Lentil Breakdown

A Quinoa-Stuffed Portobello Mushroom Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 13:55:00 +0000

“Is this stuffed portobello mushroom vegan, gluten-free, non-GMO and devoid of BPA, pesticides, artificial growth hormones and cupcakes?” he asked, looking longingly into my eyes.

“Of course," I said, looking longingly at the meatless yet meaty mushroom filled with quinoa, butternut squash, cranberries and pecans. "It's so righteous, it's Dennis Kucinich on a plate."

“Mmm. What are you doing the rest of your life?” he asked.

“The dishes,” I said.

The Recipe

1 C organic quinoa (I used 2/3 cup regular and 1/3 cup red. Makes about twice the amount you’ll need)

2 C water

Salt to taste

4 large portobello mushrooms

1 small butternut squash, cut into chunks

A handful of organic dried cranberries

A handful of pecan pieces

1 medium shallot, minced

Olive oil

Balsamic vinegar

Peel butternut squash and cut into chunks. Rub with olive oil and sea salt. Roast in 400 degree oven until fork-tender and caramelized (turning once), about 30 minutes.

Reduce oven to 375 degrees. Wash and dry the mushrooms, then cut off stems. Mince shallot. Rub the ‘shrooms with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and assemble in baking dish with stem side up. Put the minced shallot into the mushroom caps, and cook ‘shrooms for about 15 minutes while quinoa cooks.

Place quinoa and water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer, cover and cook until all the water is absorbed (about 15 minutes). Take the ‘shrooms out of the oven, and scoop some of the quinoa into them. Add cranberries and pecans, and cook for about 20 minutes.

Related Links:

M Café’s Scarlet Quinoa Salad

Seductive Leek and Mushroom Tart

Travel Bite: Portobello Road, London

Forgive Me Rabbi For I Have Sinned, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 20:44:00 +0000

God forbid you should miss Part 1.

Meanwhile, back at the corporate ranch, some of my office mates and I were discussing the imminent arrival of the In-N-Out truck. I had always held this family-owned business in higher esteem than the big burger chains since the food was fresher and the employees were supposedly treated better. But now, thinking about Cowschwitz, I was on the fence.

“The grilled cheese is just as good as the burger because they grill the bun on the same grill as the meat,” said a co-worker.

“I like it better without the meat," someone else chimed in. "You don’t feel as bloated afterwards. And I’m not even a vegetarian.”

Sheesh. After the carnivorous hand of god had touched me, were those two going to turn me into an agnostic again? Oh sure, they sounded like the voice of reason, but Rabbi, doesn’t god know best? I had heard about people ordering In-N-Out burgers without the meat and always wanted to try one, but today? After fantasizing about my bovine bad boy all week? After recalling the times when I had been so sated by his ilk, I could have lit up a Marlboro? Giving up now would be like enduring a Brazilian wax for that night's booty call, only to end up turning in early and watching a little Golden Girls instead. But this booty call would be with a beefcake named Bo.

“The truck will be here any minute,” I announced. “What should I do?”

“Get the burger,” a guy said with testosterone in his voice.

“Get the grilled cheese,” a gentler soul advised.

I decided to stick with my original plan. I would get the burger.

It was 11:55 AM when a couple of friends and I headed outside to line up for the truck before everyone else got wind of its arrival. There were about a dozen people in front of us, and I could smell that grilled meat wafting in the soft, gray drizzle. It wasn’t how I remembered it smelling. Now it had a gamey aroma, like, well, Cowschwitz. Ironically, I had been to the real Auschwitz on a gray, drizzly day, but there was no cow waft. Now, the closer we moved up in line, the stronger the Cowschwitz smell got. “Maybe I should get the grilled cheese,” I thought. But 30 seconds later I heard myself say, “I’ll have a cheeseburger with everything on it.” Pfew. I had made a decision. It was a done deal. But you know what, Rabbi? I didn’t feel a lot of conviction when I said it.

“Can I change my order to grilled cheese?” I blurted out as the order taker had already moved on to the next people in line.

“No problem,” he said.

Feeling both relieved and disappointed, I was an emotional oxymoron. While thinking I might finally be ready to commit to the meatless faith, I also lamented my loss as the burgers passed me by.

After my number was called, I carried the grilled cheese and bag of potato chips (they weren't making fries) to my desk in that wasteful cardboard box they serve it in. I took the first bite and tasted the crunchy bun slathered with the special sauce. Yep, that was how I remembered it. So far, so good. Then the Velveeta-like melted cheese announced its arrival. After a few more bites, it became clear that two overcompensating slices of processed American cheese did not a burger or a grilled cheese make. Sure, it still had that In-N-Out flavor, but did I really like the ingredients? Had I lost my taste for this stuff, even as a rare treat? An infrequent bag of potato chips was usually nirvana to me. But now thinking about the GMOs and the pesticides and the environment and big ag decimating the small farmers, well, it was too much. I could taste all the implications. Rabbi, you know what they say? Guilt is a terrible thing to waste. But I don't have to tell you.

Forgive Me Rabbi For I Have Sinned

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 15:08:00 +0000

Hello, Rabbi. It’s been awhile. Sorry I haven’t kept in touch. A girl gets pretty busy after she gets her driver’s license. Oh, and those high holiday services I've missed for the past few decades? Whoops. My bad. Guess I figured I could atone alone. It's not too late to get in on the action, is it?

So Rabbi, here's the spiel. After going for a few months without meat, I had been toying with the idea of declaring myself a vegetarian. Not in a press conference or anything, but if someone should ask. Then the unthinkable happened. My company announced the In-N-Out Burger truck would be coming to our office. Yes, free junk food for all. Apparently they thought the Double-Double would be a little somethin’ somethin’ for the holidays. From my experience, one somethin’ is usually enough. In-N-Out would also be making “grilled cheese.” In other words, a cheeseburger without the burger. That’s like Fran Drescher without the whine. What’s the point? A slab of melted American cheese lying limply on sliced tomato, onion and “hand-leafed" iceberg lettuce on a grilled “sponge dough” white bun slathered with sauce? Sounded like a lotta nothin' nothin' to me. Hell, I figured I might as well call in sick that day.

I always loved In-N-Out burgers, and though I hadn’t eaten much meat or even craved it in the past year, the power of suggestion got my brain salivating. The things In-N-Out did with just a few ingredients to create the perfect mouthwatering alchemic reaction was always a mystery to me (but I was never very good in alchemy). So I discussed next week's truck visit with my vegan friend at work, and you know what she said? “You should have a burger if you want one. It’s a treat.” Did you hear that, Rabbi? A treat! I had a vegan’s permission to eat a sentient being! And I had just gotten a blood test back from the doctor that said I had slight anemia, so maybe I needed this. I had a doctor’s note and a vegan’s note! I felt a higher power summoning me to this sandwich. As far as I was concerned, I had been touched by the carnivorous hand of god. I had carte blanche to go hog wild. Oh, sorry about that hog reference, Rabbi.

For days I fantasized about that bovine bad boy. The mere thought of a grilled patty (I would have a single) and melty cheese nestling with peppy onion, tomato and crisp, plebeian lettuce between two crunchy, precisely sauced counterparts raised my serotonin. Sure, I still had some moral qualms, but in the sinning department I was no Jerry Sandusky. I would never be caught canoodling tender, young calves in the barn and coercing them into my scaloppini. I haven’t scaloppinied in 30 years. Veal is where I draw the line. My cow would be of consensual age. Although I doubt he'd be giving me the “hooves up” sign.

Yes, Rabbi, I would eat cheese and meat together, and unkosher meat at that. But as the big day got closer, I started wondering about my cow. Would Bo be one of those happy cows from California like in the cheese commercials? Would he be the George Hamilton of bovines with a tanned hide from hours spent luxuriating in an open pasture? Did he eat well on all that bountiful green grass or was he forced to subsist on a junk-food diet of GMO corn?

