Eating

At this very moment, my location is the polar opposite of the one in this photo where I'm sipping tea on a break from snowshoeing. Right now, I am having a delicious mocha that was meticulously crafted for me by one of the hot, pork-pie-hat-and-mustachio-sporting coffee-barkeeps at the Stumptown in the Ace Hotel on 29th and Broadway. The Ace is among the new hotels favored by the tragically hip (along with the downtown Standard and the Jane). It also houses The Breslin, a gastropub of sorts from the Spotted Pig crew (onion soup with bone marrow, various stews and concoctions from both ends of the pig). Upstairs on the 6th floor, our spacious room looks across 29th Street almost into the window of a loft I lived in during the summer of 1986. It has a turntable we actually know how to use (and some pretty lame records), and a great leather couch strewn with a black sheepskin. Pretty homey. The lobby is riddled with thirtysomethings in knitted caps hunched over their Kindles and Macs, and bellying up to the bar to order the requisite bourbon cocktails. I bought a bottle of Bookers for the room because, frankly, well, never mind... I'm leaning up against the gleaming brass counter in Stumptown, swaddled in my Rick Owens wrap sweater, sipping my mocha, hunched over my own Mac. Hey, maybe I do belong.
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I'm winding down from my juice fast. Three days seems like enough this time. My emotions were very front and center today. This can happen when you fast. You become a little vulnerable. Seriously, I'm not being a drama queen. (I'm no Saint Teresa of Ávila, performing devotions of ecstasy, but allow me my little musings, won't you?) I've been working hard on some advertising projects for Target and I may need a few more carbohydrates for brain power. But I have definitely noticed how easy it is to get by on a lot less food. A LOT less. I'm going to try and remember that the next time I'm packing in three squares. OK, yes, I am talking about calorie restriction. (Gasp!) Apparently, it helps you live longer. Not entirely sure that's what I'm striving for; I'll settle for fitting into some of my skinnier jeans. I've just made a pot of very simple vegetable soup: onion, cabbage, celery, carrot, spinach and parsley. Big hunks of everything simmered together in water with a little salt, until it all gets soft. This is the perfect way to break a fast and it's actually quite delicious, clean-tasting and a little sweet. (Also good for when you're sick as it delivers a lot of vital green nutrition and doesn't tax your system.) It's best to come off a fast gently, although I've also been known to cram a fried chicken drumstick doused with Tabasco sauce in my mouth. This time, I'll hopefully segue to a hot pot for tomorrow evening, using my new donabe and a bunch of ingredients G picked up at Mitsuwa, the mecca for Japanese cooking (and eating) in Edgewater, New Jersey.

 

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As we become better acquainted, I hope to impart to you my love for Indian and Southeast-Asian cooking. I guess the first thing I would tell you is that you need to have a good source for ingredients. Many ethnic markets also carry requisite cooking tools, such as this sticky rice steamer you can pick up at almost any Thai market. Often, they'll even have a selection of mortars and pestles (mortar and pestles?), a tool which comes in handy prepping this type of food. In New York City, I recommend a visit to the Bangkok Center Grocery in Chinatown, on Mosco Street between Mott and Mulberry. First of all they are the nicest people in the whole world and will always greet you with "Sawat dee." And then they have a wicked green papaya salad that you will take home and be unable to stop eating even when your lips are burning off. They also carry hard-to-find fresh produce, like wild lime leaves (also known as kaffir).

Stock up on some cans of curry paste (the Masaman is flawless, served with a cucumber relish—recipe soon, I promise) and of coconut milk, and grab a bottle of fish sauce and you are in business for an easy, quick and delicious meal. You can simply follow the instructions on the can! I have gone to the effort of making my own curry pastes and, though they are quite good, I can't really say they're any better than the Maesri brand. But this post is really to tell you that making your own sticky rice at home is no big deal. All you need is the right steamer and the right rice.
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G was up and out at 4 this morning, on his way to the airport. He'll be away working for a few days and I am on my own, with just the company of Titi and no one to cook for. It's perfect timing. My horoscope for this month says I am in a highly contemplative and creative phase, one that's ideal for instilling new, positive habits and for taking care of myself. What better time, then, to go on a juice fast? Some people are very freaked out by the idea of fasting, so let me say very clearly here that I am not a doctor, nor a trained fasting therapist. But what I do know is that fasting has been used for thousands of years as a means of cleaning out the body and refreshing the mind. Our bodies—like the sun and moon, the tides, the stars—go through cycles, with highs and lows. During a low phase we may feel sluggish, bloated, weighed down (some people experience this as depression). This is an ideal time to lighten your body's load by fasting. Fasting is not starvation! It's a way to let your organs rest a bit, to get rid of the toxins that build up from chemicals, pollutants and over-indulgence. Along with a good diet, regular exercise and supplements, fasting will help you fight off illness and disease, maintain a high level of energy and improve your mood. I try to fast at the beginning of each season, so about 4 times a year.
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My favorite way to ring in the new year is in the company of dear friends, preferably staying in and sharing a delicious dinner. G and I ushered out 2009 in Stone Ridge at the spacious yet cozy home of our dear friend Stephanie. There were 6 of us knocking back Piggybacks (made with bacon-infused bourbon), cooking together and splitting our sides laughing as we played that guessing game from Inglorious Basterds. (Matthew made me Frank Bruni, which is definitely an inside joke.) At midnight, we grabbed pots and pans and headed out into the snowy night to make a ruckus.
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Isn't there something faintly S&M about this illustration? I just love it. Kudos to Jan Richter for her great eye and accomplished technique. (And I happen to know she makes a mean coq au vin.) This is just the sort of plump organic bird you want to find when you're setting out to make any number of cold-weather dishes. G makes the classic Jewish penicillin when I get sick (about once a year, knock wood) but I often look further east for something therapeutic. This recipe tips its hat to a classic Hispanic arroz con pollo but shifts gears with anti-inflammatory turmeric; lots of warming, healing ginger; and a hit of fish sauce. I think it's similar to the Filipino arroz caldo. You keep cooking the rice so it's somewhere between risotto and congee, that perfect comforting texture. And the bright yellow color is like a ray of sunshine.
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As in, cold enough to freeze the balls off 'em. Love that British expression. Somehow a bit classier than the old witch's teat reference, still hanging on from the days of the Salem trials. My point being: it was damn cold today. We were out snow-shoeing in 13 degrees. I have a deep dread of slipping on the ice, but those metal teeth really do grip into even the slickest surfaces. Realized that the large and interesting tracks we had seen the other day and were sure were from a bear turned out to be our own. How embarrassing. Now I'm finally convinced that the bears are hibernating and so I can stop imagining Werner Herzog-worthy scenarios where one chases me into a snowdrift and mauls G who has run to my defense. Tromping on crusted snow, I could almost see the North Wind puffing out his cheeks and blowing an icy blast our way. It sent the delicate top layer of powder gusting through the air, like a frigid version of the apocalyptic ash that's always drifting down in Cormack McCarthy's brilliant The Road. (Read the book; skip the movie. Sorry, Viggo.)
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Gnocchi means "lumps" in Italian. Not an especially glamorous name, and one that doesn't seem to fit something so ethereal in texture. This traditional Italian dish has been around for a couple of thousand years at least, spread through Europe by the Roman Legions and made according to whatever was at hand: potatoes, wheat flour, semolina, bread crumbs, ricotta. The French even make a version with choux pastry, but that's neither here nor there. I make mine with a delicious sheep's-milk ricotta and serve them with brown butter and a light sprinkling of smoked sea salt and tangy tomato powder. I suspect they may suffer slightly from the addition of gluten-free flour. They were perhaps not as light and springy as they will be for you, using unbleached all-purpose flour. Next time, I may try gnudi instead, as they call for even less flour (but also require that you drain the cheese and refrigerate the dough at several points), or perhaps just pair the gnocchi with a heartier sauce (roasted tomato? porcini?) that can stand up to the slightly denser texture.
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What better day than Boxing Day to tell you about these silicone mini mitts over which I have been obsessing? These nubby little grippers are truly a perfect design. So far I've only seen them here, made by a company called Dexas. I love that they're available in 5 colors. They're sold singly, but I recommend you get a pair. Mine have put my leather potholders from the Demon (aka Dean & Deluca) totally out of commission. Just be sure you wear the mitts properly, with your thumb in the shorter part, otherwise things can get a little awkward.I can't think of how to work this in gracefully, but I have to mention the death of Vic Chesnutt. In the words of his friend and supporter, Michael Stipe, "We've lost a great one." An overdose of muscle relaxants put Vic into a coma earlier this week, and he died yesterday at the age of 45. An incredibly talented musician and poet, he had pondered suicide even before a car accident (he was driving drunk) left him paralyzed at 18 (though, amazingly, he still managed to play guitar). Vic was recently interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air; listen to the man and his music here. Or go online and find his song, Flirted With You All My Life, off his album At The Cut. It's a beautiful expression of his conflicted yearnings for death. Among other things with which he struggled (depression, alcohol, drugs), Vic was apparently also dealing with a lot of debt incurred from his medical expenses. When will that refrain cease to haunt us? Thanks for staying with us as long as you did, Vic Chesnutt. May you rest in peace.
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Seven years ago, I made a Christmas picnic on top of the bed where my then-husband lay dying of cancer. He was home for the holidays, having just been released from the hospital after undergoing major surgery to remove a part of his spinal column that was infested with tumor. He was grateful just to be able to lie in his own bed and wolf down some foie gras on toast. (He was quite possibly the original glutton for life.) My gift from him that year was a watch, and I remember being painfully aware of the irony. On its face, I would measure the last moments of his life. I could not have imagined then what my own life would become. That I would discover a new fulfillment and joy, that I would marry again, seemed impossible at the time. But we must find a way to forge ahead, to believe in possibility and renewal.
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