In Search of the R.M.O.

So here we are at "Camp E-Colo," the 2008 incarnation of the immortal Camp E-Coli.

We're comfortably ensconced in a gorgeous mountainside house in Colorado (courtesy of Ron T. and Pat T.), and each night's dinner so far has surpassed its predecessor: on our arrival, we fired up some simple hot dogs and corn. That was Saturday. Sunday's dinner was a lovely set of green enchiladas. Monday's dinner was "Cowboy night," which consisted of cowboy steaks and cowboy beans, with cornbread and more corn. (I should say that this meal didn't so much surpass the enchilada dinner as involve more lubrication beforehand). And tonight we had a massive spread of Indian food-- saag, chick peas, samosas, and rice-- prepared by the almighty E. I'm still feeling bloated and content.

But there's still something missing. The feeling of contentment is no less real; but beneath it, waiting, building up pressure, there's the ever-building urgency of an unfulfilled quest.

Balls, to put it bluntly. I'm in search of balls.

It started out as little more than chit-chat. Traveling to the Rocky Mountains? Then surely you'll be trying the Rocky Mountain oysters? "Sure," I would offer, but my heart wouldn't quite be in it. For the culture of the Rocky Mountain oyster-- based on what I've learned from the internet, at least— has less to do with gastronomic pleasure than with unfettered machismo. Daring. Extremity. And, let's say, something like a homeopathic quest for a testosterone turbo-boost.

How tiresome. But I hold out hope that the victual itself might surpass its unfortunate aura. Imagine if the culture of oysters— real, aquatic oysters— focused on their aphrodisiac qualities alone.

At first it was all talk. But then we arrived in Colorado, and between the woozy air of high-altitude living and the heady excitement of collective dining, the quest has become more realistic.

Coach Taylor and A. V. were the last ones left awake on that first night; the others, travel-weary and full of corn, had long since retired for the evening. Conversation soon turned, naturally, to the matter of beef testicles. "Are you in?" "Sure, I'm in." "Me, too." "Let's do it." We made a pact.

But A. V. had only a brief window of opportunity to honor the pact; saddled with an early departure date, we had only Sunday to work with. And it must be remembered that Sunday and Monday are tough supply-chain days for local restaurants. Herein lay an important consideration: if there's anything less appealing than sub-par oysters, it's sub-par Rocky Mountain oysters.

The opportunity passed. A. left us, only to suffer through a 5.8 earthquake the next day.

So we wait. Will tomorrow be our day to strike? Coach Taylor has found a restaurant that serves them for lunch. Will our schedules permit? Will we lose our nerve?

Or will the whole quest simply turn out to be boring, and fade away entirely?

Chi Cken?

One of the more amusing ways for people to alienate themselves from others is for them to talk about their favorite experiences in Paris. Viz:

"It's the modest things about Paris that strike you most: aren't the street markets just adorable? And that crêpe stand near the Bastille is to die for."
or:

"Oh, you know, seriously, I think the best part about Paris is not the whole café or brasserie thing but the rhumeries, where they have lines of infused rums on a shelf above the bar. That's the real Paris."
or:

"Of course, this is an experience you can't really get from a short visit. You really have to live there."

Perhaps you already see where this is heading. Yep: we're those people. It's a shameful, gruesome fact, but there's no sense in denying it. I've uttered versions of all those sentences. "One of my favorite things to do in Paris..." You know, one of my favorite things. As in: there are so many; it's hard to decide. But I'll regale you with my current favorite.

Of course, the years are starting to pile up in the empty space between the present and the actual time we spent in Paris. Which was, you know, so very fleeting. (But even such nostalgic sentiment is itself disgusting, is it not? Perhaps most disgusting of all. "Oh, it's been so long since we were last in Paris. When will we ever return? It's been, like, forever").

To brush aside such sentiments: here is a story of, let's say, our Salad Days. Back in the day-- you know, before the Euro-- I was on a fellowship, living on the Rue de Lappe in the 11th (if you've just nodded in recognition, you're one of those people as well. Say five Hail Marys and pour yourself a glass of Pernod. I know you own a bottle. Or is it Ricard?).

