My pal Josh, who I know through my guilty-pleasure freelance gig (rhymes with Gus Freakly), also writes about cheap and delicious food for various rags around town. He is the original Dumpling Man, in my book.
Now he just published a column (his regular NY Press gig) about discovering homemade, hand-delivered-to-drunks-in-bars fried chicken in Brooklyn.
Brooklyn is cooler. Damn.
Thanksgiving in Savannah was lovely. I splurged on a heritage turkey from Heritage Foods, even though I didn’t have a chance to spy on the bird via webcam in the days leading up to his demise, which is one of the brilliant selling points of these birds. We at least savored the heartwarming stories of all the various farms–the assembled at Casa Bonaventura decided our turkey must’ve come from the gay one.
With the bird came a little information sheet listing the various heritage breeds and the characteristics of each. Figuring out which one ours might be would’ve required an LSAT-level logic grid, so I just turned the project over to Bob, who stuffed the 15-pound baby and popped him in the oven.
A few hours later, I came in and finished him up. After a lot of nervous poking, I decided this called for slicing off the legs, which were still oozing red, and leaving them in the oven while we put the rest of the completely done bird on the counter to wait. The result was perfectly done breast and leg. Duh. I don’t know why I haven’t done this before–maybe because the gap between done and not-done hasn’t ever been quite this drastic, and maybe because it seems like admitting failure. (Last night Peter and I were imagining a situation in which we would super-chill the breast meat with little ice packs, as a sort of handicap, before popping the bird in the oven. Less practical, but maybe more fun than the leg-severing strategy. And it would only work if you didn’t drink too many whiskey sours and forget to take the ice packs off.)
Anyway, the turkey was delicious. Although still not quite as delicious as turkey I’ve eaten in the Yucatan…but then everything tastes better when eaten in another country.
I also made some pies. Note to self: Make pie dough more than once a year, so I remember how to do it. Back in New Mexico, I was the Pie Queen. Seventeen years later, I still haven’t adapted to sea-level baking, and my crusts are hit or miss. I tried a new pie recipe, from the November issue of Saveur: buttermilk pie with cardamom. It was not like the delectable “Buttermilk Sky Pie” of Barton’s from Terrace Club, but more like a very light cheesecake. The cardamom made me think I should’ve waited till Christmas to make it (cardamom is linked to stollen in my mind), and the texture made me think I should’ve made a crumb crust. Actually, maybe next time I’ll just follow the recipe for the standard pie crust–that would be a wise move. Still, good to try something new.
My pie gut, I mean glut (oh, I didn’t mention–I made three: apple and mince also), plus the existing three pies (pumpkin, sweet potato, pecan), meant I spent all weekend eating not leftover turkey but extra pie: big slabs of mincemeat with whipped cream for breakfast, apple for lunch-dessert, buttermilk as an afternoon snack. As Peter and I were packing our snacks for the train, I was looking sadly at the remaining pies, which almost certainly would get tossed after we left. Bloated and sugar-saturated, I was still thinking, I could’ve saved one more slice…
Thanks to all who helped the noble cause!
…but maybe I should pay more attention to soccer.
I clicked on the headline Maradona ‘sedated and recovering’. Not sure why, but I at least know who Maradona is, and if something awful had happened to him, it would be a sad day for the Argentines.
After the lede, we get this sentence:
The 46-year-old’s personal physician said his ill health was brought on by excessive smoking, drinking and eating.
Now that is a sportsman I can get behind! Way to go, Maradona.
I have to admit to a slight feeling of smugness when I say: I eat everything. I have never “watched” what I eat or otherwise been concerned with my health and weight, and I’m doing just fine, thank you. Maybe I’m lucky, but I also think moderation and cooking for myself does the trick. La la la–aren’t I great?
Oh, well, now I also have to admit: There was a little interlude of jeans-digging-painfully-into-my-burgeoning-gut this summer, but that seems to have disappeared. No thanks, though, to (OK, admitting more) about ten days of thinking maybe I should eat smaller portions and cut down on some of the desserts. And those were some incredibly depressing days–I did begin to understand how this fear of food has developed in so many people. It’s just the end of all pleasure as soon as you start looking at everything you put in your mouth in terms of where it might wind up bulging out on your body–midsection or butt? Or inner thighs, which are rubbing together in an unpleasant way?
