Lentil Breakdown

Mountains, Molehills and I'm Off

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 10 May 2013 15:29:00 +0000

You don't have to tell me I have a gift for making mountains out of molehills. I’m the Sir Edmund Hillary of overthinking, scaling Everest without a sherpa (because no sherpa wants to accompany me). But this time I've really outdone myself, reaching epic elevations while planning a trip to Morocco and Portugal in which I’m about to depart. What are the mountains that have taken me to such dizzying heights? Here's the short list:

1. WTF can I eat?

I gave up wheat, corn, eggs, red pepper and a dozen other culprits for over six months once I discovered I had food sensitivities. The problem is I haven't fully reintroduced them back or eaten them all together. I’ve been living in my own little food bubble for so long, what will happen when I step out? Bread, pastries, couscous, harissa and hives? My Eat, Pray, Love time will now be Pray I can Eat.

2. Hotels, Riads and Pensaos

The Sahara, mountains, beaches, kasbahs, medinas, souks, riads, castles, fishing villages, cork farms, wine tastings, cooking classes, trains, buses, planes? All the research has turned Sir Edmund Hillary into a crackhead. When those sites say, See more hotels like this one. I say, Yes, please! It’s only a click away! I’ve been to so many exotic locales online, I should be wearing sunscreen. Especially at my elevation. Vacation planning's a bitch. White whine.

3. Running, Crosstrainers or Walking

Over the last month, I’ve bought and returned 11 pairs of shoes, thinking I’ll try them out, one by one at home and see which one fits. Turns out my right foot has conspired against my left one and they are no longer a matched set. And returning them all has my carbon footprint conspiring against me too. And I never found a winner. I just hope there’s a New Balance store at the airport.

4. Hot, Warm and Chilly

How do you dress for the Sahara and a chilly beach town with one roll-on bag and a smaller carry-on that will be jam-packed with emergency gluten- and red pepper-free food and old, worn-out backup shoes that were once destined for the trash heap that may now be gracing kasbahs and castles?

5. Lotions, Potions and Sunscreens

It takes energy trying finding a new sunscreen that's clean, according to EWG’s Skin Deep Cosmetic Database, that won’t sting your skin and break you out and then finding it in the right travel size. And finding a way to bring all your other lotions and potions in small portions is also a chore. Do I go buy new plastic containers to put them in because they say BPA-free or use old empty old ones that are full of BPA and pthalates? You know my feelings about plastic.

6. Cleaning the House

It’s not enough that I have to get my shit together—I have to get it together for my house sitters. Sure, I could hire a maid, but why when I have to do all the heavy lifting first? Those shoe boxes aren’t going to pick themselves up off the floor. Might as well save the $100 for a new pair of shoes I’ll be returning.

7. Gluten-free or vegetarian airline meal?

You can only choose one, and if I order gluten-free, it will probably have meat or eggs. I’m off of eggs and am not a vegetarian, however I try to only eat ethically sourced chicken (and rarely at that). American Airlines' factory-farmed chicken scares me more than the pilot jacked up on Jack Daniels. But if I order a vegetarian meal, it will be all wheat products. When it comes to flying, gluten-free vegans are S.O.L.

Believe me, there are plenty more mountains I've been scaling, but I’m too exhausted to finish the list. I need a vacation before this trip. Am thinking Club Meds.

To see pics while I'm gone, "like" Lentil Breakdown on Facebook (my FB widget mysteriously disappeared from my blog and I've no time to solve the mystery, so just search for Lentil Breakdown on Facebook). Au revoir!

Ode to Carrot Top

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 16:44:00 +0000

You’re a stand-up kind of root

Yet I don’t find you such a hoot

Beyond the pale, your dim routine

Could use more beta-carotene

Vegan Tzimmes and Apologies to Grandma

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 18:13:00 +0000

Stewed carrots, sweet potatoes, apples and dried fruit looks homely but tastes heavenly.

Dear Grandma,

I haven't seen you in 30 years, but I can't forget the tzimmes you used to make with the carrots, sweet potatoes, dried fruit and short ribs that was to die for. I couldn't wait to visit you when I was a kid and watch you in action. You were the queen of kosher cuisine in that little Dallas apartment of yours. But I'm not really down with the short ribs these days. So Grandma, I hope you're still lying down because I've gone and done something that'll make you roll over in your grave. I made your beloved tzimmes without meat or dairy. Yup, Grandma, it's vegan (I'll explain what that means to you later).

By the time I got around to asking you for the recipe, you were deep into your Lawrence Welk phase and busy repeating what you had said five minutes earlier. Not that there's anything wrong with that other than the recipe was mostly stored in your sweet, yet unreliable head. But I found some of your notes in your big recipe file, and I made it once, years ago, with the short ribs. Mmmm. I can still recall the moment the fatty carrots and sweet potatoes slid down my throat. And I mean slid, Grandma. It was so rich, it could've paid for my tuition at the Culinary Institute for the Guilty. See, in the last 30 years, they discovered something called clogged arteries and another thing called factory farming (What do you mean, feh?).