On the morning of my big day with Bo, I decided to do a little research into his provenance. Turns out my bovine bad boy would be coming from Harris Ranch—that huge feedlot you can smell on the freeway, midway between LA and San Francisco that's crammed with cattle. Rabbi, do you know what they call that place? Cowschwitz. I would be eating a concentration camp cow. I have been to the real Auschwitz in Poland, and can I tell you something? It was not pretty. But I don't have to tell you. So the thought of Bo and his family living in holocaustic conditions at Cowschwitz, subsiding on GMO corn nagged at me. And I only had a few hours left before the In-N-Out truck would arrive.

To be continued…

P-Whipped

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 15:22:00 +0000

The sign in the produce section said Pineapples 87¢ each. “Hot damn,” I thought. "Big-juicy-sweet-yellow-cheap-thang: come to momma. I'll make a fruit salad or a smoothie or a pineapple upside-down cake. Hell, I could even throw a little luau. I wonder if it would still be festive without the pig.” Then I saw the cardboard hangtag that said the pineapple was grown in Costa Rica by a company named Kingston. Since they don't use a lot of pesticides on pineapples, I never worry too much about buying organic, but I couldn’t remember if they're genetically modified or not. I knew Hawaiian papayas were, but Costa Rican pineapples? Hmmm. To buy or not to buy—that was the question. Strapped for time on my lunch break, my head swirled with indecision. Sometimes a conscious consumer is forced to fend off a large primate, and you just want to scream, “Hey monkey, get off my freaking back! I’m buying this freaking pineapple whether you freaking like it or not!" This was one of those times.

As I was driving back to work with my questionably sourced fruit, my brain started doing its thing. Why was the pineapple only 87¢? Don’t you know that when something is that cheap, there’s a price to pay? Do you enjoy being a pawn in big agro’s game? So when I got back to my desk, I started Googling. Turns out Costa Rica uses the most insecticides of any country in the world and GMO pineapples would soon be introduced there. Exactly when is “soon?" I thought. Was my big-juicy-sweet-yellow-cheap-thang a dirty, little GMO tramp or a suitable, inexpensive suitor? Regardless, the thrill was gone, and cheap-thang would be going back to the store. Sure, it was only 87¢ and hardly worth my while, but it was the principle. I didn’t want to create the demand for it. And besides, the store was on my way home, so my carbon footprint wouldn't be compromised.

When I was leaving work for the day, my office mate (the one I cheated with last year), saw me carrying the pineapple. I told him it was only 87¢ and that I was returning it. "Only 87¢? I love pineapple," he announced. Then, upon the realization that returning it was more for my sake than for any real impact on the system, I offered it to him. I knew the cashier would probably just nod at me like when you're trying to placate a deranged person who's telling you about some secret society on Mars, and that would be the end of it. Besides, office mate was really excited about the prospect of acquiring a shiny, new pineapple. That is, until I ruined it for him. I'm pretty sure I could buzz kill anything with one strategically placed zinger. Call me gifted.

"It's from Costa Rica who uses more pesticides than any country in the world,” I said. “You want it?"

"Hmmm. Well, maybe not then."

“No, really," I said. "You can have it. You love pineapples, and I was expecting too much from my boycott.”

“No, that’s ok. If my wife wanted me to have a pineapple, she would have bought me a pineapple.”

I paused, scrunched up my face and crinkled my crow’s feet. “If you want a pineapple, you don’t need permission to have a pineapple," I said. "Here, take it.”

“No, that’s ok.”

“No, I really want you to have it.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Take the freaking pineapple!”

“What about the pesticides?”

“Your wife doesn’t buy organic fruit or shop at the farmers’ market,” I said. “This would have been the one she would have bought you if she wanted you to have one.”

Ten minutes later, as I gazed into the cashier’s vacuous eyes, I said, “I’d like to return this pineapple.”

"Okay. I owe you 87¢" he said, and handed me three quarters, a dime and two pennies.

“Thanks,” I said as I put the change in my wallet and walked out of the store. Pineapples, pesticides, partners, primates...I give up.

Related Links:

I am a Shameless Hussy

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

Travel Bite: Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 14:59:00 +0000

I showed you the inside of San Francisco's Ferry Building foodie mecca in Part 1, but on Saturdays, the huge Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market takes place outside. Located on the embarcadero, it’s one of the premier farmers' markets in the country for local, sustainable and organic produce, meat and all things artisanal. As much as the snarktastic Anthony Bourdain wanted to hate it, he couldn’t help but rave (watch video). Did the churro man pay him to play nice?

See the sugary, fried dot in front of the building in the top photo? It's the churros (You may want to brush up on your Where's Waldo first). Farmers' market vendors are set up in the front and wrap all the way around the building to the back where a lively scene (hey, I like banjo music) and motley crew overlook the bay (no pic, but trust me, there's water back there).

You'll need plenty of water with all this heat.

Even the pistachios were jalapeno and habanero flavored. In case of fire, drink bay.

Claiming "raw, organic goodness," Farmhouse Culture got in on the heat too with smoked jalapeno kraut. Not that the horseradish leek is for wusses or anything.

Fashionista farmers say solids are out this season. Except for the color orange.

Plenty of wild shrooms were out back, while far-out ones from Far West Fungi were inside.

Frog Hollow Farm has a shop inside, but on Saturdays, it spills out into the market out back. I had one of everything. Including the sack.

Across the street was a craft fair, but I didn't see a single craft beer. For that you either have to head back inside the Ferry building or BYOCB (Bring Your Own Craft Beer).

Travel Bite: Santa Fe Farmers’ Market

Travel Bite: Spice Bazaar, Istanbul

Travel Bite: Great Market Hall, Budapest

Travel Bite: Naschmarkt, Vienna

Travel Bite: Market Day, Chiapas, Mexico

Travel Bite: Borough Market, London

Travel Bite: Ferry Building, San Francisco, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 16:29:00 +0000

The historic Ferry Building, located along San Francisco's embarcadero at the foot of Market Street, opened in 1898 as a terminal for ferries that traveled across the bay. In its heyday, 50,000 people commuted by ferry every day. Then in the 1930's, the Bay Bridge and Golden Gate opened, and everyone could miraculously drive across the water. The building is still used for ferries, but it ain't what it used to be.

Now it's the Ferry Building Marketplace—a big, honkin’ foodie haven that's jam-packed with jams and artisanal luxuries, from baked goods, olive oils and cheeses to charcuteries and other cuteries (see lioness with orange mane).

These linzer-cookie cuteries and fruit-filled lovelies are from the legendary Frog Hollow Farm. Located on the Sacramento River Delta an hour from the city, this organic farm produces seasonal fruits, including 25 varieties of peaches, along with nectarines, apricots, plums, pluots, cherries, pears and grapes. Their urban farm stand shop here also sells conserves, chutneys and marmalades.

Hey, what are labels doing on those pears? I guess they haven't earned their local, sustainable and organic stripes like Frog Hollow's fruit. But I'm guessing the candy-striped figs have earned theirs.

In this mushroom shop called Far West Fungi (see big mushroom sign at top left), you can find cultivated and wild shrooms, truffles and unusual forest products. What you can't find is a little saucer of butter to dip your lobsters in.

Boccalone Salumeria features over 20 varieties of handmade cured meats using local, sustainably raised, heritage-breed pork. Though "Tasty Salted Pig Parts" kind of says it all, I can't help but wonder which pig parts are unsaltworthy. On second thought, don't tell me.

Cowgirl Creamery is your go-to girl for organic, environmentally responsible, award-winning cheese, made locally in Point Reyes Station, about an hour north of the city. Yee haw! If cowgirls got to eat all that cheese, I'd be a cowgirl too. Or a cow, anyway.

Acme Bread is the nationally acclaimed artisan baker that has supplied Alice Waters and Chez Panisse with their bread for almost 30 years—ever since one of the restaurant's busboys started baking bread at her request and then started the bakery. Acme uses only organic flours and is still giving Panisse its panache.

More cuterie as dough-filled cream pies masquerade as muffins from the artisan-crafted, gluten-free Mariposa Baking Company.

Were the plum and green tea donuts from Pepples Donuts trying too hard? When you're a 100% organic, vegan donut, you tend to try a little harder. Power to the Pepples!

