A Good-Looking, Parlous Failure

The step by step assasination of scallops on rice with white asparagus and portobello mushrooms. Can you see where I went wrong? Me neither.

At left, the suspects, white asparagus, lemon juice, portobello mushrooms, Lipton FiestaSides Spanish Rice, Montauk scallops, wooden spoon. Not pictured: me, the culprit, dancing to house music and peeling garlic. (helpful tip: if it doesn't matter, just chop the fucker in half, makes the flakes flake right off)



So here are the sides, looking delicious. White asparagus, as it happens, is cheaper on Fresh Direct than its green bretheren. I don't know why, as it lends an air of holier-than-thou monocromity (monochromism? minimalist, anyway) to a meal and tastes...exactly the same. Portobella mushrooms, as always, are unimpeachably delicious and should be used over all other mushrooms at all times. Yes, even at the Burning Man Festival.

I'm not used to a gas stove, being a West Coast electric style girl, so there are only two settings on the range as far as I'm concerned: Nuclear Fires of Hell, and, Off. Above: a closeup of the vampiric vegetable friends. Note clove of garlic desperately trying to blend in. "Nobody suspects a thing!"



The Lipton rice a-boiling. No, I don't know how I have it in my pantry, or how it got there, but Spanish rice must be used and I thought it a reasonable substitute for paella. Oh how I was wrong.



Now the scallops were set to go for seven minutes sauteeing and I thought I more or less timed the rice with the portobello and asparagus, the rice took longer than I thought and instead of turning OFF the burner like a normal person, I just shook the little bastards baby-in-a-basinet while waiting. Let us name that Tactical Error #2. (Assuming the Lipton rice was #1 which we will cause EUCH.)



The finished product. It looks lovely, and I was quite happy when I sat down but y'all knows what's coming, I already pre-figured it all the way through. The Spanish rice was odd and soggy...and yet crunchy (damn the lack of rice cooker in my apartment! damn it to oblivion!) and altogether overwhelming in terms of "spice" or "flavor". I think it just tried to bludgeon me with its idea of Spanish with the orange color.

The scallops were also poor, they shriveled up, tiny things they were and a bit rubbery texture wise. The overcooking sapped them of the succelent morsels they should have been and I think all that aside, Fresh Direct gave me somewhat fish ingredients to start with. I'm sure I've skipped a crucial step, like steeping them in lemon or something, but I didn't like them.

The portobello turned out great and I managed to somehow char the asparagus, but it was still yummy, not quite al dente but close enough second. I did take pictures throughout and wrestling with my digital camera may have taken the timing off, but I think the whole enterprise may have been doomed from the start. I ate about half, half is now in my fridge, waiting, and then I made Paul Newman popcorn.

Now that, is a real success.

Memories... far from the pavement

So there was me, in a decidedly un-city like setting, Sarah Lawrence College, but less than 15 miles from where I live today. I'm outside one of the worst places you could ever find cuisine, the campus pub.

And what better place to start than where you began, particularly with autonomous cooking. I did my fair share of grandma's helper back in Vegas. She is Dutch, and therefore is ace with all things baked goods. Chocolate chip cookies, English trifle with ladyfingers, molasses cookies, homemade biscotti, ginger snaps, butter cakes: that is all her domain. What there is of dinner meals are simple, hearty things that she passed onto her son's tastes, my father, then me.

So while I was at college, at least for the first two years, if I wasn't having greasy pizza or flat little wan patties of meat (both of which I weaned myself off of forcibly), I was cooking up plain pasta in olive oil (De Cecco rotelle, or wagonwheels, still my favorite) or grilling up chicken on my George Forman (far and away the most versitile kitchen appliance for cheap). For lunch, I attempted to shun the fat by creating plump tuna sandwiches on whole wheat.

I don't really have much of a sweet tooth, grandmother nonwithstanding (both really, for my maternal grandmother was notoriously sticky pocketed with toffees) so the thing I still reach for is the occasionally pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Ah, glorious.

Not much has changed, honestly with my home cooking except that around senior year I leaned to supplement what is plain, filling and wholesome with little delights, a cup of olives here, some marzipan, slices of munster and fresh mozerella. The small luxuries that in larger quantites would make even the most decadent bellies run wobbling for the vomitoreum. So it's not filet mignon every day, and thank goodness cause I can't afford it.

So a salute to trial by fire and good example by family. If I ever start baking, I know who to thank.

Re-post: Shake Shack Review

from my livejournal, about three weeks ago:

After running through a buttload of epicurious NYC website, I twice ran across ecstatic reviews of this place called Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, which is where I happened to run into yesterday coming from work. Damn is that a sweet park. People are chill, there's a refreshing non-profusion of attitude, and the middle fountain lines up perfectly with the Empire State Building if you're a dork like me, and taking a picture with your cellphone camera.

Anyway.

People. I come from the West Coast. We got In and Out and Sonic and Fatburger, y'all, and I have in my day consumed many a White Castle. There's this place called Oasis in the East End of London that makes 16 ounce behemouths of burgers that not only moo when you bite them but writhe in your mouth, Douglas Adams-style. I mean, not like he writhes--it was in his book--never mind. And I just ordered what seemed like an obscenely expensive plain burger, no trimmings.

My. God. In Heaven. It's no exagerration to say that is the best burger and damn near the best red meat I've ever EVER had in my life. It pretty much grabbed my taste buds, ripped them out, and took them to Paris while I sat there on the seats, surrounded by birds, thwacked into food bliss so wide and so deep, you could have hit me with a hammer and I wouldn't have noticed. Lemme put it this way; if God transubstantiates, I'd take a good bet he would turn into this and not some dry cracker.

That said, the bun's pretty good too. It was soft and an inoffensive orange, and the texture overall reminded me of challah bread. I am a big believer in toppings on burgers, especially onions but it's a strong testament to say just the bread and just the glorious meat with some lavish swipes of ketchup are all one needs. BABY. I can't even like, go there again for awhile. This, despite its seeming bargain (against say, mainlining heroin) is something I need to save for when I've been a very very good girl. Or a very naughty one. So next time? It's their hot dogs.

*

I took a lap around the park after that, went into a comic book shop in a daze, picked up and put down Watchman (I dunno, I feel like with me a principle component of me reading comic books has to be some visual brio, despite being a writer, and I didn't see it there. Looked like matrix print Archie dots to me, and...feh.) and then walked up Madison Avenue to burn off the energy from having a spiritual experience with a piece of dead cow. Then I passed a fairly nice church, Madison Baptist or something and I glanced at the sign, expecting some well trodden platitudes about faith. Instead it said:

God needs spiritual fruit,
not religious nuts.

HA. MADISON BAPTIST PWNSU. What the hell? It's like dissing your audience before they even come in. This is religion, not Cheech and Chong! Or is it? Hee. I almost went in, drawn by the snark, but though one of my goals (and I do mean this seriously) is to sample different religions in the city (a beautiful mosque is right by my house, in fact, though I have little to no information on how to attend), I know I don't want a sarcastic church. A knowledgable and wise one sure, I don't want buckets of sap or electrodes put on my nuts, but in my experience, the more hip a church presents itself, the more facile and transparent the whole facade gets. Let's not keep it real okay? Put the electric guitar away, Father Brogan and tell me about sin sans power ballad.

*

Just as I was approaching the 6, I pass an animal shop with little birds hopping all around. Then I hear, up ahead of me- "COO." I look around; other people seem to have heard it too but are being cool about it. I walk on, thinking either there's another pet store or there was an exodus and I hear again- "COO." A man appears, white t-shirt, black jeans and a fedora with two remarkably huge feathers, a foot tall waving through the air. He cups his hands and yells up at the pigeons on the ledges- "COO." I'm thinking one day, he'll be their god. Or their bitch.