So while this isn't really your recipe, Grandma, the inspiration was all you. And with the fruit and a little coconut oil, it's delectably sweet and satisfying even without meat, butter or sugar. And the good news is it's both rabbi- and PETA-approved. So you can stop rolling over now.

Sleep well,

Your Guiltless Granddaughter

Vegan Carrot and Sweet Potato Tzimmes

As a main or side dish, this tzimmes is pareve for any course.*

Makes about 6 healthy servings.

Coconut oil

½ large onion, diced

1 pound carrots, cut in rounds diagonally

1 pound sweet potatoes, peeled and cut in rounds diagonally

1 pound apples, (sweet like Gala) peel optional (I left them on), cut in ½-inch cubes

1/3 cup golden raisins

1/3 cup dried apricots, quartered

1 medium orange, zest and juice

½ tsp cinnamon

A few tsp water

Sautée the onion in a little coconut oil until they’re lightly browned. Add the remaining ingredients, stir and bring to a boil. Cover and reduce heat to a low simmer. Cook for 45 minutes to an hour, stirring occasionally. You can add salt and pepper if you want. I didn’t think it needed them.

*Even makes a good breakfast or dessert

The Bubbie Brigade and the Circle of Life

Cashewal Sex

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 17:14:00 +0000

I’m staring at Joe's nuts, lusting. Trader Joe’s nuts, that is. My eyes are glued to the cashews when I hear a voice.

“If you buy them, you will binge,” it says.

Then I hear another voice.

“Just get the raw, unsalted ones. They don’t taste like anything. How can you binge on something you don’t even know is there?”

“Right. And don’t look at a naked Hugh Jackman when he pops out of your birthday cake," says voice #1. "That way you won't want any."

These voices are starting to freak me out, so I slowly wean myself away from Joe’s nuts and Hugh's "any."

It’s the sixth month of my allergy cleanse, and I’ve been off wheat, corn, eggs and over a dozen other culprits. I haven’t eaten a pastry, pizza, tortilla, enchilada, frittata, ciabatta—nada. I deserve a freaking bag of cashews. Of course I’m the only one on the planet who can endure six months of this and not lose weight. Somehow I always find something to make up for those lost calories. It’s usually nuts, dried fruit or rice cakes with some kind of nut butter slathered on them. Or I simply latch onto something I can eat and then eat a third portion to affirm what a good girl I’m being by not eating what I really want.

So I'm home now, after being seduced into buying the boring bag of cashews that I don't even like, thinking one day maybe I’ll make a vegan, gluten-free cheesecake or cashew cheese or throw some in a curry. If I’m desperate to eat them as a snack, I can roast them in a pan, salt them and then have a few. All that calibrated consciousness will guarantee that mindful eating ensues and I can't binge. Five minutes later I’m scarfing them down straight out of the bag. Even raw and unsalted, they have an alluring texture and sweet richness. They are the crack cocaine of nuts, wooing me to a verboten place from which there's no return without violating several laws. That addictive feeling draws me in and tells me I'm a bad, bad girl. Oooh, I like being a bad girl. So why not be really bad and have more?

There’s a fine line between bad girl and sicko, and I cross it. So I hide the bag of cashews inside an empty bag of rice cakes that has printing all over it. You can’t make out what’s in the bag with all that rice cake propaganda, so I figure once I see the words, “Rice Cakes,” I won’t pay them any mind and they will languish, forgotten in the fridge. I forget my passwords, my bill due dates, my doctor appointments and the last time I brushed my teeth, so not remembering I have cashews should be a no-brainer.

The next day I open the fridge to discover I have x-ray vision. I see straight through the colorful, opaque package that says Lundberg Family Farms Organic Brown Rice Cakes, lightly salted, gluten-free, vegan, USDA organic and Non GMO Project Verified. My otherworldly eyes see the cashews seductively waiting for me to have my way with them. After bad girl turns sicko, I put them in the freezer, knowing they will not be ready to be ravaged any time soon. The next day, sicko gets it on with cashewsicles.

In a desperate attempt for redemption, I decide to put the remaining few cashews under my mattress next to my money. When I roll over in the middle of the night, I feel a lump. So at 12:37—an hour when bad girls are in their prime—I’m going at it with the nuts. I finish, roll over and get some sleep. In the morning I find the crumbs and empty wrapper lying next to my money, and suddenly I feel cheap, dirty and degraded—a tawdry nut slut. Next time I'm going to bring home Filbert. He doesn't seem to have that effect on me.

