Squirrels Like Chocolate Too

I live in a fairly urban setting. One block south of downtown Minneapolis, to be exact, and one would think the fauna in my 'hood should be limited. Apparently the opposite is true. There is not only an abundance of rabbits and squirrels, but said furry creatures are savvy scavengers, and have recently burrowed through my window screen to nibble my chocolate. Twice. (I fixed the screen, they re-robbed me within hours)

jerks.

mmmmm. chocolate....

It is truth that those of us with a pulse have a relationship with chocolate. It could be the sweet snap of hollow bunny ears, or the gooey center of the best brownie ever. It could be those weird discs with the pastel pearls on the one side that seemingly show up at graduations and weddings. It could be dark, white, or milk. It could be mixed with nougat or hugging peanut butter. It could maybe even have been carved into the likeness of Conan O'Brien and covered with bacon. Whether it be a close and committed or a dispassionate at best, you have a relationship with chocolate.

While my mother (proud or not) is the biggest fan of chocolate I've met. I might be engaged to chocolate, but she's been married forty years after a string of past lives being married to chocolate. ahem. I learned she was a chocolate hoarder when I was little, sitting on the giant freezer in the basement, helping her fold laundry. I had a headache. She disappeared into her bedroom and came out with a dainty handful of semi-sweet nestle chocolate chips. Having correctly suspected a sugar or caffeine hangover, she did more than cure my headache: she made chocolate magic.

**an aside: we were that family on the block without potato chips, cookies, or soda. yup, we snacked on radishes and grapes out of open bowls in the fridge. I had probably binged at a sleepover.

I've grown a bit since then, and dispelled many childhood myths, but it turns out: chocolate IS a little magic. It's not merely for its trendy trendy anti-oxidants or how it's aphrodisiacly inclined (although it does have it's benefits, medically speaking). Over the past coupla weeks, I've learned exactly what chocolate goes through to get to us. It is a wonder, maybe even a miracle at points, that all of we all share some kind of experience with chocolate.

In the mean time—Here's my favorite recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookies

http://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes.aspx/buttery-chocolate-chip-cookies

oh yeah Betty Crocker is still awesome. I add a little extra salt—don't go overboard.

ps---here's Conan O'Brien with his MN State Fair bust

http://blogs.citypages.com/blotter/2009/08/behold_the_baco.php

Future Heads

I made my head cheese. It wasn't as delicious as I envisioned it would be, but still far better than my lackluster memory of it (luckily), and eventually we will prevail. And by we, I mean my dad and me.

Not for immediate retrial, however, because as thrilling as it is, smelly is the process. Surprising, I know, but simmering the head of an animal (and a hoof or two) in a suburban townhouse is not necessarily the most appetizing process. And we had two pots.

In the end, the experience out-awesomed the result. It sparked my interest in charcuterie (curing meat), a topic I didn't know I LOVE, and gave me an opportunity to butcher a pig (more to come on that).

We'll do it again next year.

Head Cheese-a-licious!

Friend! It's been so long and I've been thinking about this space so frequently!

There will be some blogs about birthday cakes, and Elvis, and traveling buddies, and quitting waitressing (again), and starting the cheese monger adventure. There will definitely be at least one about getting drunk with the Great Ciao and a Spanish Californian who sells cajillion dollar hams for a living, and possibly another about how food travels. There could be some swooning over Vino Verde and the subsequent Tamarind flavored Jarritos, but for now all I got is I'M GONNA MAKE HEAD CHEESE.

A coupla months ago, Erik Anderson (current haunt: Sea Change) let me taste some of his head cheese (those made from pigs not the zombie kind). I was impressed. In fact, moved enough to call my dad and brag about the my brand new discovery. I gushed about how it was not the gray rubbery matter I remember at the supper club buffet out by gramma's house. It was a slice of vibrantly marbled sagey wonderfulness that melted in a textural fantasy. After that, I kinda wanted it every day. It must have been Erik that mentioned it wasn't that hard to make, nonetheless, I am inspired.

I am now the proud owner of three freshly butchered (June 3) pig heads from Hidden Streams that will become the proud product of mine and my dad's first attempt at head cheese.

WAY more to come.

Melba's fame

When Jeff, my Great Ciao coworker, caught a box of rye Melba toast on my desk I got a little defensive. The Great Ciao warehouse contains half a dozen brands of hand made crackers from around the world, so why on earth would I eat factory processed, twice toasted, bread cut lengthwise? I squinted at Jeff as he approached, “Melba Toast...,” he started, and I thought “ya, so, it's totally awesome with hummus. Deal with it,” with an urge to tuck my Melba toast box under my purse. But, to my surprise, he finished his thought, “was invented by Escoffier for a ballerina.” Jess (my favorite coworker) chimed in, “I knew that about Peach Melba. Weird.”

Hence, my mostly true story of Melba toast:

At the turn of the 19th century, THE famous chef, Auguste Escoffier, naturally attended high art functions. He was no stranger to art openings, plays, ballets, and operas among other events. His fancy suit matched the embroidery on his beloved wife, Daphne's, dress.

