"When one has tasted watermelon, he knows what angels eat." --Mark Twain
True that! Is there any other food that sings of summer like sweet watermelon? In every store now, at affordable in-season prices, get 'em while you can. How to find the best? Watermelons don't ripen or get sweeter after they're picked, so look for the pale yellow spot that tells you the melon ripened on the ground, in the sun. Pick a heavy one, too--they're 92% water, so one with more heft is likely to be juicy.
Growing up, we drove to Southern Illinois every summer to visit family. Farmers would sit by the road with a truck bed full of watermelons, practically giving them away. My dad would buy a few and we'd take them to my grandmother's, where he would drop them on the ground, so we could eat the hearts. It was wasteful and decadent--of course, we all loved it. Why mess with seeds when there was such abundance? Now, of course we have seedless watermelons, so it's one more memory that today's kids won't get to have. No seed-spitting competitions for our grandchildren.
For years and years, watermelons were simply sliced--or dropped--or used in those clever fruit salads that require lots of time, patience, and a fair amount of skill. But what a sight, to see someone carry in a magnificent watermelon, carefully scooped out, edges scalloped, and filled with summer fruits!
Like all foods, chefs and foodies eventually "discovered" watermelon and elevated it to gourmet status. I am not the least bit critical of their efforts--watermelon deserves to be appreciated for what it brings to our summer dining.
To celebrate the "wondrous watermelon," here are three recipes that will have you heading to the store for ingredients, and enjoying before the weekend is over! Each recipe serves four, so plan accordingly.
WATERMELON GAZPACHO
3-4 cups watermelon, diced 2 cups ripe tomatoes, seeded and chopped 1/2 large cucumber, peeled and diced 2 Tablespoons olive oil 2 Tablespoons red wine vinegar Salt to taste
Mix everything together. Take about half and put in a food processor for fine-dicing. Then remix. Chill well and serve!
WATERMELON, SPINACH, AND BACON SALAD
2 Tablespoons sweet Asian chili sauce 2-3 Tablespoons fresh lime juice 1-2 Tablespoons olive oil 1 package of baby spinach leaves 2-3 cups watermelon, cubed 3-4 slices crisp bacon, crumbled 1/4 red onion, sliced fine
In a large salad bowl, whisk together the first three ingredients. Add everything else and toss together.
WATERMELON AND FETA SALAD WITH MINT AND HONEY
4 cups watermelon, sliced or cubed 4 ounces feta cheese, sliced or crumbled 2-3 Tablespoons honey Fresh mint leaves, finely cut or sliced
Cut watermelon in slices or cubes. Place on a plate with cheese (cut to match the watermelon). Drizzle the honey over the top, then generously sprinkle with the mint leaves.
One more bit of good news: Enjoy seedless watermelon--it's a hybrid, not GMO!!
In an earlier Blix, I told you about "Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called" by Jacob Tomsky, a former Front Desk Agent who spilled the beans about the hotel industry, and how discreetly handing over $20 at check-in can change your entire "customer service"experience. (I tried it, and he's absolutely correct!)
Today let's talk about what food servers wish they could tell us. A few years ago, there was a wildly popular blog called "Waiter Rant," where an anonymous waiter vented freely and frequently about the miseries of a career in the restaurant business. Eventually he reached the breaking point and quit...well, for awhile. He took his blog posts, polished them up, and the result: "Waiter Rant: Thanks for the Tip--Confessions of a Cynical Waiter," a no-holds barred description of a thankless job.
If you've ever worked in a restaurant--I lasted two weeks at a Howard Johnson's back in 1969--you become a life-long generous tipper. It's how we acknowledge our brethren who toil on our behalf: "I'm so sorry I asked you for more [whatever]...if I could get it myself, I would." We learn to be efficient in ordering and grateful for a pleasant attitude.
Most restaurants survive on a thin profit margin. Owners are constantly searching for ways to cut costs, with both food and employees. The waitstaff is stuck in the middle: Encouraging diners to choose dishes with bigger profit margins, while tolerating the lunacy of management. Toss in angry chefs, sexual and verbal harassment, lack of benefits, vermin of all kinds, sleazy co-workers...well, you see my point.
That's all before the customers come through the door. Ah, the customers. The author, Steve Dublanica, tells us that there really are great customers. He writes, "Eighty percent of customers are nice people just looking for something to eat. The remaining twenty percent, however, are socially maladjusted psychopaths." As you might suspect, he comes down hard on bad tippers. There are even categories of tippers. See if you fit in any of these groups:
The Verbal Tippers: "Heavy on praise, but cheap with the cash."
The 10-Percenters: Usually senior citizens who think nothing has changed in fifty years.
The Accountants: Tightwads who tip on the total before tax. "If forced to split a check of $100.01, one guy will tip $7.50 and the other will tip $7.49." They complain about the prices, too.
The Flat Tippers: No matter how well they're treated--"you could spill hot soup on their baby"--they always tip 15%. Always.
The Average Joes: They tip between 15-20%, depending on their experience. Easy to deal with, they're most of the customers.
The Nice Customers: They understand and respect that their servers are professionals. Often regulars, they tip 25% or more.
Dublanica tells many tales of his years at "The Bistro." Some are hilarious, some are outrageous, others simply heartbreaking. He describes customers of every stripe; the hell of Mother's Day brunches; and the ongoing battles between the kitchen and the front of the house.
At the end of the book, The Waiter gives us tips on how to be a fabulous customer. Here are three:
Reservations: If you make a reservation, then keep it! On Fridays and Saturdays, about 20% of people just don't show up--or call. It throws everything off. Remember that today's reservation system tracks this; you could end up on the blackball list. Also, call if you're going to be late.
Be Polite: Say "please" and "thank you" to the staff. This means everyone from the coat checker and hostess to the bartender and the waiter. Never snap your fingers to get the waiter's attention or ask the waiter's name so you can yell at him across the room. It can totally backfire on you.
Regarding the Check: Ask for it. In an upscale restaurant, servers don't like to drop it on the table. The "sign-the-check" signal is acceptable, but not popular with waitstaff. Pay the check within five minutes of receiving it--and make it obvious that you have done so by having the cash or credit card sticking out of the check holder. And please, don't ask for separate checks at the end of the meal.
Be good to your server and you will be rewarded in kind. He'll tell you if a special is really terrible and will make sure your side salad is...well, you'll have to read the book to find that part out.
Time to talk about how Singles feel about the holidays. And to do it without sounding maudlin.
My friend Melinda and I were chatting a few weeks ago. She's a smart, accomplished single Boomer, lives up in St. Paul. We were talking about Thanksgiving (rebel spirit that she is, she was serving her family roast beef and Caesar salad, instead of turkey) when she said, "You should write a Blix about what it's like to be single during the holidays."
Great idea, Melinda! But where to begin?
Shall I start with the general sense of just having to endure the whole season? This can range from a mild, but stoic tolerance to painful, forced-grin occasions. It's not at all that we are Scrooges, or that we begrudge anyone their delight in the holidays. It's the annual struggle of finding our own way to fit in. As experienced and usually-comfortable-in-our-skin Singles, it's odd to find ourselves returning to the same spot. So here we go again.
It's difficult to explain. When we're in the mix with other Singles and couples, maybe a work function or a casual cocktail party, no sweat. What gets tricky are those invitations to join another family. It starts to feel a little schizo. Part of us wants to be included, part of us wants to avoid it. Maybe because being around a happy family, with their inside jokes and histories that require no explanation, can actually make us feel even more lonely. We want to share the day, and yet we don't. To add to the confusion--and trust me, it is confusing!--we can't predict which way we'll feel on our drive back home. Content, with the rosy glow that comes from having had a "happy holiday" experience? Or bummed, because we don't really belong?
Melinda thinks there is a difference between Thanksgiving and Christmas. One matters more than the other. For her, Thanksgiving is more family-based, and therefore tougher to navigate. Christmas is more general; people don't usually invite you over to watch them open their gifts. Besides, by Christmas, we're in the home stretch of the whole holiday thing. New Year's Eve is a cakewalk. Still, I need to think about this a little more. I can't quite identify a particular holiday as being kinder and gentler to Singles.
For me, the hardest part of being single--and alone--at the holidays is going into the grocery store. I can sidestep the malls, which are ridiculous with carols blaring before Thanksgiving. It's easy for me to dismiss the glitzy shopping scene; we all buy too much, anyway. However, I have to eat, and therefore, I have to buy food. It's when I see displays with the special ingredients for holiday foods, that I weaken. Memories of past celebrations come stampeding back. I wistfully recall tasty party dips, containing many blocks of cream cheese. Baking supplies, nuts, candies, fancy baskets and cookie tins. Fruitcake. Yes, even fruitcake. I happen to love fruitcake. That's when I go white-knuckled, wishing I had someone to cook for, and with. Someone to clink my champagne glass with. Veuve Cliquot, of course.
You see my point, now, on the maudlin thing.
"What do you want from us, then?" ask the steadfast married and coupled readers. Let me first say we don't want your happiness; in fact, we cherish and encourage it. We applaud it--it gives us hope, makes us smile. Second, the season doesn't really shake our self-esteem, as much as it may sound like it here. We're not morose, or in danger of hurting ourselves. We're simply trying to muddle through. How much is sheer seasonal hype, how much is what we actually need at this time of year? Even though Boomer women slightly outnumber men, it's still a two-by-two society. And it's more pronounced during the holidays, different from the rest of the year.
So, precious partnered friends, please keep inviting us. Understand that we may or may not accept. I hope this Blix explained. And know that come January 2, we will heave a huge, collective sigh of relief...until Valentine's Day.
We recently talked about eating alone. Today I'm taking the topic back a step...the challenge of cooking for one. And I don't mean making a pot of chili on Sunday and living off it all week. All single people do that. Five days later, we can't face one more kidney bean. Some of us even toss out the last bowl or two. Which I do.
No, I'm thinking of regular meals, the kind you have when there are others around to help consume everything. I'm thinking of the happy variety that happens when you can make a multi-course dinner knowing there won't be leftovers building up in the refrigerator because you didn't calculate correctly--or you still cook as if the entire family were around, including two teenage boys. Which I do.
A batch of brownies? An apple pie? Oatmeal cookies? Unless you're hauling them to work the next day, or have hungry neighbors, there is simply too much to keep before they go stale. Not to mention the temptation factor.
Trust me, I'm all for feeding myself well, and I enjoy cooking. Some would say that I'm pretty good at it. So it's not a lack of motivation that trips me up. It's the "mini-ness" of the effort.
There are two aspects to any food preparation: First the shopping and then the cooking.
The shopping: Say I want to make a something that calls for a fresh herb. I can hardly bop into the produce department and ask for six basil leaves. No, I have to buy one of those pricey little plastic boxes with forty basil leaves. I can--and will--try to use more of them, but inevitably, most will end up sadly shriveled. I'll feel guilty and will avoid recipes requiring basil for a long time. Cheese gets moldy. A dozen eggs last over a month.
I have a refrigerator door full of specialty items, purchased for a recipe. Fish sauce, jalapenos, capers. Three kinds of mustard. Four kinds of vinegar. Both salted and unsalted butter. I'm not complaining, because it's fun to make all kinds of foods. I'm just saying that that "condiment creep" happens over time. In my cupboard, it's the same story with spices. Even if I buy the smallest bag, flour becomes rancid. Cornmeal gets those tiny bugs.
One fish filet. Two slices of pancetta. Three ounces of spaghetti. Mini-ness, indeed.
Now comes the preparation. Allow me to share a recipe--with my comments in italics-- from "serves ONE: Simple Meals to Savor When You're on Your Own" by Toni Lydecker. Ms. Lydecker means well, and does her best to downsize foods for the solo cook. But I am never going to go to the bother of making a single serving of ratatouille or one salmon croquette.
Spicy Rice Noodles with Pork (Sounds nice, huh? I agree!)
2 ounces dried rice noodles (sticks) or cellophane noodles (These come in 8 ounce packages.) 1 Tablespoon black bean and garlic sauce (See my remark about about "condiment creep.") 2 teaspoons soy sauce (This is okay...soy sauce is a standard.) 3 ounces boneless thin-cut pork chop (One single pork chop! Now the freezer starts to build up with extra bits of meat that will need to be used before freezer burn sets in.) 1/2 medium carrot (Where can I buy one carrot?) 1/2 celery rib (You can see where this is going, right?) 1 scallion (And the other four that came with it? What happens to them?) 2 teaspoons peanut or vegetable oil (Takes a long time to use up oil, 2 teaspoons at a time.) 2 teaspoons grated ginger root (Great! Another thing to buy and then watch dry up.) Crushed red pepper, to taste (Like soy sauce, I actually have this on hand.)
I won't continue with the directions, which instruct me to slice and dice the carrot, scallion, and ginger. And to cut the lonely pork chop into 1/4 inch slices. By the time I'm doing that, I'm already wondering how I'm going to use the other eight carrots and celery ribs, along with the scallions and ginger. Cooking like this sets off a chain reaction; I'm always chasing the next recipe that can use these ingredients before they get wilted and slimey.
It's a funny thing, this cooking for one. I've been at it for over nine years now. Some days--and weeks--I do better than others. Overall, I manage quite nicely, and do find ways to use the carrots, celery, and whatever else comes my way. It's important to me and a huge part of self-care.
There's your glimpse into a single cook's kitchen. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a pot of chili. Or maybe just a big bowl of popcorn...after all, no one's watching.
One of the best parts about travel is being able to try the same foods that the local people eat everyday. Not that three-star Michelin restaurants aren't downright heavenly; it's that they aren't realistic or--let's face it--affordable. I've just always been a fan of "bonne femme" cooking, which means simple and honest food. (Bonne femme loosely translates to "housewife," but in a good way.)
As I set out to literally eat my way across Spain as I walked the 500-mile Camino de Santiago, I most looked forward to the food in the little cafes; the unfussy restaurants; and the daily Pilgrim Menu, made from what was local and affordable.
I offer three of my favorites today. Just like our spaghetti sauce, meat loaf, and turkey dressing, each home and establishment has its own version. Which means each food is totally adaptable. It was fun to order the same thing in different places, just to see how Spanish kitchens matched the food to the local palates.
First up: The Spanish Tortilla (Tortilla Espanola)
I can't pass up a slice of tortilla. Each bar has one or two fresh each morning, bonne femme syle. Completely homemade and clearly the family favorite of the person who made it. (Probably the barkeeper's wife, since she's usually in the tiny kitchen preparing all the food. But I don't like to make sweeping generalizations.) Tortilla is a potato and egg pie. Delicious, filling, and sturdy. You can wrap it up and plunk it in your backpack for a snack. With a cafe con leche, it's a power breakfast. It's an on-the-go lunch. By afternoons, many places have sold out, but if not, it is a nutritious way to fill up before the late dinner.
Spanish Tortilla--The All-Day Comfort Food
Here's the recipe, courtesy of Food Network. The only glaring thing I see here is the parsley for garnish. That's just silly.
Ingredients: 1/2 cup olive oil 4 large Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and sliced about 1/8-inch thick 1/2 large yellow onion, chopped 6 large eggs 1/4 cup milk Salt and freshly ground black pepper Chopped flat-leaf parsley, for garnishing
Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
Heat the olive oil in a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat for 1 minute. Reduce the heat to medium and add the potato slices a few at a time so they don't stick together. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until the potatoes are tender and the onions are golden but not brown, about 10 minutes. Place a strainer over a bowl in your sink and transfer the potatoes and onions to drain; reserve the oil.
Whisk the eggs, milk, salt and pepper together in a large bowl. Drain excess oil off of the potato mixture. Add the potatoes and onions to the egg mixture and combine until they are completely mixed in. Set the bowl aside for about 15 minutes to let the potatoes release some of their starches into the eggs.
Heat 3 tablespoons of the reserved olive oil in a medium nonstick skillet over medium-high for 1 minute. Add the egg-potato mixture, rotating the skillet in a circular motion to distribute it evenly. Lower the heat to medium-low and shake the pan a few times to prevent sticking (by shaking the pan, you ensure that the eggs and potatoes release from the pan bottom). Cook the tortilla for about 5 minutes or until the potatoes on the bottom start to turn golden brown. Place the skillet in the oven and cook for 6 to 8 minutes, or until almost set. Remove from the oven and place a large flat plate on top of the skillet and invert the skillet. The tortilla should come right out. Add a tablespoon of the reserved olive oil to the skillet and slide the tortilla back in to cook the other side until it is golden-brown, about 5 minutes.
Turn the heat off and set the skillet aside until the tortilla cools to room temperature. Transfer the tortilla to a plate sprinkle with parsley and serve at room temperature cut into triangles or squares.
Next: Patatas Bravas
On every single tapas menu, and available in nearly every single bar, Patatas Bravas is the Spanish equivalent of American Buffalo Wings. Bravas means "fierce" and these potatoes can be as spicy as you want by adding Tabasco sauce. It all starts with cubed potatoes--of course, the tastiest ones are fried. From my experience, though, roasted is fine. It's all about the sauce.
Patatas Bravas-Go Bold or Go Home
My favorite Patatas Bravas (above) had two sauces: the fiery red tomato sauce and the smooth aioli. It was a big serving...I polished it off with no hesitation.
The closest recipe I can find comes from Allrecipes:
Ingredients: 2 russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes 2 cups olive oil 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 onion, diced 1 teaspoon salt 1 clove garlic, finely chopped 1 red chile, minced 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika 1 (14 ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes, drained 1/4 cup mayonnaise (or make the aioli that follows...)
Directions: Combine potatoes, 2 cups olive oil, and 3 teaspoons salt in a large cold skillet. Heat on low and cook until potatoes are softened, 12 to 15 minutes. Increase heat to high and fry until golden, 5 to 6 minutes. Drain on paper towels.
Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Cook and stir onion with 1 teaspoon salt in the hot oil until onion has softened, 3 to 4 minutes. Add garlic, chile, and smoked paprika; simmer for 1 to 2 minutes. Stir in tomatoes and return to a simmer. Transfer tomato mixture to a blender, cover, and puree until tomato sauce is smooth.
Serve patatas bravas with tomato puree and and mayonnaise for dipping.
Simple Aioli Sauce: 6 cloves garlic finely grated 1 egg yolk 2 tsp lemon juice 1/2 tsp kosher salt 1/2 cup olive oil
Third: Caldo Gallego Soup
Talk about a Warm-You-Up soup! The Galicia region of Spain is cool and wet. Lots of mist and rain, so there's a lingering dampness that seeps into your bones. Galicians figured out a few centuries ago how to warm up from the inside out. Caldo Gallego is on every menu...and is deliciously different at each place, even with the same basic ingredients. You can make this quickly and enjoy it for a few days.
Caldo Gallega: Spanish Soup for the Soul
I made this without a recipe when I came back from the Camino, based on my memory--it was the first thing I cooked. I used chicken broth...only to find out when I did a recipe search that most Caldo Gallega recipes use a ham bone or pieces of sausage. I never encountered that--I thought it was a meatless soup!--so I'm sticking with my version. My favorite one boiled the potatoes until they were mushy and dissolving into the broth. Again, your call. P.S. I used canned beans.
Here's a fancy recipe from Dean & Deluca, using sausage and kale. (Spanish chorizo tastes like pepperoni to me. Very different from Mexican chorizo.)
Ingredients:
3 tablespoons olive oil 1 pound chorizo, sliced 1/4 inch thick 1 medium onion, chopped 6 garlic cloves, minced 10 ounces dried Calypso beans or other white beans 2 bay leaves 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 teaspoon dried rosemary 8 black peppercorns 2 cloves 6 ounces salt pork (cut in 1/4-inch cubes) or a ham bone 2 quarts hot water 2 cups diced potatoes (cut into h-inch dice) 2 cups kale, chopped (collard greens can be substituted) salt and pepper to taste
Directions:
1. Place olive oil in a large, heavy soup pot over moderate heat. Add the chorizo and cook for 2 minutes. Remove chorizo with a slotted spoon and reserve. 2. Add the onion and garlic to the pot. Cook until the onion begins to brown, about 7 minutes. Add the beans, herbs and spices, salt pork (or ham bone), and water. Increase heat, bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 1 1/2 hours. check the pot occasionally to stir and skim off any foam that may float on the surface. 3. Add the potatoes and the reserved chorizo. Cook for another hour, partially covered. Add kale and cook for another hour, uncovered, stirring thoroughly every 15 minutes. (By now, the soup should be quite thick) Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Let's wrap things up for today. One final "comfort food" that I found one day at a tiny grocery store. It was perfect with my coffee as I sat in the shade and felt completely content:
"Place Setting for One" by Anna Bryant annabryantpainting.com
How do you handle the idea--and reality--of eating alone? Do you indulge in your favorite comfort food, eating an entire pot of macaroni and cheese (the kind from the blue box, with the bright orange powder) without bothering to put it in a bowl? A frozen dinner? Perhaps just order a pizza, maybe with toppings that no one else likes? A bowl of popcorn?
Or do you cook for yourself? Really cook? My friend Mimi does. She is forever saving recipes to her Facebook timeline, with a note along the lines of "Saving for myself. Must try!" I know that she actually does make many of those recipes. As a longtime single, she has learned the importance of self-care, especially in daily eating.
What about people who find themselves in the kitchen alone, while spouses travel or are off to book club? I don't have any statistics on what married/partnered or men/women do in these circumstances. I suspect there is more microwave reheating than breaking out the copper cookware. More scrambled eggs than quiche Lorraine.
In her charming book, "What we eat when we eat alone," Deborah Madison takes a casual question and starts asking people how they feed themselves when nobody else is watching. She asks people of all ages, in all phases of life and relationships. Then Madison--an award-winning chef--gives us 100 recipes, based on what folks told her. They look tasty...except the Leftover Spaghetti Sandwich, which includes the soggy salad bits from last night's dinner.
Food is intimate. I think how we feed ourselves when alone is a reflection of how we feel about ourselves. To illustrate this, I offer a peek at what cooking and eating alone can look like, from my friend, Jim Livingston. Happily, he has agreed to let me use his description of cooking for one. It is maybe my favorite story about the reasons for--and joys of--eating alone.
I’m standing over a hot stove, a Viking range if you must know, scrubbing the bottom of a big pot with a wooden spoon, sprinkling flour into the sausage grease and the extra oil to make a dark brown roux on my way to a gumbo of some kind—haven’t decided which, fish or fowl, I got the makings of either in the fridge—and I realize that all this work is just for me because I’m the only person present tonight, and I have to wonder why I’m cooking for myself.
The short answer is I spent the weekend in rural Illinois, where I come from, and where favorite recipes begin with cans of tuna or chicken soup and end with crushed Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, frosted or not. The long answer follows.
I learned to cook back in the 1990s, when my then-wife went back to work full-time in the city and I proudly took on the role of ardent feminist husband, willing to get the kids to school, to deal with the teachers and the principals, to attend the extra-curricular events, and . . . to make dinners that were approximately edible.
The culinary inspiration was my friend and colleague Bruce Robbins, a man famous in these parts for his uncanny ability to make unlikely ingredients—say, pomegranates, yuck—into dishes that you don’t just eat, you enjoy and discuss them, and then you beg for the recipes. He did the cooking because his wife was pretty much always on the road or at her UN job.
With Bruce as my model, I set out to cook dinners that would satisfy the tastes of my kids, then six and three years old, but also appeal to my then-wife and my own sensibilities. This was not easy, because my motto in those days was “No Mammals,” by which I meant that I—we—would not eat cows, pigs, nor even rodents. At that point in my life, my elective affinities included squirrels. So I scoured the cookbooks and taught myself—and my kids—to eat a lot of chicken and fish, prepared in, shall we say, imaginative ways. Also beans, mostly refried, and rice, largely brown, a balancing act between obesity and idiocy because the protein never outweighs the sugars, the carbs, and the calories.
I relented in the late years of that decade, as most of us did in imitation of our indulgent leader, Old Bill of the large appetities, and started cooking huge slabs of meat for the family on the grill, from which red-stained repasts I would of course abstain, accumulating secret pleasures from this contrived absence and sufficient calories from the alcohol on hand.
And now here I am cooking, strenuously, for myself. Why?
It’s a reaction formation. On Saturday morning, I watched as the sister-in-law of an old friend prepared her casserole for the big family reunion that afternoon, out in Oregon, Illinois. The ingredients were two huge packages of frozen hash browns, two cups of sour cream, two cans of Campbell’s cream-of-chicken soup, and—I stopped my accounting at that moment, excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I huddled for ten minutes in hopes of escaping memories of my grandmother slathering something, anything previously edible, with layers of Velveeta, as if she were a bricklayer with a trowel and a wall to build.
I have nothing against packaged food, mind you, except that it poisons children, but this return to my Midwestern youth moved me to get out the frying pans, break out the white wine, and turn up the fire on that Viking range.
Cafe con Leche: Sugar, fat, and caffeine. Perfect energy combination! Order a "grande"...it's six ounces instead of four.