Related Links:

I Am a Shameless Hussy

Gratitude, and Please Don’t Call Me Bubba

A Bi-curious, Two-timing Almond Cake Affair

A Job Farewell: Nine Years and Nine Salads

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 17:58:00 +0000

I am feeling verklempt. When you leave a job after nine years, it’s kind of like a divorce. As much as you wanted out, it doesn’t mean you won’t miss the S.O.B. and his money. I’m sad that I won’t see all my cubicled compadres with whom I laughed, cried and raged against the machine. But as painful as it is to let them go, there are others that I will miss even more. The ones who told me that they only wanted what's best for me. Who provided support and sustenance so I'd make it through the day. And not only gave me something to look forward to, but put a little spring, summer or fall into my step. Yes, I will miss the salads that I lovingly fashioned for lunch. Those ornate showstoppers that I chowed down on between the prefab walls of a corporate cube.

I groomed greens like they were CEOs—dressed for success and off to conquer the working world via a pyrex bowl and plastic blue lid. With a tailor-made vinaigrette for each colorful ensemble, I had the best-dressed salads in the whole damn office. Truth be told, I spent more time dressing my salads than myself. While I adore fashionista farmers, I'm not much of a fashionista. Maybe if I could buy Juicy Couture at the farmers’ market, I'd be more of a fashion plate. But having to go to a mall with a Hot Dog On A Stick? I'd rather wear a potato sack. Yet even when my wardrobe was stale, my bowl always sported something fresh and in season. My legs may have been stuck in bellbottoms, but my lunches were all skinny jeans. Below are some random shots I happened to take of them with my phone.

1. Marinated French green lentils with kalamata olives, sundried tomatoes, artichokes and thyme on beet greens with avocado, carrots and golden raisins with a Dijon shallot vinaigrette

2. Oyster mushrooms sauteéd with shallots in olive oil, nestled with roasted butternut squash and carrots on mustard greens, arugula, kale and cilantro with an apple cider vinaigrette

3. White beans, radishes, carrots, celery and yellow peppers on arugula and baby purple kale with a white balsamic and roasted garlic vinaigrette

Gone are my ritualistic Sundays when I’d hit the local farmers’ market and then hurry home to wash, spin and store my greens for the week. And then came the side salads that I’d prepare from grains or legumes to beets or roasted veggies, along with my five-day supply of vinaigrette. Sure, now I can make them on demand, in real time and not have to spend half a day at it. But it was the discipline of doing it each Sunday that rewarded my heroic efforts with quality assurance and portion control for the next five days.

4. Beets, cucumbers and dill with a white wine Dijon shallot vinaigrette

5. Black-eyed peas, blood oranges, avocado and cilantro over hand-selected greens with an orange and pomegranate molasses vinaigrette

6. Orange cauliflower and black beans with red cabbage, red onions, carrots, yellow peppers, celery and cilantro with a cumin and lime vinaigrette

When you’re an ad writer, sometimes you feel like a line cook in a kitchen full of Gordon Ramsays. You're there to crank things out and to serve others. You don't always get to plan the menu or be a tastemaker. Maybe a salad is the only thing you have creative control over in your whole day. It’s your own content that doesn’t have to please anyone higher on the food chain. A single serving for yourself—not for the firm, but from the farm—that is not open to negotiation.

7. Alaskan salmon, white beans, black olive tapenade, capers, parsley and tomatoes

8. Beets, oranges, quinoa and chives with an orange muscat champagne vinaigrette

9. Lentil and brown rice salad with dill, mint, mixed olives, celery, carrots, radishes and onion on lolla rossa and baby green kale with an apple cider Dijon vinaigrette

Before you know it, tomato, corn and fig season will be here. I hope by then I'll have discovered fertile, new ground. Something that feels right and real and meaningful, full of perennial possibilities. And when that day comes, I know my salad bowl will be dressed to the nines.

Related Links:

What Lettuce Type are You?

Travel Bite: Fashionista Farmer

My Therapy Session with Dr. Sigmund Food

I am a Shameless Hussy

M Café’s Scarlet Quinoa Salad

Nopales Cactus Salad (with Cahones)

Tri-colored Potato Salad Provencal

An I-Don't-Give-a-Rat's-Ass Epiphany, Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 20:00:00 +0000

Rats! Missed Part 1 or Part 2?

I stood in front of the dark cemetery with my skull and crossbones sign shouting, “You have a right to know what’s in your food! Vote Yes on Prop 37!” Thousands of people had come out to the legendary Hollywood Forever Cemetery that night to look at altars, listen to music, eat tamales and revel in the joie de vivre of Dia de los Muertos.

With only a week left before the election, I had been feeling desperate because Monsanto and the processed food companies had poured $45,000,000 into a smear campaign. So I poured $3 into the 99¢ Only Store and scored a Halloween Prop 37 ensemble—a pirate hat, a bloody apron and a large chair cover I turned into a sign by draping it over an old t-square.

As throngs of people waited to get inside the cemