the sights of counters for a fast meal, piles of fruit, cold soda of indiscriminate variety, and plenty of crafts. Mangoes were forever associated with my first foreign market.
A few years later, I tasted a mango as it should be, ripe from a tree from a neighbor's yard in Florida. It was hot and honey and sweet and all the things I wanted it to be in the exotic way that none of my cut-and-dried Carolina fruit had ever been.
I was hooked.
Finally: unrequited love resolved.
But since then, it's been back to the hate, back to the empty promises of the "RIPE" label in the produce section, so much so that I resolved to stop on-and-off dating such a player. I mean, really? Is it worth it?
Last night, I finally got what I was asking for, and it was because I refused to listen to the label. Yes, the mangoes were labeled "reduced for quick sale." But they smelled ripe and looked ripe, and I trusted my instincts instead of some story that the store was trying to tell me.
I picked some winners, bringing home four that sliced like butter and were honey and rich and orange and sweet, none of the bite and all of the kiss. Aaah. I added a little honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, and they were the dessert of late summer dreams, hurricane humidity in the air and the feeling of the end of long lazy days drowsy with heat.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Dreaming of Dinner
It happens every year. August. For some reason, I just have a hard time cooking this month. And this year more than most years.
There's the heat. And the work. And the fact that, really, I'd rather be anywhere else other than standing in my little kitchen. That's right. I feel this way too. Cooking is for crisp autumn days, where it doesn't seem a chore to peel more than a few apples, and where you can spend a lingering dinner with friends without having to worry about being too hot and too bothered to enjoy their company.
Yes, I have air conditioning, but I don't have it up so high that I don't know what season it is. And when I'm searing something in the oven, it seems that in my little kitchen, every time the oven door opens is a time for the smoke alarm to go off. And that's just one more thing. It is just too hot to hear that noise, over and over.
So I haven't been doing much cooking. Celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow or Gwen Stefani would call it a raw diet, but I call it lazy. Do I want to make a quiche with cheese, spinach and tomatoes? Uh, no. I will just eat slices of cheese, some raw spinach and tomatoes with maybe a boiled egg. Or maybe if I eat enough olive oil popcorn, almonds and edamame I won't have to eat dinner. Done.
Now, we all know this is excluding my comfort go-to, the roasted chicken. Eating like a king for 5 min. prep is worth it. I've recently been using a Caribbean oil blend from Charleston Spice Co. that makes it amazing. Still ...
I dream of being motivated, of deciding on a whim to bake a cherry lemon pound cake. I think of how good a mustard braised pork chop dinner with mashed potatoes would taste, or how I'd like to try to make a bread salad like the one I saw last week at another person's house. But I'm just too hot. Too unmotivated. Too hungry to wait. So I wait a little more, until that day, when suddenly the "project" of one of Rick Bayless' Mexican dishes sound like fun, not like a chore.
Until then, I'll be here, loving the heat but not able to stay in the kitchen. It's one of those worlds, isn't it?
There's the heat. And the work. And the fact that, really, I'd rather be anywhere else other than standing in my little kitchen. That's right. I feel this way too. Cooking is for crisp autumn days, where it doesn't seem a chore to peel more than a few apples, and where you can spend a lingering dinner with friends without having to worry about being too hot and too bothered to enjoy their company.
Yes, I have air conditioning, but I don't have it up so high that I don't know what season it is. And when I'm searing something in the oven, it seems that in my little kitchen, every time the oven door opens is a time for the smoke alarm to go off. And that's just one more thing. It is just too hot to hear that noise, over and over.
So I haven't been doing much cooking. Celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow or Gwen Stefani would call it a raw diet, but I call it lazy. Do I want to make a quiche with cheese, spinach and tomatoes? Uh, no. I will just eat slices of cheese, some raw spinach and tomatoes with maybe a boiled egg. Or maybe if I eat enough olive oil popcorn, almonds and edamame I won't have to eat dinner. Done.
Now, we all know this is excluding my comfort go-to, the roasted chicken. Eating like a king for 5 min. prep is worth it. I've recently been using a Caribbean oil blend from Charleston Spice Co. that makes it amazing. Still ...
I dream of being motivated, of deciding on a whim to bake a cherry lemon pound cake. I think of how good a mustard braised pork chop dinner with mashed potatoes would taste, or how I'd like to try to make a bread salad like the one I saw last week at another person's house. But I'm just too hot. Too unmotivated. Too hungry to wait. So I wait a little more, until that day, when suddenly the "project" of one of Rick Bayless' Mexican dishes sound like fun, not like a chore.
Until then, I'll be here, loving the heat but not able to stay in the kitchen. It's one of those worlds, isn't it?
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