Defrosting the Mammoth

Our house has something right now we've never had before: a completely empty freezer. (Well, except for a bag of frozen corn niblets and half a pint of Haagen Dazs Rocky Road ice cream, it's an icy wasteland.)

Last night I defrosted the one remaining piece of meat we had in there, a brisket of beef. I don't want to say for sure that I moved to SF with this frozen piece of meat, but I must have come pretty darn close. When I read the date on the cellophane (once it had defrosted), I was a little shocked at myself for "saving" this meatsicle (saving it for what, so I could learn to extract the DNA and clone my own cow?), and the date I had purchased it.

But I had already come so far, and then the meat kind of seemed like a science experiment as well as a potential dinner. I figured I should at least give it a shot.

***

Luckily for us, the mammoth tasted fine. (And we feel okay this morning.)

I've been cleaning out the bomb shelter. What I call the stockpiles of food we used to have regularly in the olden days, when I had a car and went to Costco on a regular basis. (Also, having a job really helps with those shopping exploits.)

I didn't realize how much old food we had and what got thrown out regularly until I moved to SF. Until then, my old routine of filling up the car with food and then eating a portion of it, storing some of it attractively on my shelves and throwing the rest away was an unconscious activity made effortless by a stable income and a sporty, fun car.

It really never dawned on me how wasteful I have been for many, many years (both with food and money) until I recently opened (and ate) a can of tuna that had expired two years ago. (That tasted fine, too.)

***

Living in the city has made me retool a lot of my thinking in a way that I'm happy to have brought to my attention.

What I realize now is that I can only consume what I can carry. Even with that, there are still plenty of good intentions (ie., fruits and veggies) that get tossed but not on the level of my former Costco/Safeway life. Our neighborhood has several small corner markets, where I can pop in and get just a few ingredients that I really need and more importantly, that I can carry in bags back to my house.

I have to be discerning. I have to question my motives and not tell myself, Oh get whatever you want! like I would have if I could load up my trunk with stuff just because it sounded yummy. I also have to be discerning because I can't afford to buy everything I want anymore either. Unemployment will do that to ya.

***

But mostly, I think I enjoy shopping more these days. I like the experience of being in my little corner grocery stores. I like knowing the people that run them and seeing the same faces. How the people help you pack your tote bags comfortably because they understand you have to walk home with these groceries. And if one store doesn't have what I need, I walk a block to the next one. Imagine that... I walk! Not something a little gal from the 'burbs was used to doing. (I remember being in Paris and going to the boulangerie on the corner, and the cheese shop in the next block and of course the patisserie as well. I loved the nearby street market on Blvd. Raspail and watching people shop for their daily needs from vendors they knew well. It's a very different experience than loading up at a Safeway and befriending the check-out girl.)

If I don't want to walk, I can take the N-Judah down several more blocks to the small Chinese markets on Irving, where instantly I am on a gourmet and cultural trip to Asia, as well privy to some of the cheapest produce in town.

I thought about this a lot on one of my recent visits to see my family, as I revisited my old stomping grounds and supermarkets I used to shop in. In the middle of the day, the suburban grocery stores were so vast and empty of shoppers, the air conditioning blasting through the sliding front doors as we entered, the shopping carts tremendous, and the aisles mostly filled with lots of processed foods I never knew existed. Our little markets don't have room for the plethora of prepackaged crap out there, so they need to be discerning too.

I'm not saying that my neighborhood corner markets have the answers to everything, but I do wonder how much the national problem with obesity and unconscious overconsumption and overspending has to do with these mega-markets, filled to capacity with so much food it makes your head spin, people blindly filling up those upsized shopping carts to the brim and then loading up the car, slamming the trunk down on all of it. Out of sight, out of mind. It's so easy to do... I should know.

***

ps.: I normally find it easy to use images from my own private stock photography studio, but I didn't have a personal photo of a woolly mammoth for this post. I snagged the image from this article in The Telegraph.

Funny thing, I couldn't find a good image from the mind-blowing (and not in a good way) Creation Museum's website, a very scary place in Kentucky, but at least some paleontologists found their trip there amusing.

(See, I had to circle back to the mammoth somehow.)

clocks are ticking

We become aware of the void as we fill it.
~ Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943

***

tick tock tick tock
45 days away

good news:
In 45 days or less, K and the kids will be in a new apartment.
That is going to happen.
In the meantime, I've been concerned that we might run out of money before then, but now it looks like something even better might happen, and soon, to help...
K might be getting a little part-time job!
This will be an extraordinary help until the right place to live comes her way, and then maybe we won't need to worry so much about running out of money.
She will find out about the job next week.
The news made us hug each other with excitement.

tick tock tick tock
6 months away

bad news:
Little Helen's doctors have spoken.
She will go home to hospice care.
They will make her as comfortable as possible.
Her birthday is next week.

***

All of this time
of what will happen in this many days,
this many months
is making me a little crazy

***

I went grocery shopping.
I loaded up my tote bags with fresh herbs, not having any idea what I will do with them.

I just wanted to smell them.

I bought huge baskets of the most gorgeous ripe strawberries you've ever seen.
I bought a Chinese tea-smoked duck just so I could have the pleasure of watching the old man chop it up with his cleaver, his hands covered in shiny grease.

The smell was intoxicating.

Then I bought some roast pork just so I could see him chop it up, too.

I know this sounds silly.

I inhaled the crisp smell of the fresh mint getting crushed against my arm all the way home.
I still don't know what else I'm going to do with it.
Maybe I'll make some Moroccan mint tea.
But smelling it made me feel better.

***

The rose is for Little Helen.
I took this a few weeks ago, when I was sad and made myself go outside and take pictures, just because I had to go outside.

I didn't realize at the time I had taken this photo for her.

The rose is not perfect
but it is beautiful
because
it
is

I Think My Food Combiner Is Broken

Warning: This is one of those silly posts. I am going to blame it on my head cold.

***

I think my food combining instincts are going completely wonky. I think because I had been left alone as a Bachelorette for two solid months that I became a weird culinary hybrid of frat boy, ascetic/hermit and kosher foodie with a vitamin B deficiency.

I am not going to say how many nights I had popcorn for dinner while The Boy was away. I am not going to say because 1) it's embarrassing to think about how many times I ate popcorn for dinner and sometimes breakfast, and 2) I don't remember. It was that many. And those nights where the side dish was Cherry Garcia ice cream. Nope, don't remember those either.

***

I am going to blame my little friend Chipmonkey for this popcorn fetish. She came over with her nutritional yeast (which I had never even heard of before October 11 as I am not in any way a vegan or a health food person, you know that) and her popcorn and started my whole craving/obsession at my Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America thingy. And now I have an enormo can (12 oz.!) of nutritional yeast in my kitchen. And the only thing it tastes good on is popcorn. I have been eating loads of both ever since.

Today, I had stale popcorn and a side of pickled herring in sour cream for breakfast. The Boy always looks at me like I am Cat Woman when I eat these fishy things (and will not be kissed and runs away from me) and in the midst of eating this "breakfast," I really do have to stop and wonder what is wrong with me. This meal can't be as bad as Mia Farrow eating the raw liver in Rosemary's Baby, but it's still not quite right.

Why do I never want to eat normal foods for breakfast? Why is the only decent sounding meal to me this morning something that could be in a Monty Python skit? Yes, I eat the herring with these guys reciting in my head ("... and then you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with...... A HERRING!"). Do you do this? Eat foods that immediately make you recite Monty Python scenes? ("And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying,’O Lord, bless this thy hand grenade that with it thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy.’ And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and...")

I'm wondering what made me combine these two foods, like if there was a reasonable physiological cause then that would explain it. They're both white foods? Salty foods? Have no real nutritional value foods? Or I've learned my food combining from years of Monty Python watching?

My tangobaby food pyramid is very bizarre. It consists primarily of har gow, Funyuns, Junior Mints, Ovaltine and popcorn. And sushi and bratwust. Now I am even grossing myself out.

***

I recently discovered, through a cute little Minnesotan transplant at my work, about such things called hotdish. I partially thought that hot dishes only existed in Lake Wobegon, but no--hotdish even has its own wikipedia entry. But now I find that there is even such a casserole creation that is topped with Tater Tots. And another one made with herring!

