I hereby pledge to write more and stop whining about being tired. The brain, especially the writer's brain, is something that has to be exercized. You can't expect to run a marathon without a few training laps. Let the training begin....

my new favorite color

Perhaps it was serendipity that led me to the computer to research the wine I was loving at the precise moment "Nothing Compares 2 U" popped up on "party shuffle." Because at the risk of sounding as pre-packaged and canned as everything on mindless tv I've been hypnotized by for the past two hours- Nothing compares to this wine. It is Hendry estates Rose. No indication is given on the bottle as to what the grape is. ( digression alert-) And I am led to quote my French ami Michelle who once said, "why do you americans have to know every grape that goes into a wine? Can't you just enjoy it? I mean- when you smell a perfume do you have to know every scent that blended to make that smell? No. So just relax. really. You people have to relax." Odd. Considering not only the source but the recipient. Yet never more true words were intoned through the nasal accent all Americans feel insufficient facing in wine discussions. Yet here I am- thirsting for more information on this Technicolor wine that has moved me to verse ( using artistic license here). So it is Primitovo (close relative to zinfandel- uh oh) and Cabernet Sauvignon (whew!) that have come together to dance in my not-expensive glass. But what is cut and pasted into every review direct from the winery's web site is that it is "a saignee of primitivo and cab sauv."
Huh?
Whutza Saignee?
So I consult my most prized recent acquisition- Jancis Robinson's World Encyclopedia of Wine and conveniently alphebetized it took only a day or two (exaggerating) to find it (it's a big book) and it is a Bleed process. Saignee means "bled" in French and is is a process of allowing the juice to bleed off just-crushed grapes, allowing for enough time for the skins to give up their color. OK cool so the French have a word for it- but how is it different from other rose? Just that other roses don't declare how they were done- here are the options- 1) Saignee 2) throw a little finished red wine into the finished white wine (hmmm) or 3) charcoal treatments to take color out of a red that is un-sale-able as a red (isn't that what one uses to de-stink bad gas? Just axin)
YUMMY
So-my fabulously superior wine is made from Cab S and primitivo (which i know this vineyard rocks on with as their straight-up primitivo moistens my eye a little) and it is made in a most traditional and true way- and it makes the wine other-worldly pink- sort of bluish- and the flavor is everything a red-wine drinking girl might want when forced to live in Florida in summer. Man, living on the surface of the sun has opened my sun glassed eyes to things I missed for so long- my new favorite color is the color of Hendry Ranch Vineyards Rose. And in about fifteen years it could very well match the gin-blossoms on my nose- god willing.

NO!!! to connective tissue

I am readily admitant to and widely chastised for my surgical treatment of meat-related food products. so when my roommate arrived in casa nostra with plans for mirowave popcorn and animal crackers for lunch the following day- pitty consumed my half- inebriated brain and i felt it would only be right for me to create a diish for her for the next day or so. Noone should feel forced to subsist on Reddenbocker and Barhum & Bailey for cryin out loud.....
So, I found what she thought to be chicken breasts , half-defrosted in the fridge. Actually they were thighs- skinned and de-boned. This is something I have not encountered until this particular day. I do not like chicken, Sorry. It is not much less in fat than beef and it is about a billion times less flavorful and about a milion times more cruel. (this is not to posit that any meat is uncruel- but we were born with molars...so....anyway...an arguement for another day)
So.. there i was- trimming the chix thighs, which might have passed for a chicken donut if fried correctly. It is unsettling to receive something so small as a chicken thigh de-boned. So I trimmed it with scissors- a favorite kitchen utensil.... and accumulated about 40 % for scrap from what was presented to me. I really cannot consider eating the little connective bits that make a chix thigh senza bone for the mass market ( i am pretty sure this chix came frome Wal-Mart) so there i was with a heap of stuff i would rather not eat but my roommate would love over whole - wheat pasta. ICK. at least ther is no connective tissue or visible fat for her. So, it isn't so much the fat- which I know to be flavor-licious.... it is the feel of connection in the meat that I ccannot handle....does that make me a commitment phobe. Or just picky.
Dunno.
Tired
Sleeping
Ciao
Ju

Low Fat Conspiracy

So I went to my local neighborhood Panera (since every neighborhood has one now) wanting a bagel with cream cheese. Anyone who knows me knows I don't diet, and there was no pretense of eating healthy going on here. I know I am ordering a carbohydrate disk with fat smeared on top. I know this. I take comfort in knowing it is not a sausage and egg biscuit from McDonald's, nor is it a serving of hash browns scattered smothered and covered from Waffle House. But still, it is not diet food and I am not trying to fool myself into thinking it is.
The guy at the counter is named Gabriel and it is immediately obvious that English is his second language. This endears me to him immediately because it is hard be from somewhere else. We joked. I chose a blueberry bagel sliced and toasted with raspberry cream cheese. A winning combination. The first bagel flew through the slicer and landed somewhere under the cash register. The second got stuck and needed prodding with the end of a broom handle (sanitized I'm sure). My order was to go so I took my little bag to my sweltering car, cranked on the air and opened my bag.
That's when the horrible truth came to light.
Poor Gabriel had been duped into playing the pawn in this country's erroneous battle of the bulge. He unwittingly slipped me low-fat raspberry cream cheese. The calorie count alone will take this little tub of chemically altered and artificially flavored crap out of contention for diet food status...and really why? That is it. Why? It is cream cheese. If I am going to eat it I want all the fat dammit. I am not on a low fat diet and I never will be. WHY am I forced to eat low-fat stuff prescribed for me by some high-minded executive at a mediocre bagel joint. Where does their board of directors get off thinking they know what is best for me?
I realize that they are not so much concerned for my waistline. It is a capitalist decision to make Panera's wallet fatter at the expense of my taste bud because America is hysterically decrying fat as the culprit for its huge butt and are grateful to lap up engineered low fat goop to make themselves feel better.
Fine.
But I would like an option.
But...what if there was an option and Gabriel took one look at this un-skinny American and made the dicision for me rather than ask since the language would make it difficult. What if he is not a pawn after all.
Regardless, it is a conspiracy.
And I want my fat back.

Least Favorite Ingredient

When I was still reporting a few years ago (god has it been that long?) I was sent to a factory that sits high on a bank of the Mississippi River in Keokuk, Iowa, a crappy little town on the Southeastern tip of the state. I saw this foreboding yet bland blonde-bricked structure a couple hundred times since I moved to the area, but I never really noticed it. Every time you cross the bridge from Illinois into Iowa, there it sits puffing out smoke from its stacks, aloof and safe behind miles of chain link fence topped with barbed wire. I never wondered why a factory would need such security, with guards at the front gate and at every break in the fence. They were not friendly in general, but they were particularly unfriendly on this day. The story I was there to cover was an explosion at the plant and word on the street was that someone got hurt.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” Cocksure as he was, I decided to respond without sarcasm.
“We heard scanner traffic about an explosion here something about an injury. We’re here to see what happened.” I was sweet as pie, smiling even.
“There is no news story here,” he chuckled “why don’t you go on back to Quincy-nothin’s going on here.”
And thus sarcasm ….
“Sir, I am sure that in your capacity as a security guard your news judgement is impeccable and that you might think you know better than me what constitutes news from the perspective of that little box you sit in every day. But from where I stand I think it would be in this plant’s best interest to set to ease the minds of the gossiping masses in this town as to what has happened here today….” Meaningful pause….”Especially since everyone knows that a major explosion here could potentially level half of Keokuk.”
It was true. In all the little towns along the Mississippi the people who live there add danger to their lived in the absence of actual crime with the knowledge that doom lurks in those big grain silos on the river. They could blow up at any minute and take out one half to an entire town- depending on the town’s size. The grain is kept dry to keep it from rotting and it heats from a little fermentation and the friction of movement in those sun-baked silos. Any good ol’ boy in any of these towns will indoctrinate newcomers with this unsettling news. One spark and it’s all over for Keokuk, or La Grange, or Clarksville, or Myer, or Hamilton, or Hannibal. They’d never knew what hit them- like an atomic bomb, sort of.
Sure the factories say it ain’t so…but we know better.
Anyway, I was told to leave and that I was not allowed on the grounds of the plant and that no one was making a comment. Fine, I expected that.
So my photographer and I drove around the perimeter, along a river bottom road, and found a little gap in the fence, drove in and saw the fire engine, lights and all, down one of the roads in the complex. Ray is getting a ground level long shot, and I see a security guy in a golf cart coming at us- a different one from Mr. Newsman at the front gate. I chat with him and stall while Ray pretends to be turning his camera off, rolling the whole time. I tell the guy I thought we were off the actual property since there wasn’t much of a gate by the river dock….So we get thrown out again with specific instructions not to even step on the green grass on the other side of the fence since that is their property, too. We were only legally able to shoot from the street- from where you could see nothing. Of course we got plenty of shots of Mr. Newsman (from the street mind you) and made him a ten second celebrity against his wishes.
Eventually I got through to the CEO in Charge of Damage Control for the plant by telephone. He sounded like a PR guy hired by the KGB. “One man injured slightly in stable condition in an explosion that was very minor in a maintenance shed on the grounds.”
No big deal, but everyone was talking about it and exaggerating it so we need to set the record straight- I thanked him for his time and the information.
“So tell me, what is it exactly that you make here at Rochette America?” I asked.
“Corn syrup.”

