Cheesey

I marvel at cheese. Curdled milk, lovingly seperated from the whey, drained and aged. A process so simple you can do it in your own kitchen in just a few hours, and so complex people have dedicated their lives to its perfection. Cheese is a happy process, I have never met an unhappy cheese maker. They know what their cows, goats and sheep have been nibbling on, they know what their cheeses sound like when you tap on their rinds. They're happy to tell you which day of the year you should open up each batch of cheese and the perfect vintage for the glass beside it.

My father used to make fresh mozzarella every day in his butcher shop. I'll never forget the milky-sweet scent that filled the back room of the shop each morning at sunrise. I can still see him, steel paddle in hand, separating the curds from the whey, making delicate strips of warm, soft cheese. I would peek over the counter to watch his coarse, worker's hands as they delicately braided the strips into a long cheese. In those early hours in the shop, I could feel his joy and passion for the process, and would watch as he distributed a little bit of that happiness customer by customer.

North Forked

The North Fork of long island has been my playground since childhood. My grandparents bought property on a small little street in a small little town dappled with potato farms and cornfields. There are photographs of my mother, full bellied with me inside, amidst the construction of the house. And since birth the house and I have been kindred spirits. I can remember the first times my family left me alone in the house, and how I felt more at home in those few hours than I had ever felt anywhere before. The first warm summer night I slept alone there, all the windows open, breathing in the dewy night air, sweet with honeysuckle. There was a summer afternoon when my cousins and I ran through the cornfield across the street and snuck ears of august's sweetest corn under our tshirts and hoped not to get caught. There were late nights where my cousin, Stefanie, and I would lie under the stars and gaze in awe, we knew we were the lucky witnesses of real life magic. This was not the same sky our friends in the city got to see.

This summer I was reminded of those times. The cornfield across the street has now been replaced by a vineyard, and luckily it's quaint and sweet, and doesn't attract the masses of city folk in party buses and limos that most North Fork vineyards seem to be catering to. This summer, it set up a screen down by the bay to show weekly outdoor movies, and so Stefanie and I decided to give it a try. We sprawled out on an old blanket, bought a bottle of chilled rose' and sipped as the salty breeze swept in off the Peconic Bay. The movie was the perfect background to the evening -- even though it probably should have been the other way around. We finished our bottle of wine and stared up at the stars, black and white flickering on the screen a few feet away, and we were just little children again, under the incredible depth of the sky.

Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Thanksgiving seems like a perfect time to breathe new life into my long-neglected blog. It is the holiday devoted to the art of feasting. A time for foods that serve little purpose beyond bringing maximum comfort with every forkful. Being Eastern European, the thanksgivings of my childhood included platters of proscuito, milky hand-made cheeses, homemade pastas with venison gravy alongside the turkey and cranberry. But as I've grown older, I've shifted my family's meal to incorporate more "thangiving-y" sides, and Thanksgiving has become my holiday. The one holiday where I can stretch my spatula and take over the kitchen.

I started my Thanksgiving traditions when I was about 13 with homemade cranberry sauce. It was a recipe I saw on Good Eats which called for three simple ingredients: Cranberries, Orange Marmalade, and Sugar. It was wonderful cooking the cranberries as they popped and released their gooey tart insides. The end result was chunky, tangy and sweet, a cranberry sauce far from the can shaped gelatin blob of my childhood. A few years later, I discovered the autumnal wonder of roasted butternut squash soup. Its like fall in a bowl, layering flavors of roasted squash, roasted garlic, sauteed apples and onions, and hints of nutmeg and cinnamon. It was from the soup, that Thanksgiving became mine.

I hope to chronicle this year's thanksgiving feast to share with you.

Today's Thanksgiving prep tasks include:
Roasting butternut squash, sweet potatoes, apples and a head of garlic for my Roasted butternut squash soup.
Baking cornbread for my sausage and cornbread stuffing with apples, figs and raisins.
Making two (at the request of my brother) apple crisp pies.
Trying my hand at low-fat baked apple donuts (a recipe from the Amy's Bread cookbook).
Making the Cranberry Sauce.

Turned away at the inn

Trying to find a dinner spot on a Friday night in the Lower East Side of Manhattan takes some navigation and persistence (often followed by desperation.) Our Friday night old faithful was spoiled by a new obnoxious northwest implant/hipster waiter and an unapologetic hostess, and so I spent the better half of Friday morning researching a new drinking hole that had just the right balance of a decent beer and liquor selection, outdoor space, good citysearch reviews and just a dash of seediness. We settled on Stanton Public-- they show movies on the brick wall in their teeny outdoor patio, play good music, have a free condom dispenser by their graffittied bathroom, and provide you with baskets of fresh popcorn as you knock back a few fancy-named beers. And the LES presents a perfect area for the kind of culinary wanderlust that settles in after a few happy hour beers.

