Watch out. That ham and swiss baguette may have protein, dairy and wheat!
Signs have appeared in Wegman's grocery store delis (this one was spotted in Dulles, Virginia) warning customers that children -- due to fear of allergens -- may not order food without an adult present.
I have no idea what to say about this, but it seems further proof to me that food has gone from pleasure and nourishment to a substance needing regulation, brightly-colored barriers and warning signs.
Alert! There may be eggs in your asparagus omelette! Hide your women and young ones.
I'm trying to eat more sustainably, choosing "pastured" meats and dairy, free-range eggs, and local, organic produce from small farms; I'm also trying to virtually eliminate processed foods from my family's diet. I have three small boys and a husband who grew up on Fruit Loops and KFC. I live in the city (Portland, Oregon); I work full-time; and I'm learning to garden. This is my story.
I don't think I have an addictive personality, but it's true: I'm addicted to caffeine. Not only am I an addict, I'm something of a snob, pooh-poohing Starbucks and supermarket brands for single-estate coffee beans and PG Tips tea. It's ok: as luxuries go, my choices aren't terribly draining on family finances. At about $10 a 12-ounce bag, my coffee habit runs me less than $20 a week.
But. I'm trying to eat local, honoring as much of the spirit of the 100-mile diet and the locavores as I can (though my range is probably more like 300 miles, given how huge is my home state of Oregon).
Tired of reading about eating local? Mad that your friends are going on and on about the provenance of the sage leaves (heirlooms from my own garden, they are!) on the gourmet dinner they served you? Really sick of hearing about your college roommate's new chicken coop? Well, you may not be, but NPR commentator Amy Stewart, is.
In a piece that seemed more bitter than escarole picked past its prime, Stewart takes America to task for its focus on the word, concept, and media conglomerate behind "locavores." (In case you missed it, "locavore" was selected as the 2007 word of the year by The New Oxford American Dictionary.) She says local eating is just "another symptom of our deeply troubled relationship with food" and "our obsession with local food has gone far enough ... we have heaped all our fears and anxieties onto the dinnerplate." Umm... isn't that the whole idea of the local eating "obsession"? Isn't it that we've ignored our dinner plates too long? I thought that reconnecting with our food supply and caring about animal rights (not so much for the animals' sake as for our very health and life, mind you -- poor treatment of animals and vegetables is thought to be responsible for the majority of often-deadly foodborne illnesses we confront) was completely the point.
It sounds to me as if Amy Stewart is a little peeved she didn't get a book deal to pay for her groceries for a year.
I've been reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a book extolling the virtues of eating locally (and the horrors of eating veggies trucked in from California, Chile, and other places far afield). Beyond simply pushing organic food or a vegetarian lifestyle, Kingsolver suggests that eating foods grown locally, in season, by farmers using sustainable practices can, basically, save the world -- not to mention, be delicious. I've swallowed her pitch hook, line, and heirloom potato, and have begun deeply rethinking our family's grocery lists. Starting this process in the dead of winter is a challenge, and "the sustainable food project" is my way of sharing the struggle with you.
The sandwich, a staple of my family's diet, is a particularly interesting problem. Were I to open a pictorial culinary dictionary under "S," I'd imagine a photo of bread, meat, tomato, lettuce, mayo. But fresh red tomatoes and leafy green lettuce are anything but in season in Oregon, where I live -- and the vast majority of the U.S. and Europe for the next several months. Because it's easy to find a sustainably-farmed source, we've been eating lots of beef, ham, and crusty local bread, but what else?
I've been able to find lots of delicious, flavorful options utilizing local, organic produce.
I was getting off the bus on my way to a craft swap, and I was mind-numbingly sleep-deprived. I needed coffee immediately and almost cried with happiness when I saw the sign outside the new electric car dealership. "Hip Drip Cafe," or something. Whatever. They had coffee.
I bought a cup and started feeling guilty when I got to the airpots to fill up. There was a sign encouraging patrons to bring their own cups -- you'd save 25 cents -- and I've been really working to reduce my waste lately. I mentally reminded myself to bring the cup home, so I could compost it and recycle the plastic lid. I grabbed the lid and... discovered Tater Ware.
Tater Ware is, as the cup lid indicates, made of potatoes. They are 100% biodegradable and, if you're worried about those things, GMO free. In addition to the to go cup lid I had on my coffee, the company makes clamshell takeout containers, deli trays, cutlery, and hot/cold cups. The products are "microwarmable" (you can use them to reheat food and beverages in the microwave) and, yep, they can go straight in the compost pile.