Related Links:

Travel Bite: The Spice Bazaar, Istanbul

Travel Bite: Great Market Hall, Budapest

Travel Bite: Naschmarkt, Vienna

Travel Bite: Market Day, Chiapas, Mexico

Travel Bite: Borough Market, London

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 16:22:00 +0000

Rally for the Right to Know, October 16, 2011, Westwood, California

So you've heard about those creepy Genetically Modified Organisms (GMOs) that are infiltrating our food supply? You know, the ones that are irreversibly altering some of the world's staple crops? Okay. Now what? You gonna bury your head in the soil or get off your comfy GMO cotton couch and do something? Well, before you embark on the road to bad-ass, here are 10 things you need to know about genetically modified foods. Because when you hit the anti-GMO trail, you'll be up against the big boys like Monsanto. Oh, and when you make your protest sign, be sure to spell "genetically" right. Typos, like GMOs, are just plain wrong.

Wilshire Boulevard—the road to bad-ass

1. KNOW YOUR GMO. Flounder genes in tomatoes? Cattle genes in fish? OMG! Yup, those are GMOs—when genes from one organism are inserted into the DNA of another to create traits like pest or drought resistance. They can come from bacteria, viruses, insects, animals or even humans. You've probably eaten a handful of them already today, and it's not even lunchtime yet. They're mostly in soy, corn, canola, cotton and sugar beets. Big agribusiness continues to spread these experimental seeds across the land, claiming we need them to feed an overpopulated world. Yet independent studies over the past decade show that GMOs can pose serious risks to humans, animals and the environment—from allergies and infertility to organ damage and cancer. Hungry for lunch?

Stuck in greedlock

2. KNOW YOUR FOOD. You wouldn't put arsenic in your gas tank, so why fill your bowl up with Corn Flakes? About 80% of packaged foods contain GMOs, from cooking oils, sodas, and cereals to dairy and soy products, but most people don't know they're eating them because they're not labeled. A survey showed that 93% of Americans want to know if their food has GMOs in it, but the biotech and processed-food behemoths don't want us to know because then we won't buy them. That means the onus is on us to know what all those scary-sounding ingredients actually mean. I don't know about you, but I have better things to do on a Saturday night than to wiki "maltodextrin." That's more of a Tuesday night thing.

3. KNOW YOUR ENEMY. GMO seeds brought to you by the maker of Agent Orange, DDT, PCBs and artificial bovine growth hormones. Monsanto is the huge chemical company that makes about 90% of the GMO seeds on the market. The seeds are genetically altered to tolerate high doses of their Roundup herbicide weed killer. Not only do Monsanto seeds require Monsanto pesticides (cha-ching!), Monsanto owns the patent and intellectual property rights to the seeds. That means it's illegal for farmers to save "their" seeds and are then forced to buy new ones every year. Using bully tactics, Monsanto has planted itself in every corner of the globe, putting small farmers out to pasture. You think the financial crisis was bad? What'll happen if one corporate hog owns the world's food supply?

4. KNOW YOUR GOVERNMENT. How come the FDA approved GMOs without proper testing? Because Monsanto said they were safe. Even though FDA scientists repeatedly warned of possible health risks, the FDA official in charge was Monsanto’s former attorney, later their vice president, and now the US Food Safety Czar, Michael Taylor. Between 1999 and 2009, the top food and ag biotech firms spent over half a billion dollars lobbying Congress to deregulate GMOs and prevent labeling. Stories of strong-arm tactics, bribes and threats are rampant throughout the history of the GMO approval process and promotion of them around the world. And the head of the USDA, former Iowa governor Tom Vilsack, has approved three new GMO crops since he's been in office. Go, USA!

5. KNOW YOUR GEOGRAPHY. GMOs are now grown in 29 countries? Congratulations, Monsanto! Lobbying foreign governments and buying up seed companies really paid off! But 20 international food and conservation groups reported that GMOs have not only failed to increase the yield of any food crop, they've created the growth of "superweeds," forcing farmers to use more chemicals (cha-ching!). Tragically, over the last decade, 250,000 farmers in India have committed suicide over failed crops and insurmountable debt—the vast majority, growers of Monsanto’s Bt cotton. On the upside, over 50 countries now have GMO labeling, including Europe, China and Russia, and many are banning GMOs. After Haiti's devastating earthquake, the Haitian people unanimously rejected 475,000 tons of free Monsanto seed. Go, rest of the world!

Sign translation: "I am corn and I don't want to be genetically modified."

Doing a corn dance before they're forced to dance to the corn god, Monsanto

6. KNOW YOUR HISTORY. Uprooting civilizations. Though the Mexican people oppose GMOs, Monsanto has still managed to spread its seed, wiping out many of the country's native corn strains that have adapted to local soils over thousands of years. The Mesoamerican civilization was built on corn, and it has deep religious and spiritual importance to their identity as well as their diet. Much of the heritage varieties now have GMO contamination from pollen or seed that has blown onto farms from GMO crops, forcing small indigenous farmers to leave their land since the crops won't grow without Monsanto's expensive, toxic chemicals. If the Aztecs and Mayans had subsisted on GMO corn, I'd hate to think what their pyramids would have looked like. Especially the food pyramid.

7. KNOW YOUR OPTIONS. WTF! Is anything safe to eat? If it's certified organic, it's not allowed to contain any GMOs. In addition to buying organic, look for voluntary non-GMO labels and avoid products made from corn, soybeans, canola and cottonseed (unless they're organic). The Non-GMO Project is a nonprofit organization that tests for GMO content and has created an industry-wide set of standards through a third-party verification process. You can look for their label on products and find the non-GMO-approved brands on their site. You can also download PDFs and free apps for the Institute for Responsible Technology's Non-GMO Shopping Guide and the Center for Food Safety's True Food Shopper's Guide. Are we a bad-ass yet?

Bad-asses in training

8. KNOW YOUR POLITICS. The seeds of change in California. We have a chance to get mandatory labeling of GMO food on the California ballot for the first time in 2012. But getting an initiative on the ballot is a time-sensitive, carefully orchestrated endeavor. Starting in January, we'll have about 150 days to gather up to 800,000 signatures. Meanwhile, the GMO industry is gearing up to crush us, so we have to be poised to fight their deep pockets with our bad-ass, grass-roots offensive. Just think. If GMO labeling is passed in California, it's only a matter of time 'til the other states follow. What happens in California won't stay in California.

Total bad-asses

9. KNOW YOUR PRIORITIES. A pesticide in every bite. This is the first generation that will grow up on foods spliced with genes that produce risky, untested insecticides. GMO soy, corn and cotton are grown with the Bt toxin—a built-in pesticide thousands of times more concentrated than sprays. But where does it say that on your infant formula? We don't tell corporations and lobbyists who they can buy. Why should they decide what we can eat?

10. KNOW YOUR RIGHTS. Buh bye, lazy ass. Hello, bad-ass. Still sitting on your Bt cotton couch? Well, did you know that if just 5% of the population rejects GMOs, then the food makers will stop putting them in their products? It happened in Europe. Why not here? But first we have to get them labeled so people know what GMOs are. So be a bad-ass and demand the right to know.

Sign the petition to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods asking them to support the campaign.

Sign the FDA petition demanding labeling.

Sources + Resources:

Institute for Responsible Technology

Center for Food Safety

Food and Water Watch

Organic Consumers Association

LabelGMOs.org

Just Label It

Non-GMO Project

Non-GMO Shopping Guide

True Food Shopper’s Guide

The Guardian: GM crops promote superweeds, food insecurity and pesticides, say NGOs

The World According to Monsanto

The Future of Food

Single Bite: "Occupy LA"

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 02:47:00 +0000

Got Milked?, Downtown Los Angeles

When a friend of mine asked me to come up with a line for her "Occupy LA" sign, I was chomping at the bit to help her out—even though I had my own anti-GMO signs to come up with for a different rally. But it didn't take long before this one came to me. Another variation was, Got Milked by the 1%? She said, "I think your blog has you thinking of food-related humor 24/7." After pointing out a sign I liked from "Occupy Wall Street" that said End the Fed, I realized she might be right. Happy one-month anniversary to the Occupation!