Perhaps I am really a Midwesterner at heart? Can someone please help me with my food identity?

***

The only other thing I am going to leave you with now is a clip from Stephen Colbert's A Colbert Christmas because it is a very funny song about nutmeg.

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: John Legend

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

If you don't come back to this blog for a while, I understand. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. But if you do eat weird things that make other people look at you askance, I really hope you'll fess up so we can start some sort of self-help group together.

Flamenco Night and My New Boyfriends

I have two new boyfriends. Technically, I guess you would call them crushes because they probably don't know that they are my boyfriends. Well, the first one might. Let's take this one at a time...

To the left, you will find the adorable Mattin of Iluna Basque restaurant in North Beach. (If you think he is cute here, you should see him in person. In fact, I think you should see him in person, and order a lot of his food because it is good.)

My Flamenco friend E. and I decided to go here for dinner last night before we went to see the Flamenco performance at Peña Pachamama.

We were greeted and seated by Mattin, who told us that usually he works in the kitchen but tonight was his first night waiting tables. My friend and I automatically congratulated him on his "promotion" and it wasn't until a few minutes into the conversation that Mattin let slide that he owns the restaurant. And has worked very hard day and night since he came here five years ago from the Basque country. He pointed shyly but proudly behind him to the flag over the kitchen: "That's my flag."

Not only is Mattin extremely boyish and charming, but he has the most adorable accent ever (my friend and I were instantly smitten with him). We asked him to order for us, and we shared a lovely spread of a variety of tapas: Baby Shrimp and Potato Croquettes with Aioli (crunchy crispy outside and heavenly creamy inside); Seared Tuna with Bleu de Basque Sauce (the sauce is to DIE for); Egg Mimosa with Anchovies Toast (a light egg salad topped by pickled anchovy fillets--YUM!); Mache Salad with Feta and Walnuts and Stuffed Calamaries with Ink Sauce over Spanish Rice. This last dish--OMG--the rice was out of this world.

Mattin chose a nice bottle of Rioja for us to go with our meal, and he came over often enough so that we were able to grill him on his family, how he came to open a restaurant in San Francisco and why he loves what he does. He showed us pictures of himself when he was 10 years old--he's been in the restaurant business for that long! Anyway, we were looking for excuses to have him chat with us. We were unabashedly enchanted by him. I have a feeling we are not the only ones.

And then it was time for dessert. Mattin told us that he started working at 10am that morning on his special rice pudding and it was "still warm" so of course we had to order that. But we also got the yummy warm chocolate cake that I can't remember the name of. Both desserts disappeared in minutes.

We probably would have stayed all night and kept ordering food if we didn't have prior plans to meet some friends across the street, which leads me to Boyfriend #2.

Boyfriend #2 is Jorge, the guitarist from my Flamenco class. In class, Jorge is sitting quietly in the corner, playing for us while we limp and struggle through our beginner's exercises and routines.

But tonight, here he was, dressed and polished in black with a grey blazer, and he was the muscial star of the show. The talent that I knew he must have from the snippets I've seen in class were blazing mightily on the little stage at Peña Pachamama.

His passionate gypsy guitar rocked the house.

Accompanied by singer Azriel El Moreno, the dancers Carola Zertuche and Roberto Aguilar made the floors shake with their rhythmic percussive steps. Flamenco is so in-your-face, and I love it. The dancers were sweaty and strutting. Some of Carola's hair clips went flying as she twirled but it seemed like a natural part of the excitement her dance. Even her hair could not be contained.

At the end of the performance, Jorge came over to talk to me and my friends. I think he was glad to see us outside of the classroom setting, so we could see what his passion was all about.

He was holding his guitar like it was a beloved child and his face glowed when he talked about his music and how much he loves to play his guitar, for hours and hours at time if he can. He talked about his touring and who he's played with, and all the while sounded like a guy who was head over heels in love with a beautiful girl. But the girl happened to be the guitar he was holding so close.

I could not help but want to catch that moment of his happiness, which he kindly obliged.

Being around talented people who love what they do is such a wonderful gift.

The Other Spice Girl

“I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates? - none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun.” ~ The Winter's Tale

***

(This post is inspired by my dreamer friend Relyn and my gourmet gal pal Christie at Fig & Cherry, thank you!)