During this séjour, H. would visit me from time to time, but otherwise I was dreadfully lonely. And hungry. Aside from the hours each day I'd spend trolling the city for food and books, I was reduced to contemplating the idea of strangling the busty-looking pigeons in the jardin de Luxembourg and braising them in a port wine reduction. Not because I had to. But because these are the sort of things you think about.

But most of the time I was just in the library.

The problem with the library, though, is that they had a nice cafe but really sub-standard food. (The food was still better than the food in your library, of course).

When H. first visited me in Paris, we realized there would be some issues with the cuisine. H. has an aversion to richness-- meaning unguent, creamy fattiness-- and is downright allergic to cultured milk products. Even on a normal day, this renders a surprising amount of food off-limits, between sour-cream sauces and pasta dishes sprinkled with "just a little bit of Parmesan." It's especially damning in the context of Parisian snack food, which consists of various dishes made with the inescapable combination of ham and gruyère cheese: omelettes, croques monsieurs, croques madames, sandwiches, crêpes, salades composées, and so forth. You name it, and it seems to have gruyère in it, and not just that "tiny little bit." But a whole hunking mass of it.

Upon reflection, years later, I wonder if this simply wasn't the result of my own preference for cafés and crêpe stands that served masses and gobs of melted gruyère cheese, which happens to be one of my stalwart favorites. Might there have been a slight prejudice at work here?

After several days of generally fruitful experimentation, we realized that the one meal for which we'd found no solution was the luncheon meal to be consumed at the Bibliothèque Nationale. Now, if you've never been to the new BN-- pour yourself another glass of pastis if you have; you're among friends-- then it should be mentioned that it is a strange, abject place, of which we're perversely quite fond. This is the new library I'm talking about, not the charming old one where Georges Bataille used to work as a coin-collector, and which is, you know, in the middle of the city. This is the one designed for Mitterand, and it's situated more of less in the middle of nowhere. The design features four giant glass towers that look like books, and then a big swimming pool in the middle, filled with trees. The symbolism of the books I comprehend. The tree-filled swimming pool less so.

This new site, in the middle of an old warehouse district, may by now have become the mecca of culinary experimentation. Who knows. But in the waning days of the French franc, and for several years afterwards, it was pretty much a gastronomic wasteland.

We tried the "Buffalo Grill," a western-themed steak (0r buffalo?) restaurant too horrific-- or really, too horrifically banal-- to describe. We tried the "Quick" hamburger chain, which we immediately renamed as the "Suck" hamburger chain. Nollo contendere.

And then there was one poor, tired little bakery, which carried some sandwiches made, of course, with ham and gruyère cheese. They did have some other French delicacies which (for me) could easily make my day: rillettes, the ground meat-and-fat spread that is unspeakably delicious for anyone who doesn't have a problem with rich, unguent, lardy food; and pâté, which is the closest that meat can come to being cheese without actually being cheese.

We needed another angle. And thus we settled on Chicken.

So here it is, the truth: one of the best things to eat in Paris-- that is, without going to a restaurant or involving cheese-- is a rotisserie chicken. You go down to your local butcher or, if you're lucky, to a specialty rotissière, and pick one up. The butcher pulls a chicken off the rack and places it in a foil-lined bag and then, if you ask, will spoon in some potatoes and vegetables that have been stewing in the juices beneath.

To this day the rotisserie chicken remains a cornerstone of our diet; we still refer to the chicken itself with the initial admixture of awe and questioning. "Chicken?" It's always a question, but again, a question mixed with hope, and wonder.

Upon its arrival home, chicken resolves itself very simply: pull off all the meat, and make a baguette sandwich. We've experimented with various sauces, fillings, and dressings. But the rules of the game have been set: spread a sliced half-baguette with Sriracha chili sauce, add the pulled chicken, and perhaps a little of the rotisserie sauce. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

And then wrap the sandwich in a paper towel and tinfoil, and bring it to the library.

They make good espresso there, by the way. Of course they do.

Be, Cordial!

The making of fruit cordials operates on a principle of thrift analogous to ethanol production. Beyond their high alcohol contents, the two procedures share the same tendency toward hidden costs. Who knows what kinds of resources they consume in the name of "preservation." But the results? Is it all worth the trouble?

This is my second summer making fruit cordials, the bio-fuels of those who fancy a dram. Last year, inspired by a faint recollection of my father doing the same, I prepared four or five fruit cordials in mason jars.

Picture my father-- or anyone's father-- eagerly venturing down to the basement each afternoon to turn a glass bell he'd filled with raspberries and vodka. For him the dedication seemed to pay off: he spooned the berries over ice cream, and relished the liqueur for weeks. As for me, I started trotting out the cordials for guests a few weeks after my initial burst of activity. The results were, at first, uninspiring. And I subsequently became-- if not a laughing-stock-- then at least something of a pariah in the neighborhood. "Be careful," guests would warn each other, through sidelong glances. "He might try to foist some of those dreaded fruit cordials on you."

Hours of labor squandered. Pints of peak-season berries drowned in booze. And liters and liters of perfectly mediocre vodka and rum transformed into embalming fluid. Hidden costs indeed!

But then time (and, no doubt, chemistry) worked its magic. By November the same sundry neighbors and passers-by were clamoring for the stuff. "Any of the ginger one left?" "My favorite is the blueberry." "What do you mean, critical? I've always loved your cordials!" This wasn't hypocrisy; this was alchemy.

For the fact is that the classic "44 day method" for aging cordials is hooey. 44 days will make a fine limoncello-- and did, in fact. But limoncello is more an infusion than a cordial: the sugar is added later, so the effect is less about mellowing all the flavors than simply sweeting a well-infused pot of vodka. (The recipe is simple, though the internet is rife with tinkerers: place the peels (no pith) of 6 lemons in a one-quart mason jar and fill it with vodka. Wait 4 weeks, then strain out the peels. Add a simple syrup to fill the jar again, and place it in the freezer for another... oh, hell... drink it whenever).

Infusions, indeed, are quick: I recently experimented with a banana-infused rum, placing most of a ripe banana and a very small piece of vanilla in a jam jar filled with white rum. The banana almost instantaneously took on the aspect of a medical specimen. But after four or five days the rum was very flavorful, and before too long the experiment had come to an end: the rum had vanished.

Cordials take a wee bit longer. For the fruit cordials I've just made-- so far I've got one and a half jars of strawberry; one jar of black raspberry; one jar of blueberry with coriander; one jar of apricot (with honey); and one jar of limoncello-- the fruit and sugar go in at once. Indeed, I consider it best to macerate the fruit with sugar for a few hours before decanting it into the jar and adding the vodka. The fruit then stays in the jar for about two weeks or so. But then it needs time to mellow.

Does this mean that it evaporates? How does the aging process work? Part of me-- recalcitrant, obtuse-- refuses to understand the science.

Another part of me refuses to learn how to decant.

Yes, that was me-- not just another picture I stole from the internet.

Most of the fluid is young strawberry cordial. Some of it is tears.



***

Here is one of the first articles I read online about fruit cordials. Sadly, I don't own any books about cordial-making, although I hope soon to have something to say about the excellent Moonshine: Its History and Folklore, by Esther Kellner (New York, 1971).

Incidentally, another fluid currently waiting for consumption inside a mason jar is a bottle of farm-brewed Amish kombucha. A bacterial soda: literally. And quite refreshing, I might add. I'm about to pour a glass of it right now- - for unlike everything else, it's ready to drink.