Incidentally, the upshot of these ten days of vigilance and semi-abstinence is that I began to crave the strangest, junkiest things–whatever I could get from the office vending machine, frozen pizzas, Ho-Hos, you name it. For me, anyway, even thinking about “dieting” was very, very bad for me.
So, once I was through with that little thought experiment, I settled back into my usual habits, and now my pants fit again.
But perhaps what distracted me from my weight–and I guess I should be grateful for that–was another dietary issue altogether.
Without getting into specifics, let’s just say I take a little something daily to prevent the arrival of Roving Gastronomettes or Roving Gastronomitos. That little something also has the benefit of giving me dewy, smooth skin–the sort I should’ve been entitled to as soon as I stopped being a teenager, but for some reason just never got around to arriving on its own. Presto–a magic pill, and I am no longer looking at myself aghast in the mirror in the morning before I grab the concealer.
In recent years, however, even though my skin texture could be mistaken for a French woman’s in some light, it has taken to getting unattractively blotchy when I spend even four minutes in the sun. By the end of my Greece sojourn last summer, I looked a bit like I had been standing by during that terrible mishap at the self-tanner factory (the one that maybe also hit Lindsay Lohan?)–though fortunately I’d been wearing my safety goggles.
Like any disfigurement, I’m sure it looked worse to me than anyone else, but I decided I needed to adjust my daily treatments. So I started on a new formulation that held some promise of an even skin tone, though certainly no guarantee. One large perk, however (sensitive boys, block your ears): my period would dwindle away to next to nothing! Hooray! Oh, and the packaging was much cooler.
But then came the pendulum, swinging back the other way. Within a month, my skin texture was an utter fiasco–I felt like I was back in high school or worse, that year in Cairo when everything was just like being in high school again.
Then I remembered something a friend had mentioned, about how dairy products really made her skin break out.
I subsist on dairy products–they are my go-to protein source. This summer I ate either feta or yogurt or both every single day, and in my normal routine I eat milk for breakfast, maybe a grilled-cheese sandwich for lunch or a cheesy omelet, and then when I don’t know what else to put in the salad, I put in some Parmesan or little grated Cheddar bits. Cheese keeps forever in the fridge, and it’s available in amazing variety. Yogurt is good for the gut. Milk just hits the spot on certain occasions. Cream spruces up some dishes in a lovely way. And butter–I think I must be made of butter by now.
But I tried going without for a week, and, lo, my skin returned to normal. Then I ate a slice of pizza with a dollop of fresh ricotta, and woke up with a massive bump on my chin.
So. Vanity or gluttony? Do I give up a major part of my diet in exchange for the convenience of no period and the social confidence that comes with a flawless complexion?
I fretted for about a month, thinking maybe I was wrong, or my body would adjust. Making little mental negotiations like, well, if I give up butter, I guess that just means more opportunities for duck fat? And I _guess_ I prefer the intensity of fruit sorbets…
But that month was a pretty long time (frankly, I didn’t realize I was so vain in the first place), and it’s not like I really stayed on the wagon in the first place. I just could not face a life of placing food in ‘yes’ and ‘nooooooo!’ categories.
So just a few weeks ago, I switched back to the original anti-kid, anti-pimple, pro-blotch formulation.
You can read this two ways: I have zero will power and restraint. Or I’m fabulously deep–surface beauty doesn’t matter to me in the least, darlings.
Naturally, I agree with the latter interpretation. I’ll just buy a much bigger hat for next summer–and eat a lot of ice cream.
Still not the lovely sea urchin ones (have to get those off Peter’s computer), but over on Fotaq, there’s a little indication of what we did all day, every day. (And if you squint at the background, you can kind of get an idea of what a nice place it is.)
The back story to all these goofy pictures is this: Around Day 4 of our sojourn in Skala Eressou, Peter’s dad started getting a little concerned about how much we were eating, and, specifically, how much we were ordering at dinner every night. In the grand scheme of things, half a grilled fish going uneaten is no great crime, but I could certainly empathize with Charlie as Peter would flag down the waiter for the fourth time and say, “Aaaaand we’ll have a plate of the…” (but in Greek).
When there are 17 people around a big long table, and everyone’s saying, “How ’bout some lamb chops? Some macaronia? More tzatziki!” it can get out of hand pretty easily, and it did always fill me with an abstract anxiety. People, we need a PLAN, I felt like saying, but by then it was already too late, and the random ordering had begun. In truth, we rarely ended up with way too much food, but there was a certain haphazardness to the meals that maybe could’ve been averted.
Part of the problem is that you never realize, until you’re in the middle of it, the flaw of ordering a variety of dishes to match the number of people at the table. Because then the dishes come, and really, there’s never going to be enough taramosalata on that plate to feed 20 people, and you realize this just as the taramosalata has started around the table in precisely the opposite direction from you. So, you give it up for lost and keep your eye on the next thing the waiter’s setting down.
And just like that, your dinner is ruined, because you’re having to strategize at the dinner table like the last-born in a Mormon family. “Portion panic,” as I believe Jessika dubbed it, sets in, and before you know it you’re hoarding and reaching, and sneaking the last bites of things, and slipping french fries under your plate for later (actually, I just thought of that now, but it’s kind of a good idea) and so on.
So, anyway, Charlie I guess saw this happening–plus the occasional unfinished fish–and tried to do something about it. But of course that backfired, because if you lean over to Peter and say, “Hey, don’t overorder,” of course Peter’s just going to roll his eyes and keep doing what he’s doing. It’s too late.
The overordering thing reached fever pitch the day of our wedding. After our super-express 40-minute speed-read ceremony, we all traipsed down the hill to the little meze joint we’d talked into opening in the afternoon just to feed us a little snicky-snack and a little ouzo.
But you can’t very well tell a Greek restaurateur, “We’ll be coming from a wedding,” and expect him to undercater, or even sensibly cater. And he didn’t grossly over-cater, but there was an almost comically endless stream of little plates arriving at the table–to the point where Charlie started saying, “Stop! Phot, make him stop!” And he did, briefly, stop the flow of skordalia, beets, deep-fried meatballs, super-funky bastirma, sausage bits, cold white beans, succulent little zucchini wedges…but then we realized, WHY would you want to go and do an idiotic thing like that? (It helped that we’d been drinking the raki, briefly mistaken for water by my mother, for a little bit.)
Yes, there was some tragic food waste that afternoon. You can’t save the soul of every little meatball–you just have to focus on the ones you have been able to help.
So, then, after Charlie went home, Peter and Andrew briefly tried to heed his cautionary words. And that’s how we got these photos.
Tamara writes:
Yesterday I got up, smelled the lamb fat, brewed some coffee, and sat down with a cup to drink while staring at the computer screen. I went to see what was in the plastic bag next to the computer….. (food someone had forgotten, perhaps?) and discovered….
The head. Smiling at me with its blind little milky eyes.
Ooh. Dear me.
I guess I don’t have it. And I’m not pregnant. But I do have to go have oodles of blood tests done, because I think it just sends doctors into a tizzy when they find out you haven’t been to the doctor in, like, ten years.
To celebrate, Peter and I are going to the movies, and bringing our own melted butter.
Nothin’ wrong with that.
It would serve me right (I know Aaron would say) for eating so much butter and lamb and bacon, and generally living like the very royalty that used to contract this ailment regularly.
See, I woke up yesterday with an excruciating pain in my foot. By the afternoon, it felt like I’d broken a toe. But, for once, I hadn’t drunk a whole lot the night before–certainly not enough to forget about dropping a couch on it, which is what it felt like. Now today, my whole last week of low appetite culminated in inexplicable barfing. (No, I’m not pregnant. I mean…er, I can’t be. I swear. Jesus. That would be awful.)
So, based on one wiseass comment from a fellow copy editor at Us Weekly last night, I spent the afternoon (before I really started throwing up) researching the symptoms and causes of gout. Aside from the part about it 99 percent of the time happening only to post-menopausal women, it all matches up. Even the queasiness and low appetite.
But gout, even though it’s unfashionable and weird and happens mostly to British people, is far better than my previous diagnosis, of cancer. This was based solely on the fact that I met a woman this weekend who, when she was 12, got this strange swelling in her leg then started throwing up, and the next thing she knew, they were digging a football-size tumor out of her thigh.
Gout, if it really happens to be true, at least is thematic with my life, and will give me plenty to write about. I will certainly have to invest in some fuddy-duddy cardigan sweater and a fancy cane, the better to hobble around with while I ogle buttery treats that I shouldn’t eat.
I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. Don’t root for gout. I mean, root for not-gout, just something benign that doesn’t require that I stop eating the way I do.
I saw this movie last week and haven't felt so nasty coming out of a film in years.
View a few here: