I do not like broccoli. And I haven't liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I'm President of the United States and I'm not going to eat any more broccoli. -- George H. W. Bush
I feel for you, George, because frankly, I agree: if you get to be the President, you shouldn't have to eat anything you don't want to. You have a hard enough job as it is.
But broccoli is a tough choice for the hateration, because broccoli is the only health food left that hasn't been denounced as something that will kill you. Seafood was okay until it came out that the mercury content in fish can decrease heart health. Spinach was okay until that nasty E. coli outbreak. Broccoli is the last thing to avoid the nutritional blacklist.
It's a good thing that I like broccoli.
Broccolini-Mushroom Pesto Pasta
Confession: I didn't use broccoli for this recipe, although you certainly could; I used broccolini, a broccoli-kai lan (Chinese broccoli) hybrid that has a milder flavor. You'll find that the sauce is surprisingly creamy -- especially if you are generous with the olive oil.
1 lb campanelle pasta, cooked 1 bunch broccolini 5 cloves garlic, finely chopped or minced 1/4 - 1/2 cup olive oil plus 2 Tbsp 8 oz sliced mushrooms 2 Tbsp pine nuts pepper, salt, red pepper flakes to taste grated myzithra cheese, to taste
*Roughly chop the broccolini into manageable pieces and steam. (My method is to put a steamer basket in a pot, fill it with water until it touches the bottom of the basket, put the veggies in the basket, cover, and set on the stove on high for 7 minutes.)
*In a frying pan, saute the garlic on medium in 2 Tbsp of olive oil until softened, about two minutes. Add the mushrooms and the salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes and saute until the mushrooms are soft and brown -- about 6 minutes.
*Put the broccolini and the mushroom mixture in a food processor or blender and blend. Slowly add in the remaining olive oil until the texture is at your preferred smoothness.
*Toss with pasta and top with myzithra. Serve immediately, if not sooner.
One of the baristas at my favorite coffee shop asked me what my six favorite restaurants are. "I like to ask foodies that. Because sometimes they pick really nice places, and sometimes they pick total dives."
It took me awhile to think of my favorites, and she's right -- some of the places where I like to eat have really fabulous food. And some are total dives. I don't really love eating out; I'm happier at home, because I love to cook and I make food to my precise specifications. Eating out is something I do because other people like it, or because I need to get out of the house.
I realize this is tantamount to blasphemy.
But there are places where I love to go. One such place is La Cocina Santiago on Broadway here in Seattle. I gave up on finding authentic Mexican food back when I left California, and La Cocina hardly brings back taste memories from my childhood. No, this place is largely comfort food for me -- plates with too much cheese, soft flour tortillas. I love the lighting, too, and the waiters who remember me and speak to me in simple Spanish. And there's one thing on their menu that I really do enjoy, one thing that inspired me to come home and make it myself: shrimp tacos.
My shrimp tacos are totally different than the ones you can order at La Cocina. But mine are still pretty delicious.
Shrimp and Black Bean Tacos
makes 6 tacos
2 Tbsps olive oil 10-12 cloves garlic, minced or finely chopped 1/2 cup chopped white onion 1-1/2 or 2 pounds peeled shrimp, tail off 1 15oz can black beans juice from 1/2 lemon juice from 1/2 lime pepper, to taste salt, to taste red pepper flakes, to taste 1 small avocado, cubed 1 small to medium tomato, cubed 1/2 cup finely chopped cilantro cheddar cheese sour cream 6 soft taco sized flour tortillas
Heat the oil in a skillet on medium. Add the garlic and onions and saute until softened, about 2 minutes. Now add the shrimp and saute until cooked -- the shrimp should be thoroughly pink -- about 5-6 minutes. Turn the heat down to medium-low and add the black beans, the lemon juice, and the lime juice. Season to your liking with pepper, salt, and red pepper flakes, and continue to cook until the beans are warm.
Now assemble the tacos. Spoon the shrimp-bean mixture into the warmed tortillas, and garnish with avocado, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, and sour cream. Serve.
"The LORD brings the counsel of the nations to nothing; he frustrates the plans of the peoples." – Psalm 33:10, New American Standard
“Life is pain, Highness.” – The Princess Bride
*
Thanksgiving, 2008: I made steak, at Jess’ request.He had been living with my husband and I for about five months at that time.I had not been entirely onboard with the idea, frankly, worried that if Jess moved in I’d lose both my husband and my best friend.But by November, I’d relaxed.I loved Jess; I loved living with Jess.He and Josh were getting along famously, and even the cat was coming around.
The steak, on the other hand, was an unmitigated disaster.