A Bigger Box

Today's CSA share didn't fit in the usual half-peck box; it arrived in an Tröegs beer box. This boded well, as did the feathery tips of carrot and parsnip greens peeking out.
The box consisted of the following:
- a quart of beautiful red potatoes, which were sweet and waxy when poached (and served with butter and parsley)
- four small but tasty carrots, quickly devoured. I looked up a number of recipes for carrot greens, but couldn't decide on anything.
- two small parnsips
- a pint of snow peas
- two round white onions
- a handful of various peppers, sweet and hot
- a bag of salad greens
- a whole bag (!) of broccoli crowns
- a head of purple cabbage
- a bunch of kale (no longer just a delicate nosegay. An actual bunch)
- a bunch of swiss chard

The swiss chard instantly became a swiss chard and parsley frittata, which was rather tasty. Here's a version of the recipe, which I more or less followed, albeit without the cheese. In southern France it's called a Trouchia, to which I say: gezunteit!

I think tomorrow will require a nice salade niçoise, with the greens, the remaining potatoes, and the snow peas. But finally, the true summer conundrum has arrived: what am I going to do with all that kale and broccoli? A purple cabbage? The moment of truth has arrived. So far, the pattern of pizza, pasta, pizza, pasta, pasta, pasta, pasta has proven to be a purely binary code. What next?

Things are starting to heat up.

Coach Taylor

We've just had the pleasure of a visit from our dear friend "Coach" Taylor, who had planned originally to wing into town for our massive neighborhood 5th of July barbecue. (More on that to follow). But since her feet were tired from a cross-country hike, she delivered herself to us on Monday instead.

The exciting thing about the trip was less the food we made, than the food we planned; last night I bombed yet again in my attempt to make a decent pizza dough-- I'm cursed, I swear-- and made two pissaladières that felt like they were made out of baked library paste. "These pissaladières aren't worth the paper they're printed on," I heard Coach say.

Tonight we had carne asada tacos with store-bought corn tortillas that were, upon reflection, strikingly similar in texture.

But again, this wasn't the interesting part of the visit. By far more important has been the critical planning we've begun for "Camp E-Colo," which begins in a few weeks. For the uninitiated: Camp E-Colo is the Colorado incarnation of the more familiar Camp E-Coli, the annual core peeps retreat to inexpensive rental lodgings in Vermont and, perhaps increasingly, elsewhere (the possibilities, nearly endless, are fun to fantasize about: Camp E-Colini (Tuscany); Camp E-Cuador (Ecuador) ; Camp E-Cali (San Francisco); Camp E-Cholo (New Mexico), etc.).

The name originated one summer a few years ago, when we found that our nearby swimming lake was closed, thanks to the bacterial side-effects of heavy rains after a drought. It does not refer to the cooking, which, next to reading, drinking, swimming, and eating, is our favorite camp activity.

So with Coach Taylor on the premises, it was natural for some menu-planning to begin. "What," we asked ourselves, "best reflects the spirit and influence of Colorado-- you know, the ranches, the mountains, the swimming holes, the hippies?"

This is what we came up with. The list, incidentally, is courtesy of Coach Taylor:

Trout: grilled, smoked, or poached; for breakfast, with hollandaise sauce; trout tacos (if you know what I mean)
Elk and buffalo (but no moose. That's just not done.)
Spoon bread
Pork with tomatillo chili
Venison chili
Pancakes (but they must only be called "griddle cakes" or "flapjacks")
Fried catfish
Huevos rancheros
Moonshine

We also like to have theme meals at our camps, so we came up with some themes:

Taco Tuesday (coupled with the venison chili, the theme might be "Farty Friday")
Southern Extravaganza
Cowboy Grub, or Welcome to the Rodeo
A Taste of Iberia

-----
Two final notes:

1) In transcribing the list above from the original handwritten menu, Coach Taylor has edited out "grilled pizza." Dang. I think it's time to figure out how to make that dough, and properly.

2) What sentence isn't improved by adding "if you know what I mean" to the end?

Too Much Cooking, Not Enough Writing

What happened? Here it is, the mid-point of the calendar year. Summer is cruising along at full speed: a regular drunken boat. The sun is shining, the strawberries have begun to wane, and the summer squash is on the rise, proliferating, as summer squash does. The farmers' markets are bustling, and our farm-share boxes are getting heavier, if ever so slightly.

So why is it that I can hardly bring myself to write about all this?

Aside from the fact that it's much easier to write about the idea of food than about actual food-- perishable, transitory, and often more functional than delicious-- it would be safe to chalk this reluctance up to a lack of necessary idleness. To put it otherwise: I've been spending so much time scrambling to figure out what to do with a single summer squash, a sole bulb of kohlrabi, or a handful of pea pods, that the aftermath of an evening's dinner and cleanup finds me wiped clean- - a blank slate, fresh out of ideas.

Some of the improvisations have been successful. Some have achieved merely subsistence-level adequacy. Perhaps this, too, has been a factor. Who wants to write about (let alone remember) yet another pasta-with-greens-and garlic dish?

But summer's bounty is upon us all the same. Last week's farm share consisted of the following:

a bag of mixed lettuce
a nosegay of kale
three green onions
a crown of broccoli
a crown of cauliflower
a baggie of snap peas
a bulb of kohlrabi

As ever, the vegetables were gorgeous, albeit rendered all the more precious by their limited quantities; everything arrived clean, delicately packaged, and pristine. Once again-- we had our dear friends J. and E. in town-- we made grilled pizzas with the sautéed greens. Only this time I completely botched the pizza dough, and so at the last minute, with the toddlers fast approaching bedtime, we had to scramble to get everything ready. H. ran out to buy dough from a local pizzeria, and I hustled to get the pizzas on the table before everyone's nerves unraveled entirely.

How humbling. I now realize my error: the water I used to activate the yeast was far too hot. I'm ashamed even now to admit it: the water was nearly boiling. I'd heated it in the electric kettle, watching it approach the boiling point with a dull, innocent gaze. Instead of waking up the yeast with a warm bath, I murdered it. The dough, which never rose, sat inert and massive on the stove-top, hardening slowly into brick. Later that evening, I threw it away.

The pizzas themselves were perfectly adequate, thanks to the new dough.

Somewhat more noteworthy was a frittata we made the next day with the remaining ingredients from the farm share box: sautéed cauliflower, kohlrabi, and some leftover rice. The frittate was pleasant, especially when flanked by a bright salad of micro-greens from the local farmer's market. I was especially pleased by the kohlrabi: what pleasant little bulbs they are!

Today's farm-share brought some new developments, and I've been straining to think about how best to use it all:

a bunch of swiss chard
four bulbous green onions
crowns of broccoli and cauliflower
a summer squash
a small green pepper and one hot pepper
two heads of lettuce

Come to think of it, I ended up using much of this share in tonight's dinner, a humble fried rice dish made with one of the green onions, the yellow squash, and the single hot pepper, along with some corn, egg, and rice. Heck, that's already a substantial portion of the share.

What both excites and troubles me about the farm share is the micro-managerial impulse it awakens. Much of this, I am sure, derives from the novelty of the experience-- again, this is our first time trying out this sort of thing. But there's an intrinsic structural difference as well. Indeed, how different it is to receive a half-bushel box of produce than to wheel a cart through the supermarket-- or, for that matter, to stroll through some open-air market, following your nose.

In the latter cases, after all, you're the one doing the selecting. With a farm share, you simply open the box. Yet having the challenge of selection removed from the act of buying vegetables adds a whole new set of challenges. It also-- perversely-- adds a whole new layer of selection as well. What needs to be used first? Which elements belong together, and which remain incompatible, demanding separate dishes, separate meals?

The experience is, in the end, one of basic husbandry: how do I get these vegetables to yield one, two, or even three meals? How can I swell their ranks with rice, pasta, eggs, beans, or dough? Like a cured meat product, the vegetables have been reduced-- and thus elevated-- to the status of flavoring agent.

Vegetables, in other words, are the new bacon. Now there's something to get excited about.