Thieving

I have never been much of a troublemaker. Never skipped class (a lot) in high school, never did (too many) drugs, drank within reason (for a Russian person). The closest I ever came to doing something actually bad was aiding and abetting a rather minor theft. When I was in high school, I was out with a friend at a TGI Fridays type of establishment. My friend wanted to steal a goblet. Why, I don't think I could tell you. And so she did! Stuffed the thing in her bag and ran out to the parking lot, with me close behind. I really thought there would be a police cruiser in my rear view mirror, because clearly, the police would have nothing better to do than chase a couple of dorky 16 year-old girls with a large glass stuffed in a bag... Like I said, I have never been much of a criminal… not in my own eyes, anyway. So it is odd that I now, as an adult (ugh), should choose to steal.

My transgression is this - I have stolen a recipe idea, ripped it off most mercilessly. I attended the wedding of a very good and very old friend this past September (totally weird to see someone you have known since 14 walk down the aisle). The wedding was perfectly lovely, in a country club type place in the middle of gorgeous woods in Virginia (is that right? I think so) and the food was fantastic. Oh it was so good. The two things I remember best were rockfish* stuffed with blue crab (both Maryland specialties), and green beans with dried figs and goat cheese in a white vinaigrette. The green beans in particular were so good, that I stole them. Well, the idea of them.

I attempted to recreate the green beans using a classic French vinaigrette recipe but unfortunately, forgot about the goat cheese until right about now. The vinaigrette was tangy and the figs were sweet and chewy, the beans were fresh tasting and crisp… oh it was really good. Good, but not as good as in VA. Just goes to show you, crime doesn’t pay... much.


*Rockfish is another name for striped bass. I have never heard bass called rockfish outside of the Chesapeake Bay area, curiously enough.

For the vinaigrette (from Epicurious.com)

2 garlic cloves
5 tablespoons heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon Dijon-style mustard (I added little more to make it more mustard-y)
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon olive oil

In a small saucepan boil the garlic in 2 inches water for 15 minutes, or until it is tender, and drain it. In a bowl mash the garlic to a paste and whisk in the cream, the mustard, the lemon juice, and salt and pepper to taste, whisking until the mixture is thickened slightly. Add the oil, drop by drop, whisking, and whisk vinaigrette until it is emulsified.

For the green beans:
Blanch desired amount of green beans in heavily salted boiling water for about 3-5 minutes, until the green beans are bright green and still crisp. Shock in cold water to stop the cooking, and drain well. Toss with desired amount of vinaigrette and about 8 quartered dried figs (or as many as you would like). Add chunks of goat cheese, if you have it [I really wish I did - I missed its creaminess].
The green beans are even better the next day because the figs absorb some of the vinaigrette.



P.S. This is sad, I know, but I have been thinking about this recipe since I got back from the wedding. I tried making it once before but I didn’t have any lemons. Being the amateur that I am, I thought I could use a bit of white wine vinegar instead. I am sure that would have worked well, had I not used the same volume of vinegar as lemon juice. Not so much with the super-vinegar vinaigrette.

The Devil's Own

This year marked my first Thanksgiving without my family. I celebrated instead with good friends and many bottles of wine. Well, I guess the wine remained a constant, even if the company did not. I was very excited about the meal I would prepare and was looking forward to it for days. Everything was in its place in my head, everything was planned and made perfect sense. Not surprisingly, that didn’t last long. Some things didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped, some things didn’t turn out at all, but in the end all was well. The evening was great fun, due in no small part to the fact that Lisa (savior) had prepared half the dinner.

Now, for my part of the meal – the part I am not too embarrassed to discuss, that is.

I was making a butternut squash and apple soup* that was to be garnished with roasted chestnuts after being pushed through a fine mesh sieve - exhausting but worth it. The chestnuts were a new experience for me. I think I have had them just once before – they are not a part of my everyday eating vocabulary. To me, they seem to be a cross between a nut and a potato - slightly mealy, a little nutty, definitely starchy. Very much unlike anything else I have had. I had to learn as I went along.

And this is what I learned that fateful Wednesday before Thanksgiving: chestnuts are the devil’s instrument. Our prison system can be completely revamped by making convicts peel chestnuts instead of doing time. It is a punishment far more horrible and one sure to warn off a relapse of criminal activity. Kids should never be grounded – they should just be forced to peel a pound of chestnuts. They will be guaranteed never to stay out too late or get bad grades again. Brilliant plan, isn’t it! So yeah, I peeled a few chestnuts this Thanksgiving.

I could have bought the chestnuts peeled and ready. But no, I wanted to do things the right (read: hard) way, starting with actual chestnuts. Everything I read about preparing chestnuts made it sound rather easy, nothing too sinister. Score the shell before roasting in the oven and peel the nuts while still warm. Ok. But then came the problem – the stupid shell and underlying tough skin just. would. not. come. off. It was horrible. After getting a couple of cuts on my fingers, running out of curse words, and opening a beer, I tried blanching the nuts in hopes of loosening the shell and skin.

This is when I figured out that when they said “peel while still warm,” they actually meant “while burning, searing, boiling hot straight out of the water.” That was the only way I could get the chestnut skin off. If I allowed the chestnuts to sit for even 10 seconds after coming out of the boiling water, the skin would toughen up again. It was truly awful. I am now completely traumatized and am dead set against all things chestnut. It’s like when you are bitten by a dog when you are little and have an aversion and fear of dogs for the rest of your life, except with chestnuts. To give credit where credit is due, at least half of my suffering was worth it – the cornbread, sausage, and chestnut stuffing that Lisa made was ridiculously good, and the smoothness of the soup I made was nicely offset by the meaty chestnut pieces.

To wrap up, please learn from my mistakes – buy the ready chestnuts. There is no glory to be gained by doing it yourself. All that said (or recalled with a shudder, as it were) I had a wonderful Thanksgiving, with friends, tons of food, and completely unfitting conversation for the dinner table. It was great. So great, in fact, that I completely neglected to take pictures of what we were eating! That's too bad.


*Note : I prepared the soup as in the recipe except that I used an actual butternut squash instead of the jarred nonsense - why go the easy route? It actually worked out really well - I roasted a butternut squash at 450 till it was caramelized and soft (~45 minutes), choped the flesh and added 4 cups to the soup. Better than jarred, I think. Pushing the soup through a fine mesh sieve after blending it seems like yet another form of torture but it was totally worth it for a special occasion - I have never made a soup that smooth. This is not a technique to bust out on a regular Wednesday night.

The Kiss Of The Hops

I don’t know when or how this happened, but crap beer is, and has been for a while, the latest in chic. I was at a bar in the South End full of people who most would consider to be “hip” and “with it”. Many of these scenesters were sitting at the bar, wearing very nice shoes, enjoying something certainly involving truffle oil… all with a can of Schlitz in front of them. It was unbelievable. All the way down the bar, all the people were drinking Schlitz. Someone explain this to me because I don’t understand.

When did this happen? When did people start drinking PBR and Schlitz to be cool? And in the South End, no less! Is this the same kind of trend as wearing hideous trucker hats? Is it trucker chic?

All that being said, I spent all of Monday night in a bar drinking, oh yes, Schlitz. Let me make this clear – I am not a scenester, I am not emo, and I am not a trucker. So what, may you ask, was I doing sitting in a bar for 5 hours on a Monday night with a can (or two) of Schlitz in front of me?

The thing is that I am suggestible. I have never been able to resist the B-Side. That place has a gravitational pull directed right at me. Whenever I am within a five mile radius of the B-Side, I somehow wind up sitting there for hours, regardless of whether that was my plan in the beginning of the evening. [Those of you that are familiar with Boston will understand the implications of the previous sentence. I think all of Boston is about 5 miles in diameter.] I think I have started inventing reasons to go out to the vicinity of Inman Square, just to bail on the “plans” and go to the B-Side. It is absolutely my favorite bar, and employs my very favorite bartender (you can sort of see his back behind the Schlitz can in the drunk-like picture). Should I be concerned that I have a favorite bartender?

The B-Side has a feel and loyal clientele of its own. The back wall is filled with LPs that they actually play, on an actual turntable. The people that work there are very cool, laid back, thoroughly tattooed (so I am certain to like it), and have great taste in music – yesterday’s selection included very early Rolling Stones singles. Tall stands of hard boiled eggs are out on the bar instead of peanuts. How cool is that? The food is fantastic - garlicky blue cheese fries, mussels with basil, and the best calamari I have ever had in my life are just the tip of the food iceberg. I really think they put crack in the blue cheese fries. They are just that good. Don’t misunderstand though – this is not the place for typical bar food – the special that night was a flounder with haricot vert and a caper beurre blanc. Yeah. One day I will manage to get past the fries and eat an actual dinner.

So anyway, there I was on a Monday night, drinking a Bass, eating good things, when I happened to mention the bizarre Schlitz phenomenon to a friend who is a very, very bad influence (you know who you are). About a second later, I had a thoroughly entertained bartender and a can of Schlitz in front of me. Both the Owner-Patrick and Bartender-Mike were inspired to pop open beers of their own. And that’s when things started getting a little blurry, as the picture might suggest. Owner-Patrick thought us amusing enough to pull out another round when I was barely done with the first one.

Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t drunk. I think it may be a physical impossibility for me to get drunk off Schlitz. I could never ingest the volume of fluid that would be necessary to get to Schlitz-based drunken-ness. The beer is fizzy and hydrating, much like a carbonated Gatorade, with a only faint beer-like taste.

So I didn't get to the bottom of the cheap-beer-coolness phenomenon, but it wasn't for lack of effort. The bartender said we were punk rock. He may have been joking. [I totally am though, FYI]



P.S. Next post will be about Thanksgiving dinner! I am hosting for the first time this year. I had about 5 seconds of cockiness that were quickly followed by shear and persistent terror. Wish me luck.

South Street Diner

Lest you all think that I am some sort of a class act, please let me present my latest favorite : South Street Diner, in the Leather District. I was at a biotech networking event at a bar next door to the diner. Once the miracle that is vodka stopped counteracting the horror that is networking, it was time to go… next door. Luckily, South St. Diner is the absolute last place one would ever find a biotech-er. Good thing too, because if I saw another business card that night, I would most certainly be ill.

South St. is a real 50's style diner, with a long bar and stools, and booths along the wall. It was appropriately dingy, but not too much for my comfort. The juke box and one end of the bar was inexplicably playing Nelly (the boy, not the girl), totally ruining the late night diner atmosphere, but that's ok. The people that worked there were so nice! Really warm, welcoming, and talkative (in a good way).

The food was typical diner food, done well. There was no interpreting of old classics, no “deconstructing” of the grilled cheese. It was straight-forward, good diner food. We ordered a pile of fried things, including homefries. They were deep fried and crispy, sprinkled with something spicy and salty. Homefries are soooo good at 10PM on a Tuesday, especially after a couple of drinks. I was fully intending to continue drinking but was informed that they were having certain issues with their liquor license. The waitress said that everyone that comes in there is drunk anyway. Fair enough.



South St Diner
178 Kneeland St (Cross Street: South Street)
Boston, MA 02111-2733
617.350.0028

How To Ruin A Manicure in A Few Easy Steps

I took the day off! I only went into lab for a few minutes. I used the day to put my life back together – it’s remarkable how errands (and dirty clothes) pile up when you’re never home. One of my most important errands of the day? Oh yes, getting my nails done. This happens about every 6 months and is just about the greatest thing.

My manicures have a very limited life span – if the the gloves in lab don't do them in, cooking does. The kitchen is a varnished nail’s worst nightmare. Sharp knives wait around to take a chunk out, dirty dishes lay around the sink aiming to dull the shine, bits of food climb underneath to make me look (if not act) like a ten year old boy.

After along nap (manicures can be exhausting!) it was time to make dinner. I don’t know if y’all are aware of this, but Boston is cold. Really cold. Big, warm soup is all I can eat once November hits (it does feel like a punch most years). To honor this cold November Saturday, I made a squash and sweet potato soup. Roasting the vegetables helped to warm my kitchen… guess it made the soup taste better too, as a pleasant side effect.