At the risk of seeming idiotic--and there is no way I won't--I was reminded of a few basic nutrition principles during my 500-mile walk on the Camino de Santiago. Things that I've known forever--but seem to have tossed aside. They got lost in the shuffle of the daily world. At first I hesitated about writing them in a Blix. But then, I thought to myself, Hey! These are my steadfast readers! They won't ridicule me! So, here goes...don't laugh.
Like many people, I'm always wishing I could drop a few pounds. My diet is pretty sensible, but not perfect. I could certainly move around more--and more often. Do the boring stuff that becomes important as we get older: strength training, stretching. You know what I'm talking about.
Then, at some point in 2013, I decided that it would be swell to walk the Camino in my 65th year. I'm certainly not young, but neither am I decrepit. Maybe the first few days would be rough--all the guidebooks agree on this--but after that, how tough could it be? With a minimal bit of information, a certain level of denial, and a memory of a friend telling about it ten years prior, I proceeded to plan. I didn't particularly worry about my weight; in fact, since my backpack was supposed to be only 10% of my weight, I indulged in extra calories. (Totally irrational. Highly unrecommended.)
Skip ahead a year, and I was a full-fledged pilgrim. Trekking along, day after day. After 12 or more miles a day, hauling almost twenty pounds, you'd think I'd be starving. But I wasn't. After a couple of weeks, a few things dawned on me:
1. Water tastes good. We all know that water is good for us, but how often do we take a gulp and say, "Ahhhhhh!" Most days, our water comes in disguises: coffee, tea, sodas, etc. Even plain water needs to be fancied up: little packets of flavoring, fruity tastes or crazy enhancers. It's as if we can't bear to drink anything simple. I understand that tap water may have unpleasant minerals or whatever, but that's not what I'm talking about; there are remedies for that. I'm referring to the taste of ordinary water with nothing added.
Without the option of jazzing up the water that came straight from the public fountains in Spain, I started to taste the water. It was so...tasteless! (Maybe taste-free is a better description.) Thirst-quenching! Refreshing! I looked forward to drinking it, thirsty or not. One day, a man from Australia said, "I didn't know how much I liked water!" Well said, Mate.
This isn't to say that water can't have a slice of lemon or lime. But does it really need to have a powdery mix in order to be swallowed?
2. Eat when you're hungry. Yes, I know. Another brilliant insight. Except that if I had actually been doing that before--instead of eating according to the time of day--I wouldn't be clicking on the latest weight loss stories that crop up on my computer screen.
Most days I walked a couple of hours before stopping for some kind of breakfast. As I passed the bar in a village, I'd ask myself if I was hungry yet. No? Keep going. Yes? Stop. The food in Spain is delicious, and it's not hard to find. So scarcity isn't an issue. After a few days on the Camino, I would decide just how much I really felt like eating. Tostada, which was a lovely big piece of toasted bread, served with butter and jam? Maybe fried eggs, always fresh, with bright orange yolks? A banana? Or just a cafe con leche for the moment? Every day was different.
More fresh fruit than I usually eat, picked up at the little markets along the way. When I took time to enjoy a peach while I walked, it was fully satisfying. I didn't feel like scrounging around for something "more." At the same time, on days when I needed energy, I bought what seems to be Spain's favorite candy, a Kit-Kat bar.
For dinner? A Pilgrim's Menu, which includes three smallish courses. Or a big salad, sort of like a chef's salad, if I happened to be craving greens. Maybe a pizza, although they were always disappointing, and each time I swore I would never have another one. Some wine. More water. That's it.
I know my activity schedule and daily calorie-burn were not comparable to the "real" world, but I did stop to evaluate how hungry I was, and listened to my body. That, I can do anywhere.
A regular-sized apple and a bottle of Coke. No Big Gulps!
3. Portion control, People! Sure, almost everything came with fries. But not a lot of fries. The three courses of the Menu del Dia (Pilgrim's Menu) provided a substantial meal. First course: Choice of salad, soup, pasta, or a local specialty. Second course: meat, fish, or stew, with a vegetable on the side. Third course: cake, ice cream, pudding, cheese, fruit, or coffee. Bread always included.
Courses were served in dishes smaller than what Americans use; the second course was on what we could call a large salad plate. Likewise, the portions were smaller. What was interesting was that even the big, hefty pilgrims got full. We all ate what we were given and then we were done. No thought of seconds. It was enough.
As I said, this is all ridiculously obvious. Over the course of 38 days, the lessons were eventually assimilated. Now comes the challenge of maintaining them in my world of abundance and clock-driven activity.
At this point, you are dazzled by my Blix, aren't you? And I totally agree with what you're thinking: How absurd to travel so far to re-learn what I already knew. But it was a lesson that I needed to become reacquainted with.
I've been making Sweet Pea Guacamole for so long that I feel as if the recipe is mine. It's not, really--credit goes to Michael Roberts, who contributed it to a fine 1992 cookbook called "Food Without Fuss." You will be delighted by how easy it is to make, and how fresh it tastes. Frozen peas replace the avocado--it's a pretty green, and never turns brown. Like all guacamole, you adjust to your own liking. Enjoy!
Today's recipe comes from wonderful memories with my dear friend, Marcy Dimond. Not all that long ago, we used to be able to go to lunch in Anchorage, Alaska. Believe it or not, there is great food there...beyond salmon, halibut, and reindeer. There was a fusion restaurant that Marcy and I loved to go to, called Ginger. One winter day, we stumbled onto their Banana Lemongrass soup--had to have a cup, just because it sounded so odd and yet so interesting. WOW! The chef wouldn't share the recipe, but a quick Google search got us this recipe, which is very, very close to what Ginger serves. It's from the Four Seasons in Los Angeles. Which is probably where the Ginger chef stole it from. Ginger includes crab meat, but it's not essential...that's just an Alaskan thing. Before you say "Ewwwwww...." give it a try. It is simply marvelous!
Creamy Banana-Lemongrass-Coconut Soup
Ingredients
1/4 cup olive oil 1 cup very ripe bananas 1 cup leaek, white and pale green parts, chopped 1 cup chopped celery 3/4 cup carrot, chopped 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 Tablespoon lemongrass puree 1/2 teaspoon hot chili paste (Samal Oelek) 1 teaspoon cumin powder 1 cup fresh orange juice 3 1/2 cups vegetable stock 1-14 ounce can unsweetened coconut milk 1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped Salt and pepper
Directions
1. In a heavy, large saucepan over medium-high heat, heat the olive oil. Add bananas and saute about 4 minutes, or until starting to brown.
2. Add the omion, leeks, celery, carrots, garlic, lemongrass puree, and chili paste. Saute another 10 minutes until vegetables start to brown.
3. Add cumin powder and reduce heat to medium--saute another 2 minutes. Add the orange juice, reduce heat to low and simmer for 2 minutes.
4. Add vegetable stock and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes.
5. Using a hand-held immersion blender, puree until smooth. Stir in coconut milk and cilantro. Heat all the way through
6. Season with salt and pepper.
Serves 4. Can be made a day ahead.
If you notice, this is the second recipe from Alaska that I have posted. And I will add that the VERY best Caesar Salad that I have ever had was in Anchorage, at The Marx Bros. Cafe. There is no explaining it...none of the ingredients are from there. Clearly, folks from The Last Frontier know what great food is!
Today's "recipe" is truly a family favorite. My parents grew up in Southern Illinois, where--in my memory-- ripe tomatoes are the most delicious. And a wonderful tomato is a meal in itself...we would take a salt shaker and go into the garden. The flavor of a sun-warmed, salted tomato is beyond description. So, imagine what happens when you take a perfect tomato and put it on bread, with a little mayo. It's a "Kitchen Sink Sandwich" because it's so juicy, you have to eat it over the kitchen sink in order to catch all the drips.
Follow these directions exactly! Resist the urge to upscale or upgrade--no sprouted bread, no extra herbs. Let the tomato be the star!
For each sandwich:
2 pieces of fresh white bread (think soft and squishy, like Wonder Bread)
1 wonderful tomato--if you don't have a wonderful tomato, stop and wait until you do!
A hefty glob of mayonnaise or Miracle Whip, your choice
Salt and pepper, if you wish
1. Take the bread out of the wrapper--do not toast! 2. Spread on the mayo or Miracle Whip 3. Wash and slice the tomato--put on the bread 4. Salt and pepper, if you wish 5. Stand over the sink and enjoy the taste of summer
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