Amongst the highest London society, Escoffier came upon opera singer Dame Nellie Melba, and was immediately spellbound. He waited in an ornate gold and marble opera house lobby, nervously sipping champagne, to meet her. When the graceful Australian beauty finally arrived it took all he had not to shout, but only to offer bashfully, “I must cook for you.” (obviously in a thick French accent). When Melba accepted, it took all restraint, and a little of Daphne's, not to do so immediately.

Eventually, Melba booked an elite party at the Savoy in London, thus granting Escoffier's wish. The chef prepared delicate dishes careful to save injury to the talented singer's pipes. He draped warm peach and raspberry sauces over vanilla ice cream (a rare treat in a time with limited refrigeration devices), as to save her vocal chords from stark creamy cold. Peach Melba retains world wide fame to this day. Especially at the London Savoy.

A few years later, exactly 1897, Melba fell ill. She would accept none other than Escoffier's exquisite cuisine to nourish her. Escoffier, flattered and concerned, rushed to meet her requirements. He created Melba toast (named later by Cesar Ritz, you know, that hotel guy) not only for easy digestion, but also for easy keeping, so the opera singer could eat at her whim.

Melba toast also retains world wide fame as well, but with slightly less glamor than it's namesake counterpart. Rather than order Melba toast at a fancy hotel, we usually enjoy it with our great great aunts Helen because she ran out of rye crisps to host slices of spam. Whatever. I still dig it twice monthly with any flavor hummus (not sun dried tomato though, ick) as an all day lunch. But now I can enjoy my snack with a story, albeit slightly fictitious.

Auguste Escoffier, however, was not fiction. As one of the most important chefs in history, he invented the Brigade de Cuisine system(labeling assigning the tasks of Chef de Cuisine, Sous Chef, Saucier, etc), published Le Guide Culinaire (a handbook you will definitely find in great professional kitchens like local La Belle Vie and 112), and helped develop fancy French cooking as we know it. In reality, he has a pretty awesome “up by bootstrap” story that is elegantly told in Fried: Serving Two Centuries in Restaurants by local author/ chef/ teacher Steve Lerach. Escoffier also invented Melba toast for the real Australian opera singer (not ballerina) Helen Porter Mitchell (stage name Dame Nellie Melba) because she was sick. He died, heartbreakingly, three days after his wife Daphne.

Another true story; defending my food choices is not my favorite practice. Food snobbery sucks. I like this particular story because, in a way, it connects us as a humanity. We are here not only to comfort each other, but also to inspire and challenge one another. While I'm not necessarily hoping to make the list of foods named after people (if I were it would be bacon and cheese stuffed pancakes with hollandaise on the side for dipping), I can hope that someone somewhere will remember you and me somehow. Even if it is only for telling stories.

POST SCRIPT:

Wikipedia.org helped tell this story, and also serves a list of foods named after people. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_foods_named_after_people

You gotta check out how Oh Henry (come on, the delicious candy bar?) was named. All I'm sayin' is there might be a wide eyed child standing at the door of a candy shoppe while a fat man pullin' taffy screams.

Loving It

It seems good advice to do what you love. Life, from what I understand, is too short for anything else. As soon as you find someone doling out paychecks for sitting on the couch with a book or the remote, I'm sure I can make you a bajillionaire. And, as it turns out, teaching English to seventh graders takes a bigger hero than I can muster today. I am a waitress. It combines a lot of the things I love: socializing, storytelling, and food.

The socializing part is fairly obvious; I schmooze my restaurant's guests all night. However, the other undeniable aspect (that over two million American servers in 2007 alone can attest) is the interaction behind the scenes. Servers, cooks, food runners, bussers, barbacks, and even the chef are either working super fast in super close quarters or standing around folding or chopping something entertaining each other. All we do is communicate. As a result, our restaurants are our families. Although we may work in different kitchens, and oftentimes cross paths, we create a bond with forced intimacy and weird hours. Awesome tales come from it.

A good server tells good stories. And not just to each other, but to sell food. For example; a Kobe beef cow is served beer and massaged for its entire life before it becomes your food. The theory is that beer makes the cow fat and massage is spreads it all around, so your beef will be perfectly marbled and explode with flavor. A happy cow gives makes a happy meal. And that's just the beginning. Before I'm through with you at the table, you'll be enjoying your happy steak with the wine from the vineyard I told you all about, and fantasizing about that luscious rain forest chocolate you're taking home with you. In my case, I don't just want to tell you stories about food to separate you from your cash; I love learning these stories, and sharing them. I love food. I love the love it takes to prepare it, both professionally and at home. I love how we use it to comfort each other, and how we politicize it. I love how it nourishes us in so many more ways than we acknowledge.

After quitting teaching, and over the last three years I've waited tables at three restaurants and with one caterer. I've been working at Great Ciao, a fancy food warehouse and written two stories for a local farmer's market. I have immersed myself in food information and it is my goal to spew it here. Hopefully in an entertaining way.

Someday I might try my hand at heroism again, but for now, I'll sling food.