Most importantly, my coffee did not have a potato-ey aftertaste. My next campaign: convincing my neighborhood coffee shop to switch to Tater Ware. Someone's got to keep Idaho in business!
I keep four delightful chickens in my backyard for their plentiful fresh eggs and overall charm as pets. Here in Portland, Oregon, backyard chickens are somewhat in vogue, and I subscribe to a lively Yahoo! group dedicated to all that is urban chicken farming. (No. We don't eat our chickens. Because I knew you would ask.)
Yesterday, one of its members, Lori, gathered some eggs from her Ameraucana, and boiled them up for breakfast. Imagine her surprise when she peeled one that had cracked in the pan -- the perfect image of the Virgin Mary!
Lori's trying to figure out if she can preserve the egg. In the meantime, let us know what you think: is God once again speaking to us from our food? And is he reminding us how we should all treat our chickens better? I think so.
In the Pacific Northwest, there's a place called Burgerville. The beef is always free-range and the salads always sport local hazelnuts. But nothing compares to you, seasonal fresh strawberry milkshake. And nothing says summer is coming! like a strawberry milkshake sparkling, dripping in the sunlight as you pull away from the drivethrough. Ahhhh ... life is good here in Portland.
I think this package says it all. I picked up a pound of maple sausage, the delectable links that my
family has always called "breakfast sausage" without allowing a title to limit our consumption. No, we eat it
from dawn 'til dusk, despite its moniker.
Evidently, Fred Meyer (our local grocery and part of the Kroger
gi-nomerate) is worried that the name "breakfast sausage" will limit more conservative families to (horrors!)
eat it only during breakfast. They've changed the label so it reads, "maple flavored sausage" and
"delicious anytime!"
Thank you, Fred Meyer, for freeing us -- and our sausages -- from the
shackles of breakfast.
I'm a coffee aficionado (or as they might say it in Panama, aficionado de café), but I'm also on a budget. And although I'd love to drink nothing but that lyrical Stumptown Sidamo or the deep, dark, delicious Thundermuck, well, $10 a pound is a but much for every day.
Thus I was delighted to see a new 12-ounce can of coffee for only $3.99 at Trader Joe's last week: Panama Café Duran. My little sister Jenny lives in Panama and I've drunk Duran before; it's the everyday coffee found in every Panamanian supermarket. I know it's decent, and in the hands of Trader Joe's it is fresh, balanced, and just dark enough to satisfy that part of me that longs for those polished mucky beans so revered here in Portland.
Yesterday I picked up another can and as I was reaching for it another woman was looking at the green-and-yellow can, considering. "It's good!" I said, "and cheap!" I know you're going to be in Trader Joe's, and you'll be wondering, too. Go for it.
Yesterday I picked "Ethiopia Sidamo" from
the thermal pot at my fave local coffee
shop, on a whim. I almost never go with the boring, ordinary Colombian house blend. Sometimes I'm wowed by my
alternative selection, other times it's just coffee.
Color me wowed. I can't get enough of this stuff. It
tastes like berries. No lie. And I'm sure you're thinking, coffee that tastes like berries? I totally passed that
raspberry-flavored stuff up in the coffee aisle at my grocery store. But this is more a terroir thing (do they call it terroir in coffee?). The coffee beans,
they're not that different from grapes, after all. Roasting brings out these amazingly complex and, yes, fruity flavors.
According to the roaster, Stumptown Coffee, "The cup is Neopolitan
ice cream... Intense chocolate, strawberry and creamy vanilla flavors in every sip." Plus it's organic and
fair-trade and ohmigod I am so in love with this coffee. I wish I could give you a taste, you'd never be the
same.
My refrigerator is always full of
buttermilk. You see, I'm a thrifty soul, and if I need buttermilk for a recipe I can't bear to buy the pint-sized
cartons. Did you even see the price per fluid ounce? No, I must go for the economical two-quart-sized
container. Thing is: there is no recipe on the whole earth that calls for a half gallon of buttermilk.* Instead, I
measure out 1/2 cup or five tablespoons or some other amazingly tiny quantity. And then, every time I pick up a recipe,
I think, how can I use buttermilk in this?