My kitchen may have warmed up, but oh how my nails suffered in the process. I somehow managed to drop a piece of turnip into the oven, below the grate at the bottom. I would be lying if I said this was the first time I ever dropped anything in there. Bugger. I had to remove the bottom of the oven to get the turnip bit out and avoid a fire... or at least a nasty smell. This involved me not only locating, but using a screwdriver. Oven, screwdriver, manicure - not words that belong together in a sentence.

The roasting made the squash and sweet potatoes so sweet that the resulting soup scared me a little – it was almost dessert. Crème fraiche did the trick, muting the sweetness with a bit of sour; the thyme made the soup woodsy and rich. Combined with laundry (yet another activity to wreck my nails) and my 5,000th viewing of the first Harry Potter movie, it had a pretty good November Saturday. I am trying to pretend that my love for Oliver Wood is not wrong.

Well-Manicured Squash Soup

1 carnival squash (or any other would work)
2 small sweet potatoes
1 medium onion, chopped
5 large garlic cloves
1 tsp fresh thyme
pinch of cayenne pepper
~4 cups chicken stock
1 tbsp crème fraiche

1) Rub halved squash, potatoes, and unpeeled garlic cloves with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast at 400F for about 45 minutes, until all are soft (remove garlic early so it doesn’t burn).
2) Peel the roasted garlic cloves, scoop out the squash and potato, chop the flesh – a smart person would have waited for all to cool before attempting this. I did not. Ouch.
3) Sauté onion in olive oil until soft, add the roasted veg and chicken stock. Bring to a boil and add thyme and cayenne. Cook over low heat for about 15 minutes till all the flavors combine.
4) Buzz with immersion blender (my most favorite of all kitchen toys, thanks to the most greatest aunt and uncle of all time) and thin with more chicken stock if you’d like – I prefer my soup on the thick side. Add crème fraiche and reheat.



P.S. To allay your fears, my nails made it through. They shall live to see another day.

Do As I Don't

I am so tired. How tired? So tired that I am afraid I might fall asleep on my laptop and damage it somehow, which would just about kill me. Tiredness for me glides right into laziness. If there is something I don’t absolutely have to do (for fear of swift retribution), you can be sure I will not do it. My accumulating dishes and the general war zone appearance of my apartment are clear evidence of my new-found laziness.

I am the queen of shortcuts these days (oh how my hair hates me. My hair is a shortcut, I am afraid). I took a few shortcuts that I now wish I hadn’t while making dinner. It was good but it could have been better. It wasn’t in scary in-between land but it was close. To be honest, I was excited enough just to have dinner that didn't consist of chips and salsa. Food shouldn't be triangular.

I got another gorgeous eggplant in my last Boston Organics box. Lacking the energy to do anything involved with the eggplant (or my hair, apparently) I popped it in the oven whole to roast while I… take a guess… worked. I remembered about it about an hour and a half later, and it was just right – wrinkled, collapsed, and smelling rich (I could go places with that but I am, err, too tired). I wish I had taken a picture of the roasted and collapsed eggplant but sadly, that activity fell under the category of shortcut. It sat in the refrigerator till I was ready for it.


I wanted to make something resembling a Georgian (the country, not the state) dish that is frequently on the menu at Russian restaurants. I unfortunately cannot remember what it’s called – any family member reading this is welcome to chime in. Its two main ingredients are eggplant and walnuts, all mushed up together into a sort of spread or cold salad. Curious aside – a “salad” in Russia/Georgia is something quite different from the standard American lettuce-based mix. It’s most often something that is cooked and served cold, frequently drowning in mayonnaise.

I set out to create my version of this Georgian mystery-salad with roasted eggplant, cilantro, walnuts, and lemon juice. When it came time to mush up the eggplant, the thought of pulling out my (beautiful, gorgeous, beloved… and heavy) 11 cup food processor was immediately vetoed. Instead, I used a fork to break up the roasted eggplant. That worked well enough, but the salad would have been better were the eggplant smoother. Mine was still a bit on the chunky side.

I had beautiful raw walnut halves from Trader Joe’s (my sincerest condolences to all those that have to live without TJ's). I briefly contemplated roasting them but that sounded like work, so I didn’t. Should have though! I could hardly taste the walnuts in the final product. I forgot how much flavor roasting brings out in nuts. Despite my shortcuts, I was pretty happy with the result. Lemon and cilantro added freshness to the rich and slightly smoky eggplant and it was all smoothed out with olive oil.

I had this salad, dip, or mush concoction with the most perfect bread from the most perfect grocery store in Watertown. Russo’s is possibly better than Whole Foods for produce, if that’s even possible. I will make a point of taking pictures of it (and possibly of the many posh-looking people that shop there) next time I go. Ok, so Watertown is nasty and scary (in parts). I recommend going with a friend. And a cell phone.

Eggplant and Walnut “Salad”
Do as I didn’t – roast the walnuts and puree the eggplant. Or not.

1 medium eggplant
¼ cup toasted, roughly chopped walnuts
¼ packed cup roughly chopped cilantro
handful of chopped chives
juice of one lemon
1 tbsp olive oil
pinch of sugar (it must be genetic. My Mom told me that the majority of Jewish food has sugar in it somewhere).
salt and pepper

1) Smear eggplant with a little bit of olive oil, poke a few holes in the skin to allow vapor to escape, and roast at 375F for about an hour, or until its soft and wrinkly, and allow to cool.
2) Scoop the flesh out of the eggplant and mush with a fork (or a food processor, if you are so inclined and energized).
3) Mix in the rest of the ingredients.
4) Nap, if possible. That may have just been me though.

P.S. Entirely off the topic of food (just this once, I promise): I have come to the realization that I *hate* statistics with the fire of a thousand suns. Mr. Bonferroni can take his Multiple Comparisons Test and shove it where those suns will never shine. Oh, and! Has anyone ever noticed that Microsoft Excel rhymes with HELL?
Ok. I am done now.

I Am Learn'ed

I learn new things all the time. Not in grad school, mind you – there I only learn how much I don’t know. I mean that I learn things by exploring, by listening, by putting things in my mouth that make most people cringe. That’s how I learn – I eat weird things. I recently learned that chile on watermelon is stellar and that fried pickles are so much better than they sound. Recently, I learned something new about peanuts.

I had a chance to go to a Red Sox game a while back – they had started sucking royally and tickets to the games were easy to come by. The scalpers couldn’t give tickets away, much less turn a profit. Since I couldn’t make myself care about the Red Sox if I tried (although Theo Epstein is completely adorable) their suckage didn’t bother me one bit. I like going to games for the eating… and ok, the drinking.

We sat down right behind home plate with enough barely-yellow beer to last through at least half the game (my first thorough experience with Bud Light… *shudder* ), hot dogs, and a bag of peanuts. I don’t know why, but those were the best peanuts ever. They were salt encrusted and roasted to a perfect pale yellow (the good kind of pale yellow, not the Bud light kind).

I was busy drinking, talking about something perfectly insubstantial, and building a distinctly un-ladylike pile of peanut shells by my feet when I heard my friend’s peanut crunch differently in her mouth than in mine. You know why? She ate the peanut with the shell on. I didn’t know you could do that! Since anything that can serve as a vehicle for salt gets an A+ in my book, I tried it… and it was great. The nuts tasted a lot earthier (well, obviously). The papery dryness of the shell combined with the firm crunch of the nut inside and oh, there was all that glorious salt... Absolutely perfect with beer. Who knew that a plain old peanut could reach such tasty heights! Well, my friend clearly did, and now I do too… because I listened to her chew. I weird even myself out sometimes.

So engrossed was I with the peanuts and the conversation and ok, the beer, that I didn’t notice what was going on down on the field. The Red Sox had 11 runs scored against them in one inning. Eleven! In one inning! Seems like it would take work to suck that badly. It was at this point that I inquired as to who the Red Sox were actually playing… that seemed immaterial in the prior hour, with all those peanuts… and ok, the beer to occupy me. I may not have any recollection as to who the Sox were playing, but I sure remember the peanuts, and their shells. I am all kinds of learn’ed now.