After dinner, I caught my husband in the hallway and said, “I’m sorry about the steak.”
And he said, “Forget the steak.Why are you so distant?”
I don’t remember what I said, if anything.I do remember coming into the living room, where Jess and my best girl friend, Meghin, were sitting, and saying “I don’t think my marriage is going to make it.”
I didn’t mean it, not when the words were coming out of my mouth, but then I did.Once I’d said it, I’d meant it.It was the first time I’d really committed to the thought.Until then, I’d thought the elephant in the room was only a rough patch.Surmountable.Temporary.
*
It was Meghin’s idea to make an Indian feast for Thanksgiving 2009.I trolled the internet for menus, trying out recipes for coconut chicken curries.There would be naan, and handmade paneer, and momo with peanut chutney.It was my kind of challenge – a whole host of things I’d never made, spices with which I was unfamiliar, a cuisine I’d never tried cooking before.I issued verbal invitations to several extra people.A friend of Meghin’s.A coworker of mine.And when I met Lisa, I made a mental note to invite her, too.
*
Summer.August, actually.Lisa and I were lying on Alki Beach in West Seattle.I hadn’t known her for very long – this was, in fact, only the fourth time I’d seen her.She was telling me about the things that had made her leave Massachusetts to live here in Washington.“This time last year,” she said, “I was planning to buy a house.Probably in Portland.My girlfriend and I were going to move out together.And then I lost my job, and my girlfriend and I broke up.This is not how I planned things.”
“My life didn’t turn out the way I planned either,” I said, surprising myself.“I mean, two years ago I wouldn’t have thought things would end up the way they have.But I like it.”
“What changed?” she asked, so I told her.
“Almost a decade ago, I walked into a job interview in Denver and met Jess.We were unsure of each other at first, but then, like a light switch, we were close.Not best friends, not at first, but siblings.And then Jess moved from Denver to Seattle, and we kept in contact, and two years later, I followed and – isn’t this boring?Isn’t this a terribly mundane story?And it is, it is, it’s nothing at all, except that at this time Jess was a girl.”
I told Lisa, on that beach, things that I’d never planned to tell her.Not right away, not until I could be sure that she was not going to be horrified or judgmental.Not until I was sure of her.But once I’d started talking about Jess, about the girl Jess used to be, I could not stop.
*
Thanksgiving, 2009: I didn’t make the Indian feast.
One by one, I watched the pillars of my former life fall away.In early October, I asked my husband for a divorce; he took half the stuff and left while I was at work, jarringly and unexpectedly.Meghin and I had a falling out, and she decided not to come over on Thanksgiving.And Lisa – well, I didn’t plan to fall in love.But I did.
It was not the Thanksgiving I planned to have.It was just me, and Jess, and Lisa, and my baby kitty.I made lasagna instead of paneer.
*Mix all the ingredients for the cheese filling together in a large bowl.Set aside.
*Saute the mushrooms on medium heat in the olive oil.Season to your liking with pepper, salt, and Italian seasoning.Set aside.
*To assemble: lightly grease a 9x13 baking dish.Spread three noodles across the bottom.Spread a thick layer of the cheese filling across the noodles, (approx ¼ of the filling) then top with spinach, then three noodles.Second layer: filling and pesto.Third layer: filling, pesto, and mushrooms. Fourth layer: filling and spinach.Top with the remaining three noodles.Spread the last of the pesto across the top and sprinkle parmesan over that.
*Cover with foil.You can refrigerate the lasagna at this point for up to 24 hours, or bake immediately.
*Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.Bake for 30 minutes, unless you’ve refrigerated the lasagna, in which case, bake for 45 minutes.Remove the foil and bake 15-20 minutes more, until bubbling.Let the lasagna stand for about 10 minutes before serving.
*alternatively titled, So It May Be Obvious That I Lost The Camera In The Divorce
The best part about dating is the food.
The first few months are all bread and wine, ice cream and candlelight dinners. I loved the Indian meal we shared -- I had to order, because she didn't know what anything was. I loved the picnic on the beach, bread and pesto and cheese and grapes. I loved pizza in a corner table.
But some time, you gotta start eating at home.
I don't actually restaurants. All right, that's a lie. It's just hard for me to eat out and not think, I could have done this myself at home, spent less, and had more garlic. And anyway, I love to cook.
And I especially love cooking for people. For people I love.
It can be a balancing act. Jess is lactose intolerant. I hate tomatoes. Lisa dislikes carrots. And last night, I had no idea what to make to feed all three of us.
I was pretty excited about my final choice, my own take on a classic pasta primavera, similar in nature to my favorite green bean side dish. And it started off well, Lisa and Jess having light, comedic conversation across from me as I chopped the basil and then....
Bam. One minute my finger was 6 inches away, and then it was under my knife.
I've never cut myself cooking before. I'm pathologically careful, and I keep my knives sharp. It's not a bad cut, as far as they go. Mostly I was furious. I cleaned myself up, made Lisa open the tomatoes, and my shiny new recipe came off without another hitch.
I just don't normally put this much of myself into cooking dinner.
Blood, Sweat, and Pasta serves 4
1 Tbsp olive oil 1/4 cup diced white onion 4-5 cloves garlic, chopped 1/4 cup chopped fresh basil 2Tbps chopped fresh oregano 1 16oz can diced peeled tomatoes 3 large zucchini, cut into chunks 1/4 cup sliced olives 1/4 cup pine nuts (optional) 1/2 lb cooked whole wheat rotini 4oz shredded mozzarella salt and pepper, to taste
Saute the onions and garlic in olive oil in a saute pan until softened. Add the basil, oregano, tomatoes, and zucchini. Cover and simmer until the zucchini is soft -- about 20 minutes. Stir in the pine nuts and olives. Toss with rotini and add mozzarella. Season as desired with salt and pepper.
It was a bit of romance that made Lisa drive us to Alki Beach – the scene of a particular sort of crime.She parked and I led her by the hand to the beach, to a spot right across the street from a fish and chips shop where’d we lunched a month or two before.“That’s it,” I said, pointing out into the water.
“What’s it?”
“That’s the spot where I fell for you.We waded out into the water together.I can’t remember the last time someone was in the water with me…so it was special to me, rare.And I looked over at you, in the water, and I saw that the water was touching both of us.And I just felt connected to you.”
“Do you know where I fell for you?”
“No.Where?”
“We were eating lunch on the beach together in Discovery Park.You were laying in the sand.And you said, ‘I couldn’t sleep last night.I was too excited.’”
We crossed the street together.A polite and ceremonious waiter served us Pad Thai.
*
It’s not always a dish that is emblematic of a relationship, of course.Sometimes it’s a piece of music, a whole song or just a line.Sometimes it’s a place.A book.A color.I will never be able to eat an olive without remembering a particular someone, or read a certain John Irving novel without remembering another.And I will never again be able to eat Pad Thai without remembering Lisa.
Pad Thai at the end of a long day perusing book sales.Pad Thai across from the beach at Alki.Pad Thai with a waiter who clearly thought we were a cute couple.And a trip to the Thai restaurant by her apartment where neither of us ordered Pad Thai and I noticed the absence acutely.
Of course this meant I had to make it for her.
I took her to Seattle’s International District, which is a stunning disappointment after San Francisco’s Chinatown, but still well worth it for one reason: Uwajimaya.One of the largest, if not THE largest, Asian grocery store in the Pacific Northwest.I’ve yet to meet the person who hates visiting Uwajimaya, no matter how they feel about grocery shopping in general.Lisa was no exception.She loved the odd selection of foreign pastries.I introduced her to a geoduck, which she felt the need to touch.(“What’s a geoduck?”“You’re staring at one, Lisa.”“Okay, but what is it?”)I had to pull her out of the candy aisle, and even though I had all the ingredients for lunch in my basket, she talked me into splitting one of their Vietnamese sandwiches on the way home.
“I’m nervous about this,” I told her in my kitchen.“I’ve never used a wok before.”Sure enough, I burnt myself while seasoning it, too timid about the sparking oil to be confident around it.“It’s supposed to heat up very fast, to cook the food very fast.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.Everything you cook is fine.”
“Do you know who you’re dealing with here?I won’t be pleased unless it’s perfect.”
I made the sauce first on some unremembered source’s advice, because you want to keep the pan hot and you don’t want to be missing around with getting the seasonings perfectly balanced while the wok is going.Problem number one: I had no idea what perfectly balanced Pad Thai sauce tastes like.Mine tasted like fish sauce, which should have been a tip off but wasn’t enough of one.I tried to even it out with lime, garlic, and brown sugar.
I was too timid with the sugar.
I was too timid with the wok once I started to cook, too, because even though I’ve cooked chicken in the same way I was attempting to cook the tofu, I kept my heat too low.The result was not awful – but it wasn’t golden brown and glorious, either.
And I was too timid with the rice sticks, afraid to overcook or undercook.They were chewy.
There are two places where it’s a bad idea to be timid: in the kitchen, and in love.
“It’s not awful.I’m not completely embarrassed to serve it.”
“I think it’s good.”
“It’s too salty.And the noodles are gummy, and I didn’t get the tofu right.I know how to fix everything, though.That’s a comfort.It isn’t perfect, but I know how to fix it. “
“Allycen?I think this is pretty good.”
No, I’ll never be able to eat Pad Thai again, not without thinking of her.
This wouldn't be entirely untrue. It's been a busy summer; most of the cooking I've been doing has been limited to hitting the "popcorn" button on the microwave. The rest has been a succession of miserable failures alongside only slightly morose failures. When I was lucky enough to have the time to cook at all, mind -- my mother came to visit twice, and then...okay, I can't remember what else. Anyway, I didn't cook much.
And then I went to Southern California to visit my mom (because twice the month before was apparently not enough) and I didn't cook at all.
But I most certainly didn't starve. I stepped off the plane in Long Beach, 5 hours after a sandwich. I'd had two teensy little cookies courtesy of the airline which did. not. cut. it. I didn't know what I wanted to eat, I didn't know where I wanted to eat, but someone was going to die if I didn't. Modica's Deli in Long Beach didn't thrill me at first sight -- I didn't really know that I wanted another sandwich -- but, well...it was love at first bite.
My sandwich had fresh mozzarella and ultra thin slices of prosciutto, fresh basil, oil and vinaigrette. The bread was perfect -- all air and crust. Enough substance that it never got soggy, but it never overpowered the filling. It was clear that the pesto on my pasta salad had been made from scratch that day; I could taste the ground pine nuts and the basil. It's a rare occurrence that I eat something at a restaurant that makes me say "I could NOT have done any better at home" -- and I certainly never say that about a sandwich. But there's a first time for everything.
Mother didn't fare too badly either: She had a make-your-own salad option wherein you choose a few items to make up your salad. She chose caprese salad with steamed asparagus, some kind of cucumber feta combination, and a side of sauteed mushrooms. The whole shebang cost her about 10 bucks. Beat that.
I could have eaten every meal at Modica's, but there are certain places you have to go when you visit the Golden State, and Canter's is one of them.
Canter's is a Jewish deli where a lot of famous people go and blah, blah, blah, look at their pastries... I had two perfect sweet, soft, chocolate macaroons. Finally -- something that tastes as good as thin feels, yo.
Later in the trip, when what I really wanted was an iced coffee and not dinner, my mother dragged me past Bono's, the restaurant owned by Cher and Sunny Bono's kid.
Hey, I'm all for supporting transgendered-owned business, but I wasn't hungry, damnit. Not until I spotted the calamari on someone's table.
It was not, unfortunately, worth it. But it sure looked pretty. As did our meals.
My pesto was runny; my mother's pasta was reminiscent of Spaghetti-o's. Sure, it was edible, but it was uninspiring. It didn't even come close to Modica's; maybe I should have eaten there for every meal.
*Despite the advice of every cookbook/magazine/wizened chef on the planet, it is totally no problem to try a new recipe or cooking technique for the first time while you are entertaining guests. Hey, these people are your friends, right? They won't judge you (much) if dinner is a total failure. And anyway, there's pizza down the street and it's pretty good.
*Always make too much food. Not only does this decrease the chance that you will have to think of something interesting to pack in the next day's lunch, but it also decreases the chance of freak out when your spouse comes home with a guest you didn't plan for and says "Hey, is there enough food for one more? I ran into Andre."
*It's not a proper barbecue until you have set dinner on fire at least three times.
*It's not a proper barbecue until you set your grill towel on fire, requiring a guest to stamp out the flames because you didn't bother to wear shoes.
*If dinner is really, really good, nobody except you will notice that you forgot: napkins, non-alcoholic drinks, or dessert.
*If dinner is really, really good, and you're really relieved that you didn't burn the house down, you won't be annoyed that your spouse's extra guest means there aren't enough plates and now you have to eat out of a bowl. Bowls are cool anyway.
Basil-Garlic Grilled Chicken
1/2 cup olive oil 1/4 cup fresh chopped basil 4 cloves garlic, finely chopped or minced 5-6 chicken pieces, skin on (I like thighs) salt and pepper, to taste
Mix the first three ingredients together. Rub mixture into the skin of the chicken pieces. Now rain salt and pepper down on the chicken. Put the chicken and the rest of the marinade into a plastic bag and refrigerate for 3-4 hours.
Take the chicken out of the refrigerator about 20 minutes before you cook it, allowing it to reach room temperature before grilling. Grill on medium, moving the pieces around regularly. Chicken is done when the internal temp is about 165 degrees Fahrenheit, or when the juices are clear and the inside is notably not pink. Serve.
I do not like broccoli. And I haven't liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I'm President of the United States and I'm not going to eat any more broccoli. -- George H. W. Bush
