Making bread

"No yoga exercise, no meditation in a chapel filled with music will rid you of your blues better than the humble task of making your own bread."

M.F.K. Fisher

Good "Bread"

"This obsession with good bread turned into a little hobby of mine. As I was traveling, it became sport to search out the best possible bread in every city I visited. 

"I made sure to eat my breakfast in the cafes that offered the best bread. I learned that cafes that offer excellent bread tend to have the best of everything else. A restaurant or cafe that is not investing in good bread is without a doubt cutting corners on quality elsewhere. 

"Bread is the first food a restaurant serves to a customer. Why would any restaurant ever want to spoil the experience by offering anything less than the best in the first bite?"

Malin Elmlid in "The Bread Exchange: Tales and Recipes from a Journey of Baking and Bartering"

On "Bitter"

"We can probably all agree that Fernet-Branca, rapini, citrus zests, and beer are bitter, but I became more aware of the diversity of what we think of as bitter when numerous friends, all working in the food world, sent me suggestions for foods to include in the book. 

"While I agreed with most of their ideas, some surprised and even shocked me. Among them were Camembert, celery, cucumber, Campari, Belgian Chimay cheese, eggplant, lemons, pickled onions, rhubarb, Seville orange marmalade, sorrel, coffee, and white Chateauneuf-du-Pape wine. 

"Aren't rhubarb and sorrel simply sour? Lemon is both sour - its juice - and bitter - its peel. Celery, cucumber, Seville orange marmalade, Campari, and white Chateauneuf-du-Pape wine all have bitter notes, but eggplant is rarely bitter today."

Jennifer McLagan in "Bitter: A Taste of the World's Most Dangerous Flavor, with Recipes"

Bad apple

Quandary


I was a little disappointed
in the apple I lifted from a bowl of fruit
and bit into on the way out the door, 
fuzzy on the inside and lacking the snap of the ripe. 

Yesterday it was probably perfect, 
I figured, as I held it out before me, 
soft red apple bearing my tooth marks,
as if I were contemplating the bust of Aristotle. 

I considered all the people 
who would be grateful to have this apple, 
and others who might find it in their hearts 
to kill me before slipping it into a pocket.

And I considered another slice 
of the world's population, too, 
those who are shielded from anything 
as offensive as a slightly imperfect apple. 

Then I took a second bite, a big one, 
and pitched what was left 
over the tall hedges hoping to hit on the head 
a murderer or one of the filthy rich out for a stroll.

Billy Collins in "Aimless Love: New and Selected Poems"

Going "French"

"Without question, my first few years at Chez Panisse, during the seventies, were the most formative for me. At that time, the air in the ad hoc kitchen was filled with new ideas, overgrown passion, and a fair dose of craziness. 

"From the day I arrived I entered into a space of organized chaos. I was working with people who had no background in the restaurant business, no experience cooking, and no real goal other than to serve some sort of dinner each night. Despite this lack of purpose, skill and organization, it had its own magic and miraculously - it worked! 

"Once the early days passed and the restaurant gained recognition and success, the level of creativity and excitement in the kitchen was never again quite the same. The unity we shared in those years, the fun, and the crazy youthful antics, couldn't be duplicated."

Jean-Pierre Moulle and Denise Lurton Moulle in "French Roots: Two Cooks, Two Countries and the Beautiful Food Along the Way"

"Huckleberry" hound

"I love the process of baking, of working with just a handful of ingredients, and losing myself in my hands while working to transform these ingredients into something beautiful and delicious.

"I love taking a box of perfect peaches back to the restaurant from the farmers' market and turning them into sheet pans of whole-wheat peach squares, or peach crumble, or fresh peach preserves. 

"When I'm baking, the finished product almost doesn't matter; once I get into the simple peaceful acts of scaling, mixing and scooping, I'm satisfied."

Zoe Nathan in "Huckleberry: Stories, Secrets and Recipes from Our Kitchen"

On having it all

"To me, having it all - if one wants to define it at all - is the magical time when what you want and what you have match up. Like an eclipse. A perfect eclipse is when the moon is at its perigee, the Earth is farthest from the sun, and when the sun is observed near zenith. I have no idea what that means. I got the description off a science website, but one thing is clear: It's rare. This eclipse never lasts more than seven minutes.

"Personally, I believe having it all can last longer than that. It might be a fleeting moment - drinking a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning when the light is especially bright. It might also be... a three-hour lunch with my best friend... Having it all definitely involves an ability to seize the moment... It can be eating in bed when you're living on your own for the first time...

"Having it all are moments in life when you suspend judgment. It's when I attain that elusive thing called peace of mind.

"Not particularly American, unquantifiable, unidentifiable, different for everyone, but you know it when you have it.

"Which is why I love bakeries. Peace descends the second I enter, the second I smell the intoxicating aroma of fresh bread, see apricot cookies with scalloped edges, chocolate dreams, cinnamon and raisin concoctions, flights of a baker's imagination, and I know I am the luckiest person in the world. At that moment, in spite of statistical proof that this is not possible, I have it all. And not only that, I can have more."

Delia Ephron in "Sister Mother Husband Dog (Etc.)"

Eating Italian

"The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you're hungry again."

George Miller

Saucy

"But the more sauces we make, the more it becomes clear that in French cuisine sauces are like jazz riffs: variations off a few basic themes. 

"By my own estimation, we've been through about fifty sauces so far. We've made them with red wine, white wine, Calvados, beer, Muscadet, Madeira and port. 

"We've thickened our arteries with a legion of cream and butter sauces: bechamel, beurre blanc, supreme, bearnaise, Albufera, hollandaise, mornay, tartar and a nut-brown butter version known as meuniere. 

"We've learned to make sauces from crawfish, tomatoes, mushrooms, mustard, herbs and coffee. 

"For desserts, we've learned honey, vanilla, passionfruit, chocolate, pistachio, cognac and raspberry sauces. Add to this a slew of jus and a list of vinaigrettes. 

"Today, our sauce will be thickened with blood."

Kathleen Flinn in "The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry: Love, Laughter and Tears at the World's Most Famous Cooking School"

Greenmarket

"To the people who sow seeds, pull weeds, carry water, nourish soils, pick rocks, tend flocks, lose crops, make cheese, catch fish, grind grain, hunt mushrooms, boil sap, get sunburned, get soaked, get stung, get bitten, get blisters, get tired, and get up so very early in the morning to feed New York City. And to the eaters who pay them to do so. Thank you."

Gabrielle Langholtz in "The New Greenmarket Cookbook"

Georgia peaches

"Peach pie was one of the reasons I was so excited to have a stop in Georgia on the Tour of Pie, and the peaches did not disappoint.

"I was in town for the month of July and the sweet, juicy peaches were at the height of the season. I was staying with Kay and Patrick, the generous parents of my old college friend and Atlanta native Sean, who had volunteered his parents' guest room after hearing about my travels. 

"In late July, Kay invited a few of her friends over for a pie party. Each of the ladies brought their own peaches. I provided the crust ingredients, and they all learned how to make peach pie. Sipping on iced tea and eating a warm slice of Georgia peach pie was the perfect way to end my visit."

Teeny Lamothe in "Teeny's Tour of Pie: A Cookbook"

"Lunch" break

Lucky is the lady who can stop midday to have a proper meal. Employees at Peter Miller's Seattle bookshop do exactly that. For years, they have sat down and eaten lunch together, "in every season, in all weather, no matter the work that needs to be done that day." 

In his concise and quaint volume "Lunch at the Shop: The Art and Practice of the Midday Meal," Miller celebrates all that is good about lunch with colleagues. He encourages readers to "simply (take) part of the day back into (their) own hands, making it personal and a pleasure." 

These workplace lunches steer clear of take-out, opting instead for fresh pre-made foods that can be finished on site. The author aims for healthful and tasty items. 

He and his co-workers are privy to tartines, for example, open-faced sandwiches that are easily embellished with top-notch bread and a range of ingredients. "Fool with it," Miller suggests. "Sweeten it with a little fig spread, loosen it with salsa, sharpen it with a cheese or a mustard, smooth it with butter." 

Other dishes include a variety of salads paired with different vinaigrettes, and comforting soups. 

The book serves as a charming reminder that no matter how hectic the day or week, we still need occasional respites. With practical ideas and promising recipes, Miller gives us the tools to achieve that.  

(A version of this review appeared originally at Publishers Weekly.)

 

Seeing red

Deep, deep reds in honor of the red, white and blue.

"Save the Deli"

"This is a book about Jewish delicatessen, about deli's history and characters, its greatest triumphs, spectacular failures, and ultimately the very future of its existence. 

"This book is a look deep into the world of the Jewish deli, told through the histories and experiences of those who keep it alive. It is the tale of the immigrant counterman, the no-nonsense supplier, the kvetching customer, and the fourth-generation deli owner, all of whom are balancing the tastes of tradition with the necessities of a business. 

"It is a book about the economics of a nineteenth-century trade in the modern world and the pressures delicatessens face, financial and otherwise, that have caused many to disappear."

David Sax in "Save the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye, and the Heart of Jewish Delicatessen"

Good taste

"The flavor of this abundant nation resides in its homegrown specialties and its factory-made treats alike, and in the many foods that we've adopted and adapted from the tables of the world.

"It's found in pimento cheese and bandage-wrapped Cheddar, apple cider and ginger ale, miso and tortillas and knishes, Coca-Cola and peppermint stick ice cream and whoopie pie.

"America has not one taste but a panoply of them, an immense multicultural sensory anthology of good things to eat and drink, commercial and artisanal, decadent and virtuous, silly and sublime."

Colman Andrews in "The Taste of America"

"Natural" goodness

Joe Dobrow charts the remarkable growth of natural foods over the past 15-plus years in an enlightening volume, "Natural Prophets: From Health Foods to Whole Foods - How the Pioneers of the Industry Changed the Way We Eat and Reshaped American Business."

Having worked with companies such as Fresh Fields, Whole Foods, Balducci's and Sprouts, the longtime marketing exec offers valuable insight on how consumer demands evolve and the ways in which organic food producers work to meet these changes. 

Dobrow introduces key moments and players, combining history and sociology with "biographical memoir and corporate profile." He explores the influence of widespread critiques of chemical agriculture such as Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring" and, more recently, Michael Pollan's "The Omnivore's Dilemma." 

The author also profiles forerunners behind some name brands, including Mo Siegel, who started Celestial Seasonings in Colorado, and Bob Moore, who turned Bob's Red Mill "into a $120 million business selling a wide variety of wholesome stone-ground grains, flours, and cereals," among others. 

Their stories prove interesting and their continued success reflects the increasing popularity of the industry as a whole. 

(A version of this review appeared originally at Publishers Weekly.)  

 

Like liquid gold

I opened a decades-old bottle of wine the other night, wanting to see if I could drink it or if it had secretly turned into vinegar. It was months after my father's funeral, when the grief had begun to subside.


The wine was a revelation. It still is.

It was fruity and quite mellow. It tasted bright and complex. It was eye-opening. Free of the tannins that sometimes accompanied wines I had, it went down smoothly. I drank two or three glasses effortlessly. Like water from a spring. Then, of course, the alcohol kicked in. 

***

The bottle had been among those in dusty cardboard boxes inside the garage, moved not long ago from the basement of my parents' house in Chinatown to my place in the Oakland hills.


To proceed with a seismic retrofit my mother wanted, we cleared out old mattresses, tattered board games, and items from earlier renovations. We didn't know what to do, however, with cases of wine my parents had also kept there.


My brother wondered if we could donate them. But the food bank, for example, he learned, didn't accept alcohol. He considered pouring wine down the sink before tossing the empty bottles into recycling. But that seemed drastic and extremely wasteful.


He said he wasn't a drinker. What would we do with so much? I drank wine sometimes and cooked with it, too, scanning shelves at Trader Joe's for interesting, affordable bottles. My brother insisted he did not drink. Soda, certainly, and juice nearly every day. But not wine. I told him he could always start.


We negotiated and compromised the way we negotiated every little thing. I would find room for the tattered boxes somewhere in the house, I said, at least temporarily. He would not chuck any bottles down the drain just yet.

***

My father owned a liquor store in San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury neighborhood decades ago, commuting across the bridge six days a week. 

Growing up, my sisters, brothers and I spent summers there. We stocked shelves and worked the cash register. We earned money, but were rewarded mostly with candy, ice cream and comic books.


We began to recognize California wine labels: Almaden, Inglenook, Charles Krug. We learned spellings and pronunciations for words like Merlot, Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc.


A woman on the way to her boyfriend's once asked my brother to recommend a good Chardonnay. He instinctively flagged our father over before slipping away from the conversation.


A man asked me once what went well with fish. I was no more than 13 perhaps. What could I tell him? I mean, I knew as much about varietal and vintage as the next child, which was not a lot. On the other hand, if there had been talk of Life Savers candy, It's-It ice-cream or Richie Rich.

***

Sometime in the 1980s, my father lost his lease. Rather than move the business, he retired altogether. He had worked 10-hour days for as long as he could remember. He needed a break.


He returned as much inventory as he could to distributors. The alcohol he still had at the end he brought home to Oakland. My parents put cases away in a corner of the basement.


Though it saddened my mother to close the store, she understood my father's decision. Besides, my siblings and I were high-school students then, anxious to start college. Would we even want the business? Could we handle the responsibility? We said no.

***

Years later, I returned to Haight-Ashbury, curious to see if the streets had changed. The sidewalks, for example, appeared as crowded as I remembered them, peopled, as always, by a wide cast of characters.


I entered the building that used to house my father's liquor store, happy to find it had since become a bookshop, one of the few remaining Bay Area independents.


In an instant, I flashed back to childhood. In my mind, what had once been there replaced all that was actually there. Instead of shelves filled with books, I saw shelves on my right lined with wine bottles. On my left, behind the cash register, shelves crowded with liquor bottles.


An employee, a woman in a brown T-shirt, must have noticed me standing, staring into the space. She asked if she could help me locate something in particular. Oh no, I replied. Thanks. I was just looking.

***

Growing up, I did not connect much with my father. We were not as close as we could have been. The fifth in a group of six children, maybe I got lost in the scrum. I don't know.


In the throes of adolescence, I pulled away. Or was he the one who resisted? The kind of man whose actions spoke louder than words perhaps, he kept opinions and feelings to himself.


On car rides home from school, I struggled to make conversation with my father. The radio became my salvation. I craved affection long before I knew I needed it.


I meet a man with a teen-age daughter. Separated from her mother, he tries hard to spend time with his child. I want to tell him to not stop trying, to never stop really. His daughter needs her father even if she pretends she doesn't, even when she resists. She needs him to guide her. She does.

***

A scene in the movie "Sideways" stops me cold. The DVD had been playing at my brother's place. In the exchange, Virginia Madsen talks with Paul Giamatti about her attraction to wine.


"I like to think about the life of wine," she tells him, "how it's a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing, how the sun was shining, if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it's an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now...”


It is a terrific encounter, a quiet, genuine moment between two key characters. I grab a pen and some paper, and take notes.

***

I hadn't thought before about any of that, about what it might have meant.


The wine I opened, I realized eventually, had been one of the last things left from my father's store, a part of his legacy and my personal history.


It represented his commitment, the way he earned a living to support my sisters, brothers and me. His hard work, coupled with my mother's frugality, helped to raise a family. Their sacrifice sent me to college across the country. It sent me on my way.


For the longest time, I wondered if my father actually cared. Nonchalant, he remained a mystery. Indecipherable. I didn't know how he felt or what he felt. I wracked my brain. But maybe his love had been there all along. I just didn't know it. Maybe I simply hadn't figured out where to look.


It was there when he sided with me after I bought blue jeans. My father convinced my mother to let me keep them, telling her I needed denim for winters on the East Coast. He sided with me when I wanted dark colors, to my mother's floral-print chagrin.


It was there at his kitchen table. He read the local paper every day when I worked there after college, scanning it for articles I had done. Had he been proud? He never said.


When he went to produce markets in Chinatown, it was there. He heard I would be home from grad school in Oregon and knew I liked the way my mother cooked eggplant, stir-fried quickly with ground pork, water, soy sauce, sugar and chile paste. He asked her to make my favorite dish.


He shared other foods, too, over the years, inviting my siblings and me not only for birthdays and holidays. These we expected. They were reasons to feast. But he called us for ordinary meals as well, on random weeknights. Just because.


And it was there when he held my hand those days he spent in the hospital. When the doctors spoke, we listened. I held his hand. He didn't pull away. I watched as he rested. I cried when he died.


Maybe his love had been there all along, bottled like liquid gold. There in the basement for me to discover and appreciate when I was good and ready. It might take years, even decades. But I would learn.


It had been there all along waiting for me to uncork and savor.


(A version of this essay appeared originally at www.culinate.com.)

Eating out

"How we understand ourselves as modern and civilized, how we have cultivated the types of social exchanges that seem proper and conventional, and how we have developed our appetites and chosen to enact them in the public arena are the main preoccupations that frame this book. 

"The popular practice of dining out is a means for exploring these concerns, as the restaurant itself is located squarely in the space between the private and public."

Joanne Finkelstein in "Fashioning Appetite: Restaurants and the Making of Modern Identity"

In a pickle

"Despite the fact that my first two cookbooks are always shelved with the jam making and canning books, I am a fan of kitchen tinkering of all stripes. I live for drying, salting, curing, marinating and brining. I am simply fascinated by the meditative practice of taking a foodstuff and transforming it with little more than salt or sugar, heat or moisture, time and magical bacteria.

"Enter the humble pickle. Although I love all of my kitchen creations the way a mother hen loves her flock, pickles have truly captured my heart (and my stomach!). I swear, I could live on little more than hot rice and cold pickles, provided they are crisp, flavorful, pungent and bright. It is only natural that, with so many Asian flavors spilling from my dinner bowl plus so many years of traveling to Asia and living there for a spell, my interest would turn to pickles of the Asian continent."

Karen Solomon in "Asian Pickles: Sweet, Sour, Salty, Cured and Fermented Preserves"

Crispy kale

Kale Chips

from Brendan Brazier's "Thrive Energy Cookbook"

1 to 2 bunches kale
1/4 to 1/3 cup olive oil or avocado oil
fleur de sel or sea salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Tear the kale leaves from the thick stems and tear the leaves into bite-size pieces. 

Wash kale, thoroughly dry with a salad spinner or kitchen towel, and transfer to a large bowl. 

Drizzle kale with olive oil and toss well or gently rub to thoroughly coat leaves with oil. 

Spread kale in a single layer on a baking sheet; some slight overlapping is okay. Sprinkle with fleur de sel or sea salt to taste.

Bake until the edges are brown but not burnt, 10 to 15 minutes. Makes 2 servings.