Easier-than-Pie Strawberry-Rhubarb Compote

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 13:48:00 +0000

Crust is not a must with this slothful yet sublime compote.

Without crust, this ‘pote’s a piece of cake. It's so easy, a monkey could make it. Not to diss primates or anything. But if you're not in the mood to be all upright, simply slouch over the stove for a few minutes with some vibrant red fruit.

Sure, I enjoy a good strawberry-rhubarb galette or strawberry and rhubarb crumble as much as the next strawbarb enthusiast. But sometimes a girl has more important things to do than slave over a floured rolling pin. A few things come to mind: A) napping, B) filing her nails, C) lounging poolside with a Harlequin romance and D) doing online research into the nefarious things that big agro is doing to our food supply. Guess which one I was doing while my crust was left in the dust. If you narrowed it down to A) and D), apparently you've B) seen my nails and C) know about my distrust of UV rays and Marlboro men.

Meanwhile, after my nap I discovered a startling development about strawberries that I wish was as fictional as a mustachioed man-hunk on a horse. Not only do conventionally grown strawberries contain some of the most pesticides of any fruit or vegetable, a really toxic one called methyl iodide has just been introduced in California, which grows most of the strawberries in the U.S. This toxin is extremely harmful to farmworkers and anyone who lives in the vicinity of these farms (see my breakdown below). So it’s best to either buy organic strawberries or make sure your farmer doesn’t use any sprays—for everyone's sake. I know that's not as sexy a scenario as a beefcake on a bronco or studmuffin in a Stetson. But when you've got fresh, supple, organic strawberries glistening provocatively in the buff, who needs subpar literature or pie crust? Do I know juicy or what?

Recipe

6 stalks rhubarb, cut in ½ inch slices (between 1 ¼ - 1 ½ lb)

1 heaping pint organic stawberries, quartered (can use a little more)

¾ cup water

1/3 cup organic sugar

½ tsp vanilla

Makes about 12 toppings or 6 – 8 solo servings.

In a 3-quart sauce pan, boil water, sugar, vanilla and rhubarb until rhubarb is almost tender, about 7 - 12 minutes. Then add strawberries and cook about 5 more minutes until done. Eat warm or cold on ice cream, yogurt, cake, toast, pancakes, waffles or just a big ol' honkin' bowl of it plain.

Lentil’s Breakdown

• According to EWG’s 2011 Shopper’s Guide to Pesticides in Produce, strawberries are #3 on the dirty list, and some strawberries had as many as 13 different pesticides.

• Methyl iodide is known to cause miscarriages, thyroid dysfunction, cancer, and is so reliably carcinogenic that it's used to create cancer cells in laboratories. It also contaminates groundwater.

• Since it’s applied to soil before plants go into the ground, methyl iodide poses little risk to strawberry consumers, but it’s extremely hazardous to farmworkers who apply it and the people who live near the fields because it can drift off site through the air.

• More than 50 scientists and doctors, including five Nobel laureates in chemistry, warned the EPA about the dangers of methyl iodide, but California officials manipulated the safety data, and it was approved anyway.

• Methyl iodide has been banned in the states of Washington and New York, but its status in California now lies in the hands of Gov. Jerry Brown. In March, he vowed to take a fresh look at the decision to approve it but has yet to take action. Please sign this petition and leave a message on Gov. Jerry Brown’s Facebook wall.

Sources:

Mother Jones: Methyl Iodide: A Nasty Pesticide Explained

Huffington Post: Methyl Iodide Controversy: Warning about Strawberry Field Chemical Ignored

Californians for Pesticide Reform: Methyl Iodide Background

NaturalNews.com: Exposed: California officials manipulated safety data on methyl iodide, ignored scientist warnings against approving deadly strawberry chemical

Mother Jones: California Defied Own Scientists with Pesticide Approval

Related Links:

Strawberry-Rhubarb Galette

Strawberry and Rhubarb Crumble

Ode to a Farmworker

My Therapy Session with Dr. Sigmund Food

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 15:28:00 +0000

"The Intervention" (#3 in the Sigmund Food series)

Dr. Food: Vhat brings you to my couch today?

Lentil Breakdown: I’m holding an intervention for my blog. I hope all my readers will fit in your office.

Dr. Food: I’ve seen your Google analytics. Tell zem to bring zair friends. Who calls an intervention for a blog, anyvay? Lady, are you cuckoo?

Lentil Breakdown: Well, doc, since Lentil Breakdown turned two, I think it’s time to confront it with some serious questions. Like where has it gotten me and where is it taking me?

Dr. Food: It got you on zis couch, and now I can afford another trip to Vienna! Cha-ching! And it looks like it’s made you lots of friends who enjoy a good nosh!

Lentil Breakdown: That’s true. I’ve made so many friends, it’s incredible! I’m so lucky and grateful for them all, but sometimes this social networking feels like, well, high school. How many people “Like” you? How many people follow you on Twitter? How many visitors did you get? How many people left comments? How many people signed your yearbook? And I'm still an outsider without a date to the prom!

Dr. Food: Vhat did you expect? To be homecoming queen?

Lentil Breakdown: No, but I figured this is where I would shine—just me in the trenches, crafting my magic, without fashion or personal grooming to get in the way. But my blog doesn't really fit in with the other food blogs. It's not a cheerleader, a nerd or a stoner. It's a lot like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club.

Dr. Food: Vell, other zen to avoid Bloomingdale's and za bathtub, vhy did you start it?

Lentil Breakdown: I thought I might get a humor food column out of it.

Dr. Food: Lady, everyvun’s middle name is Shecky, and vee all have a food blog. Did I tell you about mine? It’s called Oedipal Edibles. I subconsciously cook all my mother’s recipes. Turns out I'm in love vith her tuna casserole!

Lentil Breakdown: But doc, I may not be a real chef, but I’m a real writer!

Dr. Food: And I’m a real shrink. Vhat's your point?

Lentil Breakdown: It's just that I have a food-related book inside of me that wants to come out! But between my full-time job and this blog, I can't write it! I can barely keep up with the blog! I have all these ideas, but they're sitting around languishing in my brain. Everything's a struggle! Formatting issues, widgets, HTML, SEO, ISO, white balance, Photoshop, Light Room, StumbleUpon, HootSuite, TweetDeck, Google Plus—WTF! It's all Swahili to me and a huge time suck! Doc, I feel like a dinosaur. Spielberg could hire me to play a brachiosaurus in Jurassic Park 4. They were herbivores, you know.

Dr. Food: Ah, a technophobe vith vegetarian proclivities.

Lentil Breakdown: Days vanish before my eyes and and all I've got to show for it is a phallic ode in cyberspace!

Dr. Food: Sounds like vee need more sessions! Cha-ching!

Lentil Breakdown: And I'm a perfectionist who obsesses over every detail! Can you tell me something to make me work faster?

Dr. Food: Vith your OCD? Zat would be like Michele Bachmann telling Harvey Fierstein to pray away za gay!

Lentil Breakdown: But can’t you rewire my brain or something?

Dr. Food: Zair aren’t enough circuits, lady! Vee’d have to build more dams!

Lentil Breakdown: What's the point of a blog, anyway? Is it a place for narcissists to say, “Hey, look at me!” and whoever screams the loudest wins? Do we all have something so unique to offer that it needs to be broadcast to the world? Is disseminating useful information more noble than simply talking about ourselves? Who's to decide what's useful? What makes us relevant? What makes a person an authority? Is educating and informing people more respectable than merely entertaining them? Can you educate and entertain at the same time? Is "edutainment" really a word?

Dr. Food: I see vee need more dams zen I thought!

Lentil Breakdown: Doc, it just seems like I should be doing something more useful with my time than creating this light entertainment. Who am I, Mario Lopez? I’d rather be someone who’s making a difference like a Michael Moore or a Michael Pollan. But those Michaels are already taken. And they’re probably better at being them than I could ever be. Although with the portions I’ve been eating, I may have a shot at being Michael Moore. Doc, I’m like a neutered Chihuahua. I sit around barking, but I’m not humping anything! I should be out there protesting against the corporate machines!

Dr. Food: I saw you at an anti-GMO rally vith your lawn chair and picnic basket. Looked like quite a spread!

Lentil Breakdown: It was! All organic and no GMOs!

Dr. Food: But vhy veren't you marching?

Lentil Breakdown: My vegan fried chicken took a little longer to prepare than I expected, and I didn't have time to make a protest sign. Simulating bones is harder than you think!

Dr. Food: A picnic to a protest? Is zat vhat you’re bringing to za table?

Lentil Breakdown: I don't know. What am I bringing to the table? What are any of us food bloggers bringing to the table? Is sharing our love of food enough to warrant all the hoopla we make out of this colossal time suck? How many cupcake recipes does the world really need? What other parts of our lives are we sacrificing? Doc, I haven't touched my toes in two years. I'm not even sure they're still down there! I miss my muscle tone.

Dr. Food: Zen quit yer bitchin’ and get out of za kitchen!

Lentil Breakdown: I don't know. I’d like to hear from my interveners.

Dr. Food: Oooh, I love a good viener! Vith a little kraut!

Lentil Breakdown: I want to know if bloggers enjoy spending countless hours on social media or if they just accept it as part of the job? Do they have an end game in mind for their blog? How long do they plan on doing it? What else would they be doing with their time? Doc, I can't seem to quit high school! But what’s the point of going on if I never get my diploma?

Dr. Food: Vell, it’s like a client of mine vunce said, “My sister thinks she’s a chicken.” So I said, “Vhy don’t you have her committed?” And he said, “I vould, but I need za eggs.” Maybe you need za eggs!

Lentil Breakdown: Oooh. Suddenly I’m in the mood for a frittata. I'm thinking sundried tomatoes, arugula, caramelized onions and fontina on a periwinkle blue plate with a fuchsia napkin and post-modern fork perched perfectly on a distressed oak tabletop near my westward window at 5:18 pm. See you next week, doc.

Dr. Food: But our time isn't up!

Lentil Breakdown: Sorry. I gotta go charge my camera battery.

Calling all interveners!

My Therapy Session with Dr. Sigmund Food: “Guy Trouble”

Shishito Chile and Cheese Frittata

Ode to a Choke

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 14:02:00 +0000

To nab the bounty underneath

Sometimes a girl must use her teeth

So I undressed him leaf by leaf

And now I wonder, where’s the beef?

Lentil Breakdown Turns Two!

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 15:07:00 +0000

It’s the terrible twos for this L’enfant L'entil terrible.

Even though it's only two years old, I think my blog is having a mid-life crisis. It's at that tantrum-throwing, nobody-tells-me-what-to-do age. Yet here I am, wanting to know what to do. I’ve put a lot of my life into this feisty little legume, and now what? Is Lentil Breakdown a viable brand with a clear message? Should it become a more strategic enterprise with a precise end goal? Are there enough readers to warrant its existence? Could I parlay my preoccupation with all things edible, ethical and alphabetical into something more meaningful? Do I have any lentils stuck in my teeth? I hope you know the answers to these questions because I sure don’t. Especially the lentils in the teeth one. I hate it when no one tells me these things.

So while I ponder this blog's future, I thought it would be a good time to peer into its past. If you feel like joining me where "Fork in Mouth Meets Tongue in Cheek," then get out your napkin and pull up a chair. I'm really glad you're here.

Lentil Breakdown’s Year in Review (in order of appearance):

I lost my virginity to Tom.

I headed for the loony bin.

I hung with the Crips in Watts.

I got naughty with Giada’s cleavage.

I found a new shrink.

I trashed the Girl Scouts and was featured in Bon Appetit and Yahoo's Shine.

I cooked for the Queen.

I had my first guest blogger (and a cupcake's first appearance here, but don’t worry—it’s still a bacon-free zone).

I pleaded for rich benefactors to support me in my Starving Artist series.

I demystified cute wine.

I got my quinoa photo in the LA Times.

I revisited the Dairy Queen in my first guest post on Sippity Sup.

I shared travel shots from Vienna, Prague, London and Turkey and waxed poetic about bok choy, star anise and cardamom.

But this isn't the last you’ll be hearing about my blog's existential angst. In fact, I think it’s time to pay a visit to Dr. Sigmund Food. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and I hope you'll be here for my next Lentil Breakdown.

Related Link: Lentil Breakdown Turns One!

Caprese "Egg" McMuffin

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 14:40:00 +0000

Who needs egg on their face from eating at McDonald's?

My anti-Egg McMuffin is a deliciously devilish way to thumb your nose up at the fast-food empire and its nefarious scheme to rule the world. In fact, maybe this tromp l’oeil or “fool the eye” creation should be called the Egg MockMuffin. A slice of fresh organic mozzarella and a locally grown yellow cherry tomato coyly conspire to fool the eye before you assemble the ultimate caprese breakfast sandwich by adding the surrounding tomatoes, fresh basil and a splash of olive oil and balsamic to the whole-grain English muffin. This version not only reduces the factory-farmed and artificial ingredients of a real McMuffin, you'll see how fast slow food can be.

My mother used to say that McDonald’s was responsible for raising the nutritional level of Americans by being the first fast-food chain to offer breakfast. I don't know where she got her data, but I looked up the ingredients in an Egg McMuffin, and it has high-fructose corn syrup, sugar, artificial flavor and color, canola oil (most likely from GMO canola), hydrogenated oil, preservatives—and I could go on, but who knows what azodicarbonamide is anyway? Do those mad scientists who created it even know? And if that weren't distressing enough, I'm starting to wonder if I was adopted. How could my own flesh and blood think that's good for you? Could the hospital have switched babies? Fake American cheese, factory-farmed Canadian bacon, and an egg prepared with hydrogenated oils, mono-and diglycerides, sodium benzoate, potassium sorbate and artificial flavor does not a breakfast make, "mom!" Has my whole identity been a fraud like that American cheese? Is my real mother out there somewhere in Birkenstocks with a protest sign and dreadlocks? Do I even exist? If not, then whose varicose veins are these?

Well, in the off-chance that I do exist, I say, who says you can't have a caprese sandwich for breakfast? It's not in my caprese handbook. True, it has cheese (see notes below), but not everyone is ready to go cold turkey. Vegans can use vegan cheese. Find a muffin that's gluten-free. Whatever floats your diet boat, the MockMuffin is a kinder, gentler McMuffin. I just hope searching for my real birth mother doesn't take too long because I can't wait to start working on the Tofu McRib. Now that's going to be special.

Mock Recipe

1 whole-grain English muffin

1 thick slice fresh buffalo mozzarella cheese (2 slices if you eat both halves open-faced)

Yellow cherry tomatoes, sliced in half

Fresh basil leaves

Splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar mixed together

Crack of fresh sea salt

Lentil’s Breakdown

According to Environmental Working Group’s Meat Eater’s Guide to Climate Change, cheese has the third worst environmental impact as a result of greenhouse gases from cradle to grave, after lamb and beef. Pork is fourth. EWG recommends opting for lower-fat dairy products like cream cheese, part-skim or fresh mozzarella, gouda, feta, muenster, cottage cheese and non-fat yogurt. Choose organic when possible.
According to Change.org, the pork in the Egg McMuffin and McRib comes from pigs who live in tiny enclosures called “gestation crates,” in which the pigs can barely move and often get sores, open wounds and infections. Please sign this petition asking McDonald’s to stop using pork from abused pigs from Smithfield Foods, the largest pork producer in the world. To learn more, watch this short video.
According to EWG, if everyone in the U.S. ate no meat or cheese just one day a week, it would be like not driving 91 billion miles—or taking 7.6 million cars off the road.

Travel Bite: Kolaches, West, Texas

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 23:56:00 +0000

Right off the I-35 highway in the tiny town of West is the Czech Stop and Little Czech Bakery. It's an oddly conjoined mini mart/deli and bakery and gas station that Texans have come to anticipate on that long stretch of asphalt between Dallas and Austin. You can fill up your beer belly on the left, your kolache gut on the right, and your gas guzzler out front.

Claiming to be the "Kolache capital of Texas," West is not far from Waco and George W. Bush country, namely, Crawford. You know, the ranch where "W" was busy clearing brush during a national crisis. If there was upheaval somewhere in the world, chances are he could be found in these parts with kolache crumbs on his face. But since those orange-level terror-alert days are gone, he was a no-show.

This was the only orange alert I could buy into. So in the name of national security, I grabbed a roll of duct tape and assumed the apricot kolache position with mouth wide open (The tape was to shut my pie hole so I wouldn't eat more than one). The kolaches come with various fruit fillings, and they cry to be eaten fresh. If you don't kill 'em off on the first day, the terrorists win.

This yeast pastry originated as a wedding dessert in Czechoslovakia. In the 1860s, Czech immigrants came to West and the surrounding areas to buy farm land and start a fresh life in the new world. The cream cheese ones taste similar to cheese Danish, while the poppyseed and prune fillings are reminiscent of the Jewish pastry, hamentashen, also from Eastern Europe.

The closed kolache was supposedly created in Czechoslovakia because the fruit in the open-faced buns would get all over the working men's lunch buckets, hence their wives folded over the pastry. But that could be an old wives' tale.

The klobasnek, klobasniky or klobasnik (your choice) has the same dough as the kolache, but they're filled with sausage. Klobasnik were traditionally just sausage, but now a combination of ingredients like cheese and peppers are common. Apparently purists cringe when a klobasnik is referred to as a kolache. I cringe at greasy sausage. Maybe I'll turn that into a bumper sticker.

A lot of German and Polish immigrants also settled in the area, including the German founder of the famous fruitcake company, Collin Street Bakery in nearby Corsicana that I visited. The Europeans not only brought their recipes to Texas, they brought the waltz and polka, too. Through the years, the oompah band and accordion were combined with the Mexican corrido and mariachi to form the music that’s heard in Central and South Texas called Tejano. (Notice the musicians on the wall in the pic above, and hear the master Tejano accordionist Flaco Jimenez.) There's an annual Czech Polka festival in West called Westfest held every Labor Day weekend that attracts 20,000 people and includes a kolache baking contest.

West may be the “Kolache capital of Texas,” but Montgomery, Minnesota claims to be the "Kolacky capital of the world," and Prague, Nebraska says it's the “Home of the world's largest kolache.” While those other towns might proclaim themselves the reigning kolache king, I have some advice for them: When it comes to kolaches, don't mess with Texas. And that's one warning you can believe.

Don't let the terrorists win.

Related Links:

Girl’s Fruitcake Memory, Interrupted

Travel Bite: Crêpes (Palačinkas), Prague

The Lick-Your-Bowl-Clean Plantain Banana Split

Banana Yogurt Spoonie

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 14:50:00 +0000

Spoonie may be thick and simple, but that’s why he's so lovable.

Who is this Spoonie, you ask? Why, he's Smoothie's simpler brother. Think of him as the Rain Man of yogurt refreshments. Tom Cruise is the smooth one who lures the ladies in with his straw, and Dustin Hoffman is the thick one who's really brilliant despite his compulsive need for flatware. Just give him a nanosecond, and he can tell you how many calories are in a Vegas buffet.

While most of us also have a thick and simple brother, I'm pretty sure Spoonie tastes better and is easier to make. You don’t even need a blender. Simply take a fork and mash a very ripe banana with some organic nonfat yogurt as your base, then add a few mix-ins like dried coconut and walnuts, and before you know it, you’ll be spooning Rain Man. Rich tasting and nutrient dense, he makes a smart and satisfying breakfast, brunch item, afternoon snack or light dessert.

I like to leave some banana chunks in for variety, but if Smoothie Cruise is more your type, you can beat him to a finer pulp. Personally, I don’t believe in banana cruelty, but you’ll have to follow your own moral compass. For an extra kick, you can add cardamom. Or leave their mom out of it if she’s too spicy. And since Spoonie has no fat or sugar like his rich cousin, The Lick-Your-Bowl-Clean Plantain Banana Split, you can eat a huge bowl of him without remorse. If you want to omit the coconut and then find that Spoonie isn't sweet enough, just add a little honey. Vanilla extract is welcome, too. Do whatever you want to him. Despite his lumps, Spoonie is a very agreeable guy. I guarantee he'll dazzle everyone you introduce him to. True, he may not be smooth like his brother, but when you get your spoon in him, boy does he shine. He's sparkly. Very sparkly.

Banana Yogurt Spoonie Recipe

(Makes 1 large serving or 2 small ones)

1 banana, mashed

¼ cup organic plain nonfat yogurt (Greek is good, too)

1 TBSP shredded or flaked unsweetened coconut

1 TBSP walnut pieces

1 cardamom pod (optional), seeds ground in a mortar and pestle

In a bowl, mash banana with a fork. Stir in yogurt. Add coconut, nuts and ground cardamom (if using). Refrigerate for at least 1/2 an hour until the flavors meld and then serve cold. Can keep in the fridge up to 24 hours before banana starts to turn brown.

Build-Your-Own Chocolate and Banana Crépes

Ode to a Mom

Single Bite: Fashionista Farmer

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 01:52:00 +0000

Kenneth Cole Slaw, Santa Fe, New Mexico

While ogling this color-coordinated cruciferous display at the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market last summer, I wondered what it would look like if every stall at the market made a fashion statement. Would Kenneth Cole Slaw be vying with Dolce & Garbanzo for the most eye-catching ensemble? Who would be the Prada of produce for the fall season? Hmmm. I feel a reality show coming on. And don't try to steal my idea, Heidi Klum. It's right here in cyberprint. Lentil Breakdown thought of Project Fashionista Farmer first.

Ode to a Dean

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 14:29:00 +0000

Your brilliant school earned top degrees

In powerful omega-3s

Yet in the fishnet grads were seen

Now who’s so canny, eh, sardine?

East LA Meets Napa and a Love Letter to Mexico

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 20:05:00 +0000

Dear Mexico,

Remember me? I’m the gringa who loved you as a schoolgirl in Texas, a college girl in Arizona and as a working girl in California. I’ve been all over your regions (it’s not as dirty as it sounds), and frankly, you had me at hola. Maybe it was your vibrant bougainvilla and calla lilies. Your earthy chiles and moles. Your briliant Kahlos and Riveras. Or perhaps it was the spirited mariachis and rancheras. Those red-tiled roofs and Mayan ruins. And who could forget the warmth of your sun, your smiles and your tequila? You know how some people close their eyes and picture soft, ethereal music with unicorns flying in slo-mo? That's not what I see. You, dear Mexico, are my happy place.

I’m sorry that your streets have been infiltrated by those notorious drug lords. But they won't stop me from visiting. And I’m sorry that some people still think of you as the land of refried beans and cheap booze with a worm. Haven’t they been to a tiny village in Oaxaca and tasted a real handcrafted smoky mezcal? Their loss. Or sat under a palapa in the Yucatan and unwrapped a steaming banana leaf filled with a gift from the corn gods? That's a shame. Or relaxed on the zocalo in Patzcuaro with the dreamiest, creamiest tres leches cake? Oh well. More for me. And if they haven't savored a delicate huitlacoche soufflé in Mexico City's Zona Rosa or Condesa district, well, what can I say? That’s a gringo for you.

But thanks to the East LA Meets Napa premiere food and wine tasting event that was held in downtown's Union Station a couple of weeks ago, I got to meet some of your culinary disciples in LA. The event celebrated the food of Michoacan and wineries of Latino vintners in the Napa Valley. It was a benefit for AltaMed, a nonprofit organization that provides healthcare for underserved Latino communities in Southern California. So when my blogging buddy Lynne of Cook and Be Merry and I scored an invite, I was not only excited over the 60 food and wine pairings, I was happy that a good cause would be served too.

And now, Mexico, after all that food, wine, tequila and music, I really need to see you—bad. This long-distance relationship is hard. We tried Skyping once, but you're a big country. But at least I can get a little fix of you here in LA. You should see what some of these restaurants are doing. It's really sexy stuff. And I wouldn't be cheating on you if I have your permission to go to their place once in a while. If you think of them as your children and not your rivals, I know you'd approve. I bet they'd even make you proud. And Mexico, just 'cause I'm seeing other chefs, it doesn't mean I won't be thinking of you.

Until we eat again, mi amor,

Lentil Breakdown

Colorful antojitos, La Casita Mexicana

Cold avocado and shrimp soup in mini bamboo bowls, Setá

Shrimp taquito with guacamole and salsa brava, Yxta Cocina Mexicana

Pineapple & prickly pear + lime, chia & cucumber aguas frescas, Lotéria Grill

Chicken in green mole mini sopes, Lotéria Grill

Black quinoa and squash blossom sauce over corn custard, Rivera Restaurant

Handmade tortillas, La Parrilla Restaurant

Handmade jellos, Attila the Flan

Passion fruit cream with mango jelly, raspberries and passion fruit pearls, Porto's Bakery

Warm smiles, La Sandía Mexican Kitchen & Tequila Bar

Warming tequilas (shot after too many shots): Tributo Tequila

To find out more about Latinos' contributions to the U.S. wine industry, read AltaMed's new book, In Their Own Words, which chronicles 17 vintners' stories from the Napa Valley, some of whom began as farm workers.

My photos from Mexico (at top): Calla lilies, San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas; Diego Rivera mural, El Pan Nuestro, Ministry of Education, Mexico City; Palenque ruins, Chiapas; Family on motorcycle, Mexico City

Related Links:

Ode to a Farm Worker

Travel Bite: Street Snacks, Mexico City

Travel Bite: Market Day, Chiapas, Mexico

Travel Bite: Xochimilco Snack Vendor

Cultural Musings on Dia de los Muertos

Nopales Cactus Salad (with Cahones)

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 14:45:00 +0000

Who needs Viagra when you've got this prickly pair?

Mexicans have been eating the potent prickly pear cactus, or nopal, for hundreds of years. And just look at the Aztecs. Talk about testosterone. Now they had a pair to spare.

Nopales is the stem or paddle of the cactus, and nopalitos are the pads that are cut up and ready to eat. So technically this should be called Nopalitos Cactus Salad. But I think my pal, Nopal, with his prickly pair, would find that diminutive emasculating. So I'm going with the more virile Nopales Cactus Salad. Who wants a cutesy cactus when you could have cahones, comprende?

Cooked nopales looks like bell pepper, tastes a little like green beans and has a slightly slimy texture. But don’t let that turn you off. Without a little slime, we’d have no politicians, and who would give all those rich people their tax breaks? Like a politician, the nopales must have their spines removed first. Sometimes you can find fresh, cleaned and diced nopalitos at a Latin store or farmers' market, so you don't have to mess with the needles. But once you have the cleaned cactus in your hot little hands, this is really easy to make. Its bright, earthy flavor is truly distinctive. The Mexican oregano, which tastes altogether different from the Mediterranean kind, really makes it pop. And cactus is full of fiber, amino acids, vitamins A, B6, C and K. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some L-M-N-O-P in there too. Plus, it makes you a bad-ass since you can say you ate a cactus. Just don't call it Nopalitos.

Nopalitos, I mean nopales in the raw

Kick, I mean cook some cact-ass

Recipe

1 pound cleaned cactus paddles, diced (to clean them yourself, watch video)

½ cup radishes, diced

½ cup tomatoes, diced or cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered

¼ cup red onion, diced (about ½ an onion)

¼ cup packed cilantro, chopped

2 TBSP olive oil

3 tsp lime juice

1 tsp dried Mexican oregano, crushed (available at Latin markets)

Salt and pepper to taste

Serve with crumbled cotija or feta cheese

Blanch diced cactus in boiling water for 5 to 7 minutes or until tender. Drain and rinse well. Let cool, and combine with the remaining ingredients in a serving bowl. Chill several hours until the flavors have blended. Serve cold or room temperature with warm corn tortillas.

Related Links:

Travel Bite: Street Snacks, Mexico City

Travel Bite: Market Day, Chiapas, Mexico

Travel Bite: Xochimilco Snack Vendor

Cultural Musings on Dia de los Muertos

Ode to a Farm Worker

Turkish Pide and a Hot Air Balloon Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 15:10:00 +0000

In Turkey, I discovered bread is flat bread and the earth is rocky.
Like a 15th-century explorer, I traveled halfway across the globe and found pide. This Turkish flatbread, similar to its pita bread cousin of the Middle East, is also the name for their pizza. And like a cartographer, I mapped out this cart in front of the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul.

These canoe-shaped offerings were not to be confused with the boats across the street.

These vessels were shot from the Galata Bridge on the Golden Horn that separates both sides of the city. The New Mosque is in the background, and the Spice Bazaar is directly to the right of it.

These boats were docked inside the Spice Bazaar, but my stomach was saving itself for the next leg of the journey.

The region of Cappadocia in central Turkey rocks with surreal landscapes and caves. We stayed in the town of Goreme.

They rolled out the red carpets for our arrival. Nothing says "welcome" like a sales pitch.

Except maybe the veggie pide I ordered while charting this lunch course.

The next morning, this was the scene from our cave hotel window. So I decided to fork over my life savings.

The following day I arrived at the launch pad before sunrise.

I highly recommend standing in a crammed shoebox with 11 strangers ogling X-rated rocks.

It quickly turned into rush hour on the 405.

Luckily they were more courteous drivers than in LA.

These rock formations from volcanic ash are called "fairy chimneys." The valleys were once a refuge for Byzantine Christians and monks.

Some monks have more passionate priestly pursuits than others.

After an hour, we were spent like next month's rent.

Cheap champagne awaited us at 7 am. Where was that famous monk, Dom Perignon?

It may have been touristy, but it was a real high point of the journey.

This pide also rose and was full of hot air. But not as much dough.

Related Links:

Travel Bite: Spice Bazaar, Istanbul

Travel Bite: Spice Bazaar, Istanbul, Part 2

Travel Bite: Turkish Viagra

Travel Bite: Turkish Chestnut Vendors

Travel Bite: Turkish Bagel Vendors

Ode to a Monk

The Lick-Your-Bowl-Clean Plantain Banana Split

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 15:52:00 +0000

One of my favorite food bloggers, Greg Henry of Sippity Sup, asked me to write this guest post as part of his “Savoring Summer” series in which guest bloggers reminisce about their childhood memories of summer. After reading my reminiscence here, I hope you'll click over to Sippity Sup to read the recipe, the rest of the series and Greg's terrific blog.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Don’t hate me because I’m white trash. Just ‘cause a young Texas girl liked Dairy Queen banana splits, that doesn’t make her a hick. I don’t even have an accent, y’all. Some people just have humble beginnings.
Back when gas was cheap and skies were blue, my parents would take us three kids on summer vacations in our gold Oldsmobile Delta 88. From Dallas, we’d drive somewhere every year—west to the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone or the Rocky Mountains; east to New Orleans or the Smoky Mountains; or maybe north to Lake of the Ozarks. The USA was our playground, and we valiantly marked our turf. En route, we’d stop at some oases along the highway like Stuckey’s—you know, the place with the big yellow sign with red type that said, Home of the World Famous Pecan Log Roll. I wondered just how world famous it really was. Would a Zulu tribesman know of this cylindrical, nut-encrusted treat? Once in a while we’d venture into a Howard Johnson’s restaurant for some ice cream. My favorite flavor was the apple strudel with pie crust in it. That was a novelty, before the advent of the mix-in. I should have seen it coming. But more often we’d stop at that southern fixture known as Dairy Queen.
Home of the DQ Dude chicken-fried steak sandwich, a Dairy Queen always seemed to be there when you needed one (Sorry, deep-fried dude, but nobody needed you.). In ice cream weather, you could always count on their Dilly Bars and banana splits for a cool respite from the Lone Star sun. The other burger franchises only had milkshakes, but a banana split was a belt notch beyond. A banana, three scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream and a cherry was the stuff of kid lust. (Hmmm, that sounded a little creepy. Delete thoughts of Pete Townshend and Roman Polanski.) Yep, there was something about a banana split from Dairy Queen that said, Go on now…clean your bowl…be a hog. Welcome to Tejas! So clean our bowls and loosen our belts we did. It was a summer rite of passage.
When we ate ice cream at home, I always wanted to lick my bowl clean to get every last drop. If I did it at the table, my dad would grimace, and in that tone of his, tell me to stop. Then mom would overrule him by chiming in, “Go in the other room and do it.” So I’d take my bowl into the den, and like a cat, lap up every microscopic smidgen of sweetness before returning with my fully sated belly and sparkling-clean bowl. Who needed a dishwasher with me around? Yes, mom and I were partners in cream. I was the butter pecan perpetrator and she was my witting accomplice. Somehow, she would ingrain in her daughter both good manners and a deep, abiding don't-ask, don't-tell policy toward sweets.
Now after living in California for half my life, I can’t recall the last time I went to a Dairy Queen or had a banana split. So I asked myself if I would even like one today, with those subpar ingredients and me being an esteemed gastronomer and all. So to prove that a Dallas girl can go from the hot Texas sun to haute California cuisine, I concocted an upscale banana split with caramelized plantains, vanilla bean ice cream, bittersweet chocolate sauce and roasted pecans. With both states’ proximity to Mexican plantains and a nod to Texas pecans, this reinvention seems only fitting. But after licking my bowl clean, that’s the only thing fitting. Some things never change.
Note: I've never licked my bowl in public, and I swear l'm not white trash.
Get the recipe for the Lick-Your-Bowl-Clean Plantain Banana Split.

My Last Meal on Earth: Rest In Pizza

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 14:53:00 +0000

After my first slice, I knew that if I were ever on death row, this would be my last meal. Some people see rainbows and unicorns ahead. I see a wild mushroom pizza and death by lethal injection. I decided this Mario Batali and Nancy Silverton masterpiece from Pizzeria Mozza would be my digestive swan song to the world. I would bid the earth adieu after the glorious notes of this pie played an aria upon my palate. Oh, divine crust, so thin and gorgeous with your heavenly, brittle bite. Oh, fontina and taleggio cheeses with your delicate tang, bubbling ethereally ever after. Oh, quartet of warm chanterelles, shitakes, oysters and creminis in contrapuntal harmony, how you have filled my esophagus with song. Never mind that Emperor Batali was full of himself that time I met him at Mozza. He can glare at me all he wants through that one-sided glass as I receive my comeuppance. I will be happily sated from his pizza without bearing witness to his bombast.

A death sentence will be worth not having to wait a month for a reservation. Sheesh. A person could die of hunger. And this time I won't have to bring along a Tuscan peasant to translate the menu for me. I already know what I’ll be having for my last meal on earth. The funghi misti, fontina, taleggio & thyme pizza. Say the name with me: fun-gee mis-tee. And since it’s my last meal, maybe I'll splurge and order something with meat, too. I've been such a conscious culinarian, maybe this once, karma could cut me some slack. What about veal? You know, those young calves that have to live in the dark that I haven't eaten in 25 years? I never said I didn't like it. Do they serve foie gras? The sick way they stick those feeding tubes down the ducks' throats to fatten them up? I hear it's to die for, and frankly, I've been holding back. But really, what's one less duck's happiness? Hey, it's my last freaking meal! Haven't I accrued enough points? I swear I'll only have a few bites, and I'll donate the rest to charity. I can't eat too much anyway—I'm watching my weight. I don’t want to look fat at my funeral. I hate that bloated feeling. Sure, I'll have a makeup artist, but I'm pretty sure they won't have a liposuctionist on staff.

On second thought, screw it. Give me one of everything on the to-go menu. Who cares if my shroud is a little snug. You only live once. In fact, maybe I should have Batali and Silverton create a special to-go tasting menu for me. That way I won’t miss out, and if I really like something, I can order it in my next life. And for my final request, bury me in the pizza box on top of that grease stain—my soulmate. Oh, and FYI: if I do end up on death row, it'll be because somebody took a bite of my funghi misti pizza. Hey, we all gotta go sometime.

Related Links:

Memo to Mario Batali

Ms. Frugal vs. Ms. Foodie

Travel Bite: A Slice of Brooklyn Pizza Tour

M Café’s Scarlet Quinoa Salad

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 14:38:00 +0000

Johansson. O'Hara. Fever. This is way better than those Scarlets.

My scarlet quinoa may not be a blonde bombshell, a fictional southern belle or a hideous disease, but who needs those Hollywood types or a temperature when you could have this scarlet starlet? Thanks to beets, quinoa is transformed into one gorgeous grain that's ready for her close-up.

M Café is a macrobiotic spot in LA that used to be near my office, so I had a chance to eat this salad on more than a few occasions. Eyeing me from inside the deli case with her exotic color, she wooed my peepers and then my palate. Her intensely unique flavor was hard for me to figure out. I’d have scary, Sybil-like conversations in my head about the ingredients. "I taste dill and a touch of lemon," I'd say, rather civilized. "It's an umami flavor," I'd bark back, all Sybilized. Ashamed that my uberachieving Extra Sensory Palate couldn't solve the mystery, I knew I’d have to seek professional help. Where was Dr. Sigmund Food when I needed him? Then one day the recipe appeared in the LA Times food section, and the sneaky culprits were revealed. The umami flavor was from umeboshi plum vinegar and pickle juice. Repeat: plum vinegar and pickle juice! I'm pretty sure even America's Test Kitchen couldn't have solved that.

One thing all of me agreed on was how refreshing this scarlet quinoa salad is. Beets, cucumber, dill and lemon make her a natural for the limelight. Give her a starring role in your next brunch, and frankly my dear, she'll be gone with the wind.

M Café’s Scarlet Quinoa Salad Recipe (adapted from LA Times)

Total time: 45 minutes, plus cooling time for the quinoa

Servings: 6

Note: Umeboshi (plum) vinegar can be found at Whole Foods and Asian markets.

Umeboshi-lemon dressing

2 teaspoons umeboshi vinegar

1 teaspoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons dill pickle juice

1 tablespoon best-quality olive oil

In a medium bowl, whisk together the vinegar, lemon juice, pickle juice and olive oil. Cover and refrigerate until needed.

Scarlet quinoa and salad assembly

1 cup quinoa

1/2 cup finely diced red beets

2 cups vegetable broth or water

1 teaspoon olive oil

1 teaspoon lemon juice

1/4 cup diced Japanese or Persian cucumber

2 teaspoons chopped chives

1 tablespoon chopped dill

1 teaspoon fresh lemon zest

Umeboshi-lemon dressing

Salt (optional)

1. Wash the quinoa under cold running water in a fine strainer. Drain well.

2. In a 2-quart, heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the beets, vegetable broth or water, olive oil and lemon juice. Cover and bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat. Stir in the quinoa, then cover and reduce the heat to low. Cook the quinoa until the grains are translucent and tender and the germ has spiraled out from the grain, about 15 minutes (be careful not to overcook). Remove from heat and drain any remaining liquid.

3. Fluff the quinoa with a fork, let cool slightly and refrigerate the grains, uncovered, until completely cool.

4. Fluff the cooled grains and place them in a large bowl. Gently stir in the cucumber, chives, dill and lemon zest. Stir in half of the dressing, then taste the salad and add additional dressing or salt as desired.

Each serving: 146 calories; 4 grams protein; 22 grams carbohydrates; 2 grams fiber; 5 grams fat; 1 gram saturated fat; 0 cholesterol; 220 mg. sodium.

Notes: My photos show two different batches. The darker color in the top two photos, which looks more like M Café's, is made with fresh beets I steamed first and vegetable broth for the quinoa. The lighter one is with pre-cooked vacuum-packed baby beets from Trader Joe's and water (I used the whole 8 oz. package). The Times' recipe doesn't specify whether to cook the beets first, but mine were precooked in both instances. Fresh and packaged work equally well. I prefer using water, as the broth made it extremely rich. Chives are optional (I didn't have any). I used all the dressing and no salt.

Related Links:

Starving Artist Series: Beet Hummus

Orange-Infused Beets with Walnuts

My Therapy Session with Dr. Sigmund Food (#1: The Salad Bar)