We first tried our luck at Pulino's, a new high-end pizza place that's a-buzz in reviews, but the line to find out how long of a wait to be seated was too long of a wait for our grumbling bellies. Then we decided to try our luck at Lupa, one of Mario Batali's restaurants, with the sweetest hostesses who tried their best to accommodate us, but had could only give us a table if we promised to be out in an hour. We then trotted around the corner to Arturo's, another pizza place, the wait there was 30-40 minutes, we put our name in and decided to try our luck at one more spot. Dos Caminos SoHo, and again 45-50 minutes for their pricey margaritas and yummy guacamole. Turned away, and so we turned back to Arturo's where a good 15 minutes had probably passed since we gave them our names. We returned to find the small, angry hostess had already skipped us, but had not yet crossed us off the list. We decided to patiently wait our turn with a Peroni at the bar listening to the live Jazz band. We were shortly seated right at the door to the kitchen and next to the band. I was in love with the band, and the scent of tomato sauce and fresh baked crust floating from the kitchen. Soon our hungry tummies had ordered spaghetti with meatballs and a large fiesta pizza, and we were merry, and giddy and full.

We had shown our resilience through the long lines, grumpy hostesses, rumbling stomachs, and a broken flip flop. And we were well rewarded but good food and a lot of laughs.

OJ, soda, purple stuff....

My fridge has never been stocked like the average American refrigerator. It was filled with things that would make little blond girls turn up their perfect pointed noses. We were always stocked in liverwurst (my pre-k sandwich of choice, really there's nothing better than creamy calves liver pate smothered on a crispy Portuguese roll -- I was a smart five year old.) Even if I were to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, smuckers was not something you would come by in my house. Instead we had a full supply of foreign jams Sipak (rose hip jelly), Lekvar (a very this plum jam, and Mjesena ("mixed fruit") which contained apples, plums and sour cherries. These jellies were thick, gritty and a little sour, they were the kind of jelly smuckers would be after it got beat up by some wild strawberries.

We also had jars and jars of all things pickled and preserved, red pepper, onions, tomatoes, pickles, eggplant. The insides of the jars goopy with solidified olive oil, like a science experiment gone terribly awry. There were times when I longed for the fridge in the Sunny d commercials: OJ, soda, purple stuff.... But it was because of this exposure that I wasn't afraid to try new things. I was primed never to be a culinary coward, and to start my day with a little fresh peanut butter and Mjesana on toast each morning.

A moveable feast

This past sunday my good friend Kristin and I made our first full french meal from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child. The book is truly a plethora of culinary knowledge and has each dish explained down to the minute detail (except for some minorly confusing verbiage in the souffle recipe...which when it comes to making souffle, its probably not so minor) but all in all our bellies were well rewarded for our efforts.

We started our feast with cream of watercress soup, which had a lightness to it, but filled every ounce of the body with a creamy warmth. The trick it seems is whipping cream with egg yokes and then wisking it into the hot soup to acheive maximum thickness without feeling greasy or heavy.


Next was our heart attack in a fluted tart pan. The Quiche Lorraine. To add insult to injury we decided to add some swiss cheese to our quiche, which already contained bacon, cream and eggs and dots of butter on the top (and this is before we factor in the crust.) But the filling was light and airy and the top formed a thin almost creme brulee-like crust.



For our main course, we indulged in potatoes au gratin, coq au vin, and roasted asparagus. Potatoes au gratin may be the only dish that really makes me nervous across the board. Any time I've ever had them at a dinner they've been undercooked and inedible, but Julia, ever the brilliant culinary problem solve had this one down. You arrange your first lay of potatoes then cheese, salt pepper, butter (of course), then your second layer, then more cheese salt, pepper, butter, then you pour boiling milk into the terrine, place it on a hot stove and wait until the whole dish is simmering before you put it into the oven. Voila'! Perfectly tender potatoes au gratin, no slices of nearly raw potatoes mucking up your cheesy goodness.



Next was our main event, our coq au vin, which is basically rooster (or in our case chicken) stewed in wine. The coq au vin was more than I could have even imagined, the meat was tender and the sauce rich, earthy and complex. We used nearly a bottle of my father's home-made wine to drown our little chicken in along with a splash of bourbon and butter (there's always butter). It filled the kitchen with an almost sweet aroma, the kind of scent that welcomes you home and eases you in your chair after a hard day. It was a peasant dish, french style, sacrificing nothing for taste with the simplest of ingredients, some ingenuity, and little extra effort.

And when all this was consumed and we were happy with wine, we decided to take on one more task. The chocolate souffle. Not only is the souffle one of the more difficult French masterpieces to tackle, chocolate only makes things more difficult structurally for the souffle. In the process of combining the egg whites and the chocolate was where Kristin and had to overcome our first hurdle. Doubts and disappointment started to set in as we sadly poured our lumpy brown goop into the souffle pan. But 45 minutes later, like a miracle a perfect little souffle puffed up in our oven.


And after filling our bellies to the brim and releasing several well earned contented sighs, we decided on our next venture. Duck and cheese souffle.

Hands

My father has the hands of a butcher. Strong and broad, his palm calloused from the grip of the knife, the rest of the skin softened from animal fat. Hands that are strategic and adept, like a surgeon with a sword, disassembling the pieces of meat that would fill the bellies of his customers. His hands sliced and broke bones, but also carefully and lovingly wrapped up each steak in brown butcher paper and placed it in the hands of each of his customers. He understood butchery as an art form, his carvings being sold off piece by piece bringing celebration and happiness to the table. When I think of my father's hands, strong and gentle, eager to do, to create as well as to cradle and comfort, it is clear to me how alike we are. I understand where that restlessness comes from that lingers inside of me, to do more, to be more passionate, to create more, to give more. My father's vast palms are abundantly giving and overflowing and I only hope to have half the pride for what I create that he does.

Words to the (counter clock)wise.

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I twirl my spaghetti the wrong way. Whenever my fork digs in to that heaping pile of pasta and tomato sauce, I can feel my mother's wandering eye gazing down at my counter clockwise twirling utensil. "Why don't you use a spoon," she suggests.

A spoon? A spoon just means one more obstacle between my lips and the linguine. I have no time for spoons, nor do I have time to relearn how to twirl in a clockwise fashion. At the very least, a spoon just means one more dish to wash, and there is no need.

My mother is the kind of person who always knows the "right" way of doing things. Perhaps it's because her father was a head chef, and thusly had to have a rigorous attitude towards the kitchen. She insisted on the proper way to cut an onion, mince garlic, slice tomatoes, stir a pot of polenta, and twirl spaghetti. I, on the other hand, had no such hang ups. I'm the type of person who takes an intuitive approach to the kitchen. I like feeling, tasting, smelling, experimenting. Not everything I try is a success, but I feel that sometimes if you draw outside of the lines a little, you might find a completely different picture.

Life happens.

The food writing class I had enrolled in has officially come to an end, and yet it oddly feels like the beginning. I feel like I've finally released the breath I've been holding for too long. Its interesting, to be a part of something with people that have such diverse backgrounds united by a common passion for food. For us foodies, food is not sustenance. Food is pleasure and heartache, indecision and endless opportunity. In food we trust. For me, I understood that food mattered from the very first moments I can remember. The kitchen was where life happened, sitting at the table watching the world swirl busily around me. I would sometimes get scraps of pasta dough to fold into little bow ties or rounds of cookie dough to make little thumbprints in. The kitchen was where we opened the first gifts on Christmas Eve after clearing off the seven fish dishes from the table, oohing and ahhing over the new toys and clothes, hugging and kissing in gratitude. It was where I practiced for spelling bees and twirled around until the cabinets kept spinning even when I stopped. In the kitchen my father and I practiced dancing for my sweet sixteen, both trying to hide our tears from the other. It was where I read my college acceptance letter aloud, my parents holding their breaths as I slit open the envelope. The kitchen was where my Nonno, brother, my little cousin Raffaella and I bridged generations, dusting each other with flour as we made gnocchi from scratch. It was where we all congregated during family the holidays, wanting to be close to the stove, to mince the garlic, zest the lemon, chop the herbs, longing to be a part of the meal.

The kitchen is where life happens, and for right now, looking forward at the kitchen I'll someday have, and the life that will fill it, helps me to know I'm just at the beginning.

Surreal

So after a long hiatus, its time to stop neglecting my beloved writing place. I think I was too ambitious trying to put a post every day, and that made it too easy to give up entirely. So, as I promised myself, before the end of this month, I would start writing again, here I am on March 31st. I've decided to restructure, I'm going to post at least twice a week, on Sunday and Wednesday evenings, and to spice things up a little, experiment with video blogging once a month. We'll see how it goes.

Tonight, as I write, I find myself in front of the computer, mug of organic high fiber cereal with soy milk in hand, reminiscing of the days when cereal meant marshmallow pots of gold and Toucan Sam. When we were younger, my brother and I would go to my brother's godfather's house often. They had four children close in age to us and we would get ourselves into all kinds of trouble, but my strongest memory tied to cereal comes from their house. They had the jackpot when it came to cereal, cookie crisp, berry berry kix, rice crispy treats cereal, and every time it was just about time to head out, would cry starvation. We begged for cereal, we could not go on without a bowl of cereal. And we milked it for all it was worth -- pun intended.

But in reflection, cereal really is the simplest of pleasures. A bowl filled with ice cold milk and delicate sweet, crispy flakes. The satisfying crunch delivered by the spoonful. I have vivid memories of my 4 year old self having deep conversations with my rice crispies. The secrets of the world would be revealed if I payed enough attention. My rice crispies told me stories about pirates and princesses, they made me laugh, and never revealed my secrets. But now, on this early spring evening, my cereal says nothing, only that my digestive system will be grateful for the treat. Tony the Tiger is replaced by a quaint outdoor scene, and the colorful fruity pebbles are substituted with what looks more like rabbit food.