I am a Spice Girl. Not a Posh or Baby or Sporty or even a Tango Spice Girl (she is the secret Spice Girl you may not know about).

I am a Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme Girl. Actually more like a Saffron, Herbes de Provence, Garam Masala, Cardamom and Coriander Girl. You purists are going to say that some of these are herbs, not spices, and yes, you are right. But bear with me.

Before I moved to San Francisco, I used to cook a lot. One of the benefits of living in this town is that the opportunities for adventuring in the world of food is pretty endless and is as irresistable as catnip for any foodie.

So, why cook when you can explore? To me, eating is another form of travel, especially when you can try foods from all over the world in just one place.

Although my neighborhood trends more towards Asian cuisines--fresh Hong Kong-style dim sum, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Indonesian and Vietnamese--I can also easily get a variety of other cuisines, including Mexican, Italian, Indian, Fusion, Mediterranean, Ethiopian (which I have not tried yet but mean to) as well as good ol' American fare like hamburgers and onion rings. That is not counting the bakeries, cheese shop, gelateria and numerous coffee houses.

All of this bounty lies one, two, three blocks from my front door. The possibilities are even more exponential if I hop on the N-Judah to the next neighborhoods of Cole Valley or the Haight or the Castro, or grab a cab to destinations farther across town.

One of the things I do miss though is the exploration and acquisition of unique food stuffs. When I lived in Silicon Valley, my favorite haunts were the Indian and Middle Eastern groceries. I loved filling my basket with herbs and spices I'd never heard of but wanting to have them in my larder, just in case.

I am, or was, a spice collector. I don't know why. A lot of the things I never even used. But it was such great fun finding them and wondering what they were. The Indian groceries especially were a delight.

In between the piles of colorful boxes of incense and black hair dye, you could find aesofotida, which I purchased but never used, or glass jars of pickled limes or dented cans of coconut cream from lands far, far away. You could peruse the countless types of dal while listening to Bollywood hits and watching women in colorful saris pick out their vegetables. Just being in those small, independent markets was like an instant passport to somewhere else, all for the price of a bag of interesting groceries.

I've done my share of exploring the Asian markets at the end of Irving Street, where the live fish swim in tanks before they meet their makers and where tough old Chinese ladies push each other (and you) to get at the produce, and I've wandered the less exotic Russian market where the stony-faced man guards the deli case full of bland-looking meats and sausages, but these shops don't have the fantasy-producing ingredients of the spice markets I've left behind.

***

The photos in this post are some of my favorites. Taken in Venice, which to me evokes dreams of the Spice Trade and ships laden with nutmegs and cinnamon and black pepper, is this shop in Cannaregio, very close to the Rialto Bridge.

When I saw this shop window, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the Spice Shop of My Dreams. The displays were so perfect and lovingly prepared with every imaginable kind of spice and seasoning.

In thinking about this post, I've been doing my homework about the Spice Trade and its history. Unfortunately, it's a history fraught with the destruction of habitats, cultures and empires.

But the more I read and learn about history, it seems that most human endeavors are filled with such things. I tend to go for the fantasy and leave the hard truth behind at times.

Perhaps knowing more about the history and spirit of where these spices came from gives me more to digest that just the taste they bring to the food I eat. And hopefully because of it, I might appreciate my food all the more.

For more interesting information about spices and the Spice Trade, check here, here and here.

Ballerina Daydreams

The other day when I got to the dance center for my flamenco class, the hall was full of willowy people. They were waiting for a ballet master class next door.

Ballet dancers stretching. I love looking at them. I don't blame Degas for painting them over and over again.

They sprawl and stretch like cats.

When I see ballet dancers, I wish I was long-legged and tall and elegant like they are. But a willowy, delicate body is not in my genetic makeup, alas.

I tried very hard to take some photos without the dancers knowing, and I am too shy to ask for their permission. Or maybe I don't want to ask.

It is very difficult to be sneaky sometimes. Maybe I should just try being bold instead.

***

Last week, I was the recipient of quite a fantastic windfall: two tickets with primo seating (fourth row center, orchestra!) for An International Salute to San Francisco Ballet.

With the always effevescent and lovely Ms. Wellspring as my ballet buddy, we first enjoyed a lovely meal at Sauce, a restaurant we'd both been wanting to try. It's in Hayes Valley, and we had a cozy table at the bar (book ahead if you want reservations).

Soon, our little table was filled with lobster and crab sliders, baby arugula salad with blood orange and Point Reyes bleu cheese, sesame shrimp, spinach and artichoke brulee, and their signature dessert, which is not to be missed.

Called simply PB&J, this dessert is not like any peanut butter and jelly sandwich you've ever had: pan-seared sponge cake layered with homemade strawberry preserve and Frangelico peanut butter with a vanilla ice cream center...yummmmm...

I apologize that I do not have any decent photos of the food. First of all, the lighting was too dark, and second of all, we were too busy eating.

And then with full bellies, it was time to head for the ballet!

***

The San Francisco Ballet performs in at the exquisite War Memorial Opera House, directly across from City Hall. The building is designed in the magnificent French Renaissance style by Arthur Brown Jr., who also was the architect of Coit Tower and City Hall. It opened its doors to audiences for the first time on October 15, 1932, and served a very important historical function as the birthplace of the United Nations. In fact, when President Truman signed the United Nations charter on June 26, 1945, it was on San Francisco's very own Opera House stage.

I learned that the San Francisco Ballet is the oldest professional ballet company in America and was founded as the San Francisco Opera Ballet in 1933. Initially, the ballet's primary purpose was to train dancers to appear in full-length, lavish opera productions.

The interior of the War Memorial Opera House is gilded confection. I tried not to look too touristy as I snapped some quick photos.

And then it was time to get settled in and wait for the curtain to go up.

From the program notes: ... San Francisco Ballet regularly tours the world, delighting audiences with its passion and excellence. This season, three international companies—New York City Ballet, Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo, and The National Ballet of Canada—take the Opera House stage to pay tribute to SF Ballet and its imprint on the world of dance.

Once the performances began, I was completely hypnotized by the dancers and the dance as it interpreted the music. I actually won't go into too much description because it's really not possible to describe how beautiful these performances were. I wish I could have taken you with me.

Instead, I've found some photos and an a small video clip. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words so hopefully in this instance I can share a little bit of the beauty I saw with you.

The first act, A Delicate Balance, was a thought-provoking juxtaposition between modern clad dancers and men and women dressed in suits and 18th-century ballgowns.

This piece was danced on a stage full of glistening, glowing snowflakes.

The second act, Duo Concertante, featured two dancers from the New York City Ballet, who performed magnificent pas de deux with a pianist and violinist onstage. Of the three performances, this was the most classical in technique.

The final act, Altro Canto, performed by Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo, is impossibly beautiful and impossibly difficult to describe. All I can say is that it was like watching a dream but you happened to be awake.

The stage was hung with many candles that magically floated from the ceiling. Suspended against the black, the candles moved in and out of the dance, creating a very spiritual, almost cathedral-type setting. The music was a haunting choral singing that made the stage feel like a sacred place.

I cannot believe it, but there is a tiny bit of video of this performance. The music is not at all what we heard (in fact, this selection does not do the performance justice at all) but watch it to get a taste of what we saw--especially for the last few seconds with the tall ballerina.

.

She was pure and utter magic and breathtakingly etheral.

Forget the Brownie

Remember that brownie I told you about?

Old news. I've moved on.

It's all about Kara's Cupcakes, baby. In the Marina, on Scott. Bake sale cupcakes were never this good, ever.

From left to right: Sweet Vanilla (yummiest), Chocolate Velvet (popular flavor but not the yummiest IMHO) and Sweet Chocolate (second yummiest).

I know I haven't been to Miette at the Ferry Building, which is shocking since I go to the Ferry Building all the time. So expect a cupcake report from there in the future.

I do this for you, people. In case you ever come to San Francisco, it's really important that I keep up with all of the food options for you.

Thanks to The Boy for treating and making sure I didn't have to eat all three of these by myself. On a sunny day, you can sit outside Kara's with your cupcake(s) and your little pint of milk and feel like a 5-year old who can drive a car. It's fun!