So when I was looking for a recipe for scones the other
day, I was terrifically happy to find this one on Nicole's blog. I
made it, with great success, and then started scheming. How could I use even more of the ingredients slowly turning
from "non-perishable" to "perished" in my pantry shelves? I emailed Nicole, I rummaged to find
white chocolate chips and dried blueberries and I made these fantastic drop scones. [click through for recipe]
These lovely little cupcakes
called out to my spring-starved soul, lost in a sea of grey skies and 90% chance-of-showers. They sing of sun and
tropical breezes, with their papaya and their lime and their coconut. Chockylit has the recipe; the
cupcakes are made with coconut milk, with chopped papaya and shredded coconut stirred in before baking; and the icing is
made of cream cheese, the usual butter and sugar, and flavored with fresh grated ginger, ground ginger and lime juice.
You should also check out the whole photo essay on
flickr.
It's the latest thing, dontcha know? As
follower of coffee shop culture and aficionado of the cupcake craze, I come to you, the leading expert in the field
(says me), to announce: mini-cupcakes in coffee shops are the latest things. Bagels? Yes, they're a staple of
at-the-desk breakfasters everywhere, but they're so over. Cinnamon rolls are on the way out. Oatmeal cookies -
hey, everyone loves oatmeal cookies - but how can you choose cookies over itsy bites of creamy buttery frosting and soft
spongy bits of cake?
I found these delicacies at Sydney's, 1800 NW 16th, the hippest thing in Portland,
Ore.'s coffee destinations. The ones at Small World Coffee, 14
Witherspoon St., during my
trip to Princeton, NJ were even better. As I hit my favorite coffeeshops from one coast to another, I keep seeing
the ubiquitous mini-cupcake and I'm here to tell you: this trend rocks. And now it's how you'll know your
coffeeshop is truly with it.
The stars must have aligned somehow, and the
world over was swept with the urge to make
butter at home. My inspiration came a few weeks ago, when I found myself in a momentary cash crisis. In my
refrigerator, I had a large amount of heavy cream, but no butter. As I faced the very real, very terrible specter or
using the last pat of butter on my toast, I remembered some long-ago read magazine feature on making butter with kids
(why with kids? child labor, I suppose). The suggestion, I remembered, was simple: put cream in jar. Screw on lid.
Shake, rattle, and roll until butter appears.
So we set to work. My babysitter. My three-year-old. My
husband. And me.
I've always been attracted to Caffarel's yellow wrapper and stylized Italian logo. But it wasn't
until the Olympics began and I learned all about the mysteries of gianduia, the hazelnut-flavored
chocolate native to Olympics host Torino, that my attraction turned into a purchase. Last week I brought home the
beautifully-wrapped, gold-accented chocolate bar.
It was a few days before I tasted it, and when I did, I was truly
in a new cioccolato heaven. From this day forward, Caffarel will be my chocolate of choice when I just need
something incomparably creamy, rich, melt-in-mouth-able.
You know how most chocolate bars settle on one extreme
of the creaminess scale, either too soft and sticky, or so hard they hurt your teeth when you break off a chunk?
Caffarel's gianduia bar is so soft and delicate, it's already melting when it hits your tongue; but yet the bar is
solid, easily broken into chunks by hand. And still, no chocolatey fingerprints. The hazelnut taste is perfect, just
the essence of flavoring, not tipping the balance to bitter, as so many hazelnut-flavored chocolates do. I give
Caffarel the chocolate gold medal. My bar was $3.89 (definitely not cheap) at Pastaworks. Hopefully I'll be able to afford it more than once every four
years.
Watch out. That ham and swiss baguette may have protein, dairy and wheat!
I'm trying to eat more sustainably, choosing "pastured" meats and dairy, free-range eggs, and local, organic produce from small farms; I'm also trying to virtually eliminate processed foods from my family's diet. I have three small boys and a husband who grew up on Fruit Loops and KFC. I live in the city (Portland, Oregon); I work full-time; and I'm learning to garden. 
Tired of reading about eating local? Mad that your friends are going on and on about the provenance of the sage leaves (heirlooms from my own garden, they are!) on the gourmet dinner they served you? Really sick of hearing about your college roommate's new chicken coop? Well, you may not be, but 
I've been reading 
I was getting off the bus on my way to a craft swap, and I was mind-numbingly sleep-deprived. I needed coffee immediately and almost cried with happiness when I saw the sign outside the new electric car dealership. "Hip Drip Cafe," or something. Whatever. They had coffee.
I keep 
I'm a coffee aficionado (or as they might say it in Panama, aficionado de café), but I'm also on a budget. And although I'd love to drink nothing but that 
Yesterday I picked "Ethiopia Sidamo" from
the thermal pot at 
I've always been attracted to 
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