http://www.westonaprice.org/motherlinda/cornsyrup.html
http://www.stuttercut.org/hungry/archives/essays/000229.php
www.roquette.com

thrifty ...

The other day I sat at my parents house as dad proudly set a huge bag of coffee beans on the coffee table.
"I think it's two pounds," he says as it slowly rolls to a horizontal position- revealing the weight printed near the bottom crimp of the bag, "no, three pounds, and great flavor."
The yellow bag boasts the origin as Rwanda- a country whose troubles were seared into my mind years ago by a movie. There is an artistic rendering of a faceless woman draped in bright cloth balancing a basket on her head.
"Eleven dollars at Costco. What a deal, huh?" Dad is always proud of a bargain. It is the American way. Work really hard for too many hours to get precious money and spend as little as possible on every basic little thing. Little victories add up in the battle of a budget.
"So..." I considered not mentioning it and ruining this victory, but I couldn't keep it in. "Eleven dollars for three pounds of coffee beans. How much do you think that woman on the bag earned for picking that basket full of beans on her head? And how much do you thing she needs to rebuild her looted home and raise her kids in the absence of a husband killed in the civil war?"
Dad sighed, and looked like I placed a fifty pound bag of coffee beans over his shoulders.
"Probably not much," he said with genuine bewildered sadness.
Then he changed the subject to the school he's helping build in Cambodia. He just got back a couple of days ago from a punishing seven day trip half way around the world. The school is for little girls trying to get an education so they're not forced into the sex trade for money.
"We brought them little uniforms for school because all they really have is rags. They were so happy to have something new." He beamed, happy to make a difference.
"It's really good what you're doing over there, dad."
I guess it just feels better to save money at home, then hand someone something you've saved up to buy for them. And then it feels self-indulgent to return home and pay a higher
(fair) price for something as inconsequential as coffee. Thrifty.

Smokin' & Drinkin'

“A day without beer is a health risk”
Anonymous Professor from Weihenstephan University, Freising, Germany


In college it was a saying we had- probably rooted in a comment one of us made in all sincerity at some point. “ we'll got out and do some smokin', drinkin', you know.” Someone said it and the rest of us picked up on how stupid it sounded and from that point until now, thirteen years later, we still say it tongue in cheek in remembrance of that statement.
And yesterday in an odd corner of Germany's Franconia region I was reminded of my college friends as I tried smoked beer for the first time. The idea of a smoked beer is such an oddity- I didn't give it much thought before we arrived at the former monastery in the story-book cute town of Bamberg. It is what one imagines a small German town would look like...with flowers spilling out of windowboxes attached to meticulously painted and maintained homes. Small shops along the street welcome tidy waves of locals and tourists and the air is crisp and clear with sunshine spilling into every alley. The German propensity for orderliness and cleanliness pays off in postcard ready towns that were reconstructed after the whole country was leveled by the bombs of world war two. It has to be said that is is strangely tense to walk around Germany with this history in mind. There are very few medieval town centers or other reminders of the years before the war. The only thing that appears to remain from that time is the occasional cobblestone, and traditional expressions of the earlier culture- delicately carved wood clocks in store windows. And of course there is the gastronomy. Before the industrial revolution harsh winters required pickling vegetables, and to this day vinegar is a prominent flavor. Cured meats are present along with sausages, brats, and schnitzels. Sadly, though while prevalent on menus- these German mainstays are difficult to find of great quality. After world war two an “Americanization” took hold leading to more processed, cheaper, and more convenient foods. As has been the case in every other corner of the globe when this happens authentic flavors and recipes are the first casualty. Next tastes change and the standard for normal is set at a different level. This is also the case with beer.
Smoked beer is not the result of an overly- creative beermeister trying for the next great thing. It's actually the original way that beer was made. For centuries, beer has been made with the same recipe with slight variations in preparation methods. One of these variations is the drying of the malt. Malt is the germinated (soaked) cereal grain (wheat or barley) which is soaked so that it is activated to produce sugar and enzymes which facilitate fermentation. Once soaked, they need to be dried. The ancients would do this in the sun- but as beer making migrated northward, it became necessary to dry these grains over a fire. This is where the smoke flavor comes from. But with the industrial revolution, the more efficient gas powered hot air-driers replaced wood burning driers, effectively removing the smoked flavor of the old days.
But at Schlenkerla Tavern and brewery, the Rauchbier (smokebeer) tradition continues. It is tough to find when you're casually walking by since it is difficult to stand out in a perfectly groomed town, but the institution does not suffer as a result. The building stands shoulder to shoulder to its neighbors on a street called Dominikanerstrasse. It is a narrow one, cursed by motorists but loved by pedestrian tourists and so Schlenkerla gets plenty of traffic: so much so that our group had to arrive early in order not to interfere with the lunch rush. But a ten-thirty beer tasting is not too far afield for our class. We were ushered into the circa 1310 arched room once used by monks for meeting, eating and drinking and were greeted with a tall dark glass of frothy smokebeer. The beginning of the owner's presentation was almost universally ignored as my fascinated classmates and I sniffed, photographed and sipped the strange brew. It was adictive to investigate- the first sniff was like a sausage! No- roasted game! Look at that color- it is clearer than a guinness I think. It doesn't have the same foam, though. The first sip elicited curled noses from some and groans of appreciation from others. It was then that we were capable of turning our attention to the presenter of this product, Mr. Matias Trum. He laughed when he saw some didn't appreciate Smoke beer on its first sip- saying that while the beer is a little rough making its the first impression, everyone likes it after they've had three. Matias is the sixth generation of his family making Smokebeer here at Schlemkerla. In fact the tavern is named after his great great grandfather who walked with a limp. Shlenkerla is a German reference to a person walking crooked- from an injury or from drink and Matias suspects his ancestor had an accident in the brewery. In the old days, beer was fermented in big wooden barrels that were very difficult to work with. According to Matias, being a brewer was a dangerous and sometimes deadly occupation. His family makes smoke beer by burning Beech wood from the surrounding forest contributing extra flavor to the smoke that penetrates the malt. The official description of the aroma includes smoked sausage and bacon- not something you'd naturally be inclined to drink. But out of reverence for the taste of the past and indignation towards the today's taste molded by the industrial drive towards ease and convenience- I vow to drink it and to like it. And I do. It is heavy- and you don't taste hops- only the smoked barley. But it isn't overwhelming because of a slight sweetness that balances it out. It does have a smoked sausage flavor, but I'm not sure if this is because smoke overwhelms the memory of sausage and that's what this beer brings to mind by simply having a smoke flavor- but that is for a neurologist specializing in senses and memory to figure out.
The brewery offers other beers- heavier and lighter. The wheat smokebeer (which we also got to taste) has more sweetness and a milder flavor. Lentbeer is available only during the Lenten season (this part of Germany is very Catholic) and is brewed under the Bavarian purity law 1516. It has more yeast and actually advertises during the season of fasting, Lentbeer has the “Brotzeit already included.” Brotzeit is german for afternoon snack. Another seasonal offering is Urbock which is a stronger beer for the winter months (with Original gravity of 17.5% and alcohol of 6.5%). Of course for the everyday drinker there is the easy to approach Schlenkerla Lager- clear golden beer with a hint of smoke because it is made in the same kettles and with the same yeast as the smoke beer.
Most of the product is sold direct to restaurants and shops around Bamberg still in the barrel. Bottles are exported as far away as Japan and North America, and of course Schlenkerla is available around Germany.
The upper limit on consuming this beer is one for me because it is very filling. The wheat beer is lighter and I could be convinced to have a second or third if I hadn't eaten much before. Regardless, I feel like a bit of an insider in the world of history being able to actually taste what beer was like for centuries before it changed in relatively recent years. It is a taste that could easily be forgotten and that is a shame. It makes me wonder at the hundreds of preparation methods that have changed and how this has changed our perception of what tastes good and what tastes bad. How many recipes are forever gone, and for that matter, how many foods and drinks have fallen out of cultivation and eventually existence? It seems that the globalized homogenization of taste is stripping away fringe products revered by localized cultures for centuries. It makes me applaud Matias, Schlenkerla, Smokebeer, and the locals who love it. A small amount is exported, so if you find it and have an opportunity to try it, do. It is a sip of history that has defied the machine of mass consumption and thinking of it now gives me the same goose-bumps I had upon the first sniff.

France vs. Italy- not world cup related

In my vast knowledge of two whole countries in Europe, it is difficult not to compare the two. In many cases it is tough to make a call- in some it is painfully obvious... so thus follows a brief list of commonalities that are not so similar.

Toilets. I love Italy but this one I have to give to the French. The public restrooms were better over-all from smell to visual cleanliness to the presence of an actual toilet upon which one could sit if desired (and sanitized). France also gets high marks for presence of paper products in the rest-room.

Coffee. Italy wins hands-down. While my first cafe au lait nearly made me cry with joy at its huge-ness (it was about the size of a dog-bowl) I have to say that overall flavor is better in Italy. Even if the French coffee shop had an Italian branded coffee roaster it just wasn't the same.
Meat. I am still entirely un-impressed with European fresh meat products- and let's just forget a steak. But here I have to say that the French preparation of meat in very interesting and impressive. In Italy I've only seen grilled or roasted and while this is fine, it's not so great when dealing with meat that isn't all that fabulous to begin with. For example, I had a beef cheek in Burgundy that was incredible because they had stewed it in red wine for twelve hours. OK, maybe I had been stewed in wine, but it was quite a dish that on description sounded foul but was actually done very well. In contrast I had a beef cheek in Italy and every ribbon of fat that you'd imagine would be there was quite present and I ate very little of it. Of course I am aware of the difference in restaurants and preparation...but I don't have energy to list the differences in presparation of rabbit, duck, chicken, and other meats that I have experienced.

Wine. This really isn't fair because I was only taken to Burgundy which is home to Pinot Noir and Chardonnay- both of which are not my absolute favorite grapes. To be fair- the Chardonnays from Chablis were more pure and characteristic of the grape alone than those that I have tried from elsewhere. It is a quality I respect and like the flavor of. Also, I did find a Burgundian red I liked- however it was from 2003 which was apparently a season that produced Pinot Noir that was not in keeping with its typical characteristics and therefore not a fan-favorite. OK, I just don't love Pinot Noir.....I'll just accept it. So,really what I can base this on is my preference for the style of Italian winemakers. Italy's wines feel like they have more tons of passion per hectare than France's. They are less predictable, less organized by “terroir,” and seem to have less to loose by tinkering with innovation. While there is tradition in both places, it seems to be less of a straight jacket for Italian wine producers and that can lead to some yummy accidents, super-tasty rule-bending blends, and over-all relaxation and that's what wine is for isn't it?

Bread. Here geography has me biased again. Parma, Italy is home to some of the crappiest bread ever extracted from an oven. It is difficult to describe. Flavorless does not even touch the dearth of life in this bread. Usually presented as little baseballs in a basket, the exterior is deceivingly golden-ish. When you pierce this non-porous rind with a thumb, dust-like crumbs are airborne for the next few seconds. This is when you apologize to the people at the next table and try to fish an especially offensive crumb from their wine glass. The white pouf inside is reminiscent of 18th century men's wigs- smooth as can be from the over-processed flour and a shade of white what would make a Crest white strip jealous. I've tried to justify its existence with the idea that this is also home to two strong flavors- Prosciutto di Parma and Parmigiano-Reggiano, so having a really sturdy bread might compete. But it's still just not acceptable. So France didn't have to do a lot to win this category- Wonder bread could have won- but the French baguettes cannot be beat.

Cheese. This cannot be decided. I have tried. French cheeses are a different animal from Italian cheeses. Both are to die for and neither can lose anything. I love all cheese....except for this one incredibly smelly one from the mountains somewhere. Apparently it is the ends cut off another kind of cheese, smooshed together and cured in beer. It is cone shaped and bright orange. If it is offered, go ahead and try it, but I'll admit, after a bite and then a sip of my water, I couldn't drink from the same glass again for the smell....do NOT try while on a date- unless it's not going well.