PS. For some reason, a lot of the food porn I look at secretly is really focused on cupcakes. Like this one. And this one. I'm such a victim of the media. heh heh heh.

The Brownie I Had for Breakfast

Cold pizza for breakfast is so passé.

I am eating something for breakfast that is not for the faint of heart.

It is a decadent remnant of the ice cream lollapallooza that Ms. Wellspring and I endulged in the other night on my sofa.

It is called The Adult Brownie. It is about four times as large as a regular brownie. I had half of it warmed up in the microwave, which I then topped with two kinds on Ben 'n' Jerry's. My initial thought for the brownie is that it would be a substrate for the real attraction: the ice cream. But my head almost fell off when I took the first bite. This might be the brownie of my dreams. It was so intense that I couldn't finish even that half.

So I am trying the brownie again this morning. The label on the brownie wrapper says: The Adult Brownie. For mature tastebuds only.

The disclaimer reads: This sinfully delicious dense chocolate brownie is made from scratch in our bakery using a secret recipe that will have you begging for more.

For once, truth in advertising.

A Little North Beach Love

Not much to say.

Just meandered around North Beach tonight, all bundled up, eating cannolis and drinking caffè macchiatos.

Looking towards the financial district with the tall buildings all lit up, the moon above half-covered by wisps of clouds.

I could live in North Beach real easy.


Thanks to The Boy for his stylish pic of his favorite pizza spot.

Those Who Are About to Eat, Salute You

This post is part PSA and part curiosity-seeking on my part.

Being in Buenos Aires on a typical tango two-week jaunt, I felt like I was always running from a dance class (once I could peel myself out of bed and dress myself) to a shoe store to a milonga. Food was secondary, even though I didn't mean it to be and anyone who knows me knows that food is never secondary to me. But tango definitely came first.

So in amongst all of that running around, my meals consisted of a lot of empanadas. Pretty much all kinds of empanadas. And a little pizza. I remember having some okay risotto, an okay steak, and a lot of cortados.

I came home with a lot of wonderful memories, a suitcase full of shoes, but no clue about the food of Argentina. I know I missed out as far as the eating is concerned and I didn't plan my restaurant-ing the way I normally would. Reading The Tango Addiction's recent adventures made me see that I didn't know where to go to get a really good meal.

I found this food article by Gael Greene, New York Magazine's "Insatiable Critic." It's her Hot List for Buenos Aires, and I'm really curious to know if any of you agree with her reviews because I'm much more inclined to try something written by a food critic than something I found in a random travel book. I read a lot of food writing and so that's where my tendencies lie.

And, for those of you who are planning a trip to Buenos Aires soon or might already be there, perhaps some of these restaurants would be of interest to you. I sure wish I had tried a few of them. Tina--there's a place called Persicco Ice Cream that has nine kinds of dulce de leches! Did you go there yet?!!! (J. Salguero 2591 T: 4808-0888)

Bon Appétit!

The Universe Is Expanding

I woke up this morning with a sore throat, which was very distressing to me, considering the fact that I spent most of December with the plague.

Previously I'd tried the Chinese food/Marx Brothers cure and the Preston Sturges/Coen Brothers/hot soup cure. I'm going to try to take this scratchy throat in stride and not worry too much about it, and since I don't have a valid driver's license right now, I wouldn't be going to a milonga tonight anyway. So now I've decided to try the bacon/Annie Hall cure.

For some reason, having a plate of bacon and watching Woody Allen at his finest seems like something that might work this time.

Plus, it's kind of a Valentine's Day movie in parts:

After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I... I realized what a terrific person she was, and... and how much fun it was just knowing her; and I... I, I thought of that old joke, y'know, the, this... this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y'know, they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and... but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us... need the eggs.

If you want more, click here. And here. And here.

The Food Baby

The Boy has a friend named Dan who publishes a funny cartoon called Bizarro.

Last week he was telling me about one cartoon in particular that made him crack up. I don't have it here so you'll have to imagine it from the description.

Two women are sitting and talking. One woman has a pregnant belly. The other woman says to her friend: "Congratulations! When is the baby due?"

And the other woman says, patting her tummy, "Oh, I'm not pregnant. I just had lunch. This is my food baby."