I have noticed a new male trend, and I think maybe I should encourage it, but let me run it past you. I would loosely call this trend Utter Fop. To wit: This ...man came on the subway. I can't even say for sure he's in business, but I'm pretty sure the giant PDA and briefcase gave him away. But. He was wearing, a cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Say that three times fast. Cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Extra long, with two vents in the back, like a tuxedo. It was riotously ugly, as if he had decided to dress as a sugar cone.

Then he had a pastel checked shirt underneath that and a green and blue paisley necktie and white sunglasses. If he had only had an ivory walking stick, the whole British Tourist In Africa, Old Chap look would have been complete. Hemingway underground, and all that. He's not alone either; he just seems to be the apex so far. But I think it's a good thing, I guess, overall, seeing men with a bit of dash. Shall ascots be far behind? Pocketwatches? Monocles? I do hope so. Just uh, if I laugh, I'm merely appreciating the full effect.

On the other hand, I got my eyebrows threaded today and the sweet Indian lady was utterly horrified by my catipillars. So I'm not exactly couture here, lessay.

You'll go broke here for sure...

I went to Rice to Riches in Soho yesterday, pre-double bill of 2046 and Howl's Moving Castle. I realize I may never quite be so hipster in my life, so I tried to savour the sticky, gooey flavor for as long as it lasted. (Until I got to a water fountain, basically)

I guess I'm just not a fan of rice pudding, but that wasn't all that put me off the experience. It is a queer thing, on Houston, and I mean queer in the Victorian context because I must say all I ran into were beleagured straight people with the hollow eyes of the damnably fashionable.

Rice to Riches, I swear, exists in some kind of universe where Ipods have eaten all major appliances. The surfaces are all smooth white, there is a computer installed for god-knows-what reasons, the workers all wear walkie talkies despite working feet from each other. It is big, it is bad, it is minimalist IN YOUR FACE. They take it super serious there. But not really. Except they do.

And seriously dude, it's pudding. Lots of flavors (some of which that don't taste like colored Elmer's paste), lots of different plastic units in which to "download" your selection. It was like the noodle shops in Blade Runner without the tetanus-y charm. There was badly executed irony on all text in the store as well, they threatened prosecution if you took more than one flyer, there were faux-cheery-yet-mildly-threatening stances on worker treatment on the wall ("If you have time to lean, you have time to mop", etc) and I generally got the willikins really bad.

The whole area is not of the Lord. One could walk for blocks and not see a soul amongst the high end designer stores by adacent scummy lots. There is an older, more cynical feeling there than amongst the miscreants at Union Square or St. Mark's. A jaded optimism in which you hope everyone watches while you scoop up your gruel and pay six fuckin' dollars for it. Yeah, six. You know, the Red Cross probably cooks better stuff down the block.

Howl's Moving Castle, though, it must be said, makes for an excellent palate cleanser.

I *little cartoon* New York

When I walked out of my building today, wrestling with about a month's worth of back laundry, I noticed a little man near my stoop. This little man was not real, but chalk, with an upside down smiley face on a round squat body. There was an artists clean siganture next to it. I smiled at the twee little graffiti and was on my way. Afterwards, I took the 6 down to my bank, which is a somewhat horrifying twenty blocks away. But after a deposit I was (relatively) flush, and thus walked my way back up, seeing the sights and sounds of 3rd Ave.

On a whim, and since I needed speciality groceries anyway (I'm a FreshDirect devotee even at this tender age, though mostly just for staples) I stopped in at Zabar's grocery outlet, Eli's. It was a strangely set up grocery store indeed; first you go downstairs to produce, wend your way through meats and cheese, then upstairs to bakery and checkout. I made a few circuits before I understood intuitively where to shop next.

It is a very nice store however, well stocked with fresh produce. Nearly all the fruits were unblemished and pungent with summer smells, though my favorite, the golden cherries were squishy and sad. They sold potted herbs there as well, though the prohibitive prices kept me waiting for the Saturday where I could go down to Union Square and buy another 2 dollar basil plant. The fish was predictably astronomically expensive; I skittered, frightened, when the monger asked if I needed help, away from the $14.99 scrod.

Pre-mixed things also seemed to be the order of the day, bringing back memories from London's major food stores such as Marks and Spencers, the likes of which neither New York or the vast suburban sprawl of Vegas has quite gotten yet. There was a full wall dedicated to homemade soups of infinite stripes: from New York clam chowder to cream of mushroom, matzah ball to Chinse egg drop. I picked up and put down at least three flavors, choosig instead to walk down the line and get fresh made vodka sauce, since I like to save my vodka for swilling not cooking.

The cheese counter too, was lavish. There was a small section for goat cheese and other, mysterious French concotions, and there was very reasonably priced peppered Brie, which I picked up along with some smoked salmon to quel my whining fish hunger. Heady with luxury food, I would have picked up some pate, but either the signs were willfully misleading or I was so intoxicated by the surroundings that I missed it completely. So no cruelly made delicious guilt-inducing meatstuffs for me today, which was just as well. With that, the classic Water crackers, easily located on a shelf nearby.

I picked up the now-rapidly-endangered plastic lemons full of lemon juice (why would such a staple of the kitchen be virtually nonexistant in supermarkets these days? Even Freshdirect shuns them, deciding instead on the far less aesthetically pleasing glass bottle. Pucker up!), a box of De Cecco penne, and some fresh cut pineapple, a box of sushi for lunch and was on my way. Fifty dollars. Whew. Glad I deposited that check. My poordom is still unruffled but my inner gastronome, misguided through she is, thinks that my method is best: Cheap, convinient bulk food spiced up by slim applications of little niceties.

On the way back, I was shocked to see the same little cartoon man, twenty blocks from where I had first seen him. Walking up 3rd, I saw him no less than five times, sometime's shorter with a triangular head, sometimes with a lollipop in his hand, all signed by the artist which I made out as DeLuella. Then he tapered out approaching my street, then appeared thrice more. I think this cartoonist lives on my block. It's rather nice, it's like I had a shopping companion all the way home.

Saw on the way back, while noshing on my sushi and walking: A papya stand (though not Gray's, my favorite), A Krispy Kreme (hoorah! A Manhattan location? Who forgot to tell me this!), a very large video store called Champagne's (worth a looksee, definitely) and an Irish pub with very reasonable fish and chips. We'll have to be hitting that soon indeed.

The sushi was somewhat old and tasteless, nothing to the same little tray I got from my very very near Gourmet Garage. Save it for the places that make it twice a day, I guess. Regardless, my experience at Eli's was quite nice, for something I'd have to save for once a month, tops.

Ground control to Major Tom

I think I'm gonna go in on some kind of cross posting spree between here and my Livejournal. My Livejournal is, as per its name, more of a personal journal with myriad articles of fan-related activities that I think most hardcore blogger types would get the vapours and need a nap about, I'm gonna keep this place a little more uncluttered: anecdotes, ailments, musings and celebratory drunkness about my new home, New York City.

So here's a little something. I happen to be lucky enough to work in the Flatiron District (okay, one of those phrases desperately aches for ironic quotation marks but I demur), mere steps from Manhattan's first 7-11. Now that means nothing to the vast majority of you, and indeed it doesn't me, but apparently New Yorkers are hog wild for Slurpees--and ought to be in this type of weather.

It was very briefly closed down because, as I found one night as I strolled in for a nacho soujourn, the open fridge broke down, followed quickly by its long time love, the air conditioner. I strode briskly out, and the next day, closure for repairs.

I was more than a little tickled to see on the Great Blogs of the Manhattanverse (to my mind, Gawker, Curbed and Gothamist) wild speculation and mourning. I guess not only are Manhattanites greatly attached to their Slurpees, they are thrown by the mildest hint of construction, begging for cell phone released photographs as to the status of a place that, frankly, isn't all that hard to get to. Take the 6, people, the 6.

Right, I guess that defeats the titular "convinience" aspect to the store.

But it's open again, never fear, right on the corner, just waiting for me to walk in and demolish their faux cheese resources. Blessed Velveeta, calcium enriched pap for the poor.