***

Let's just say we had some nice Food Babies at our house yesterday on Thanksgiving. I'm hoping to give mine up for adoption today.

For those of you who don't spend enough time on the internet already, here is another fun place to hang out (if you like to cook): The epicurious video website!

PS. I'm never organized enough to brine my turkey ahead of time, but this is the first year I injected it with butter, broth and spices...and let's just say this turkey was my best so far. Plus, you get to use this gigantic stainless steel syringe and you look like a crazy veterinarian. It's fun!

Terra Firma

We just had a little earthquake a while ago.

I was sitting at my favorite sushi bar, happily popping tiny, salty bubbles of tobiko between my teeth. I was reading my new favorite book, Venice, by Jan Morris, when the earth rolled in slow waves for quite a few seconds.

I happened to be reading the chapter about the geological conditions and other factors that are causing Venice to slowly sink into the waters of the Adriatic, when the ground beneath us started to shudder. Everyone in the restaurant quieted for a moment, but no one stopped eating their sushi (it's that good at Ebisu).

The lanterns above the sushi bar swayed softly for at least a minute before settling back into equilibrium. Their gentle rocking motion reminded me of the floating gondolas of Venice.

PS. Wow, just looked up the little temblor on the USGS website. Apparently it was a 5.6 based near San Jose. Must have felt a wee bit stronger in the sushi bars down there.

To Eat in Venice

I had read in several sources that the food in Venice is not as good as food throughout the rest of Italy.

Now, I've nothing to base that comparison on, as I've never been anywhere else in Italy, but I do have to say that I had one extremely fine meal that will rate in my memory banks right up there with L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Paris and the French Laundry in Yountville. And it happened by accident, too!

But I'll save that part for last. Most of my meals in Venice were grabbed on the go, as it seemed I was always en route to somewhere else, and stopping too long for food would interfere with my desire to see as much as I could.

But even the small snacks were delightful, if simple. The local coffee shops, a favorite being in Campo Santa Margherita and simply called Caffe, served a variety of delicious sandwiches with savory fillings. The slices of bread, as soft and white as Wonderbread, but with actual taste and texture, were filled with tuna, pork or shrimp and a variety of accompaniments, including Gorgonzola cheese, marinated red peppers, olives, or grated carrots. These simple sandwiches were as delicious as they were economical.

Pictured above is a cicchetti bar. Cicchetti are a variety of appetizer-like dishes, either served as salads or atop slices of toast. Seafood is a common element, including salmon and anchovies. We shared a number of cicchetti in a small bar near the Guggenheim Museum on our first day in Venice, while resting our feet a bit during that first stroll to get acclimated with our surroundings. Other favorite meals grabbed throughout the days were sweet cantaloupe voluptuously draped in thin layers of proscuitto (sweet and salty together is a wonderful thing indeed!), fresh warm bruschette with a topping of soft, sweet cherry tomatoes sauteed in garlic, olive oil and basil, and a tagliatelle with olive oil and mushrooms. All of this food reminded me that freshness and simplicity make the best dishes!

Gelato is ubiquitous in Venice, and all that I sampled was wonderful. We were lucky enough to be staying near Nico, which has a reputation of serving the best gelato in Venice. I had the Gianduitto (hazelnut) and took my cone to go while strolling along the Zattere, watching all kinds of boats roam up and down the waters between me and the Giudecca.

Okay, now for the pièce de résistance. I had been wandering the narrow alleys of Santa Croce and San Polo after having spent the morning in two incredible museums: Ca' Pesaro and the Palazzo Mocenigo (more on those later). I hadn't eaten anything for breakfast that morning (just hungry for beautiful sights and not food, I guess), and was making my way back towards the Rialto Bridge. On a particularly tiny alleyway was a small restaurant window that made me backtrack as I almost passed it by. Nothing in the window would indicate that this was a spectacular restaurant in any way, but after reading the menu in the window, I knew this was the place for me to reward myself after the morning's activities.

It was late, getting on towards 2pm, when I entered the almost empty restaurant, called Vecio Fritolin. The waiter, obviously a professional like the kind you would encounter in Paris, warmly welcomed me to a small table by the window. That's where the fun began.

My eyes glazed over at the menu choices, and my stomach responded with eager anticipation. While I read the menu, a basket of the most delicious, warm bread (three kinds that they make at the restaurant) arrived at my table, along with the spritz, an apertif of sparkling water and Campari served with a slice of lemon, that I ordered. I only remember one of the breads, although all were delicious. But this one was so fragrant with olive oil and studded with sunflower seeds that it left the other breads behind.

My waiter (pictured above) was the epitome of gracious service. I finally decided on an appetizer of soft-shelled crabs with Venetian polenta and a main course of pumpkin gnocchi with smoked duck. Believe me, this was a very tough decision. While I devoured the bread and savored my spritz, a woman came in to make her dinner reservations. Apparently, my little lunch hideaway was recently reviewed in the New York Times. Bingo!

Which is how I got my perfect pictures of the restaurant! Thanks, New York Times website! That is my nice waiter, above! (For all I know, he could be the owner. I was so engrossed in the place that I didn't make much small talk. Plus my mouth was full of that bread and I was trying to be demure.)

Let's just say that the chef created the culinary equivalent of tango bliss in my mouth. I swooned. What the hell is Venetian polenta and why do you want to dip your entire body in it? (Now I know that all polentas are not created equal and I will have to wander the world looking for this silky warm pudding again.) The crabs were incredibly soft and full of the salty flavor of the sea. The pumpkin/duck gnocchi: ridiculously good.

I did not lick the plates, even though I wanted to--badly. I did tell the waiter to please tell the chef that I wanted to marry him. I was totally serious. Which got a chuckle out of the waiter but did not produce the chef to my table, sadly.

It's probably a good thing I did not order dessert or else I'd still be there.

Strange and Unnatural Foods

As I write this, Nuit has a funny little thread going on about foods she eats that are not really part of the USDA's food pyramid. (Remember studying the food pyramid in Home Ec class and realizing that you were nowhere close to eating the recommended five servings of fruits and vegetables per day?)

And then some of the usual suspects chimed in. (In all fairness, the post originally did have a slight connection with tango.)

Anyway, I just thought I'd mention it because the post is funny and I'm obviously not working on the things I'm supposed to be working on right now. I've pretty much been thinking about Funyuns (to eat) and hedgehogs (not to eat).

Speaking of strange and unnatural foods (and if you are a vegan, please don't take this personally), but yesterday at work we had/endured a Vegan Chocolate Cake for someone's birthday. There was only me and another guy who did not fall for this trick. We both surreptitiously pawned off our slices on other people after the first taste.

It looked like a chocolate cake, it smelled like a chocolate cake, but it tasted like...okay, I'll be nice here and not say what I was going to say...faux cake. That weird tofu or other secret ingredient they put in the cake reminded me of the scene in Rosemary's Baby when Mia Farrow eats the chocolate mousse ("chocolate mouse") with the drugs in it before her date with Satan.

When it's my birthday (just so you know), I want a real chocolate cake made with real butter, real eggs, real sugar and NO tofu.

A perfect* day in San Francisco

A slightly foggy, cool Saturday morning.

1. Wake up (always a good thing).
2. Throw on some clothes and go with a friend to Ella's for breakfast.
3. Get parking (!)
4. Share one of the famous sticky buns, chicken sausage benedicts and ricotta pancakes with strawberry sauce. Unbutton top button on pants.
5. As you're leaving, find out in the SF Chron that it's the 85th anniversary of the historic Castro Theatre and all movies are only 25 cents that day.
6. Speed down Divisadero and make it just in time for the 11am show.
7. Get parking (!)
8. Win a baseball cap in the pre-movie trivia contest because you answered the trivia question about Oliver Hardy's nickname (Babe).
9. Watch Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny, Tweety and Sylvester, and a Tex Avery cartoon.
10. See Way Out West, one of Laurel and Hardy's best films, on the big beautiful screen at the Castro Theatre.
11. Listen to all of the children giggle as you crack up laughing with them. Little kids love Laurel and Hardy.



*After the movie, find out that you got a parking ticket for $35 because the wheels on your car weren't turned into the curb enough as they're supposed to be when you're parked on a 3-percent grade, according to the ticket. (I left my protractor at home.)

So the movie actually cost me $35.50, but it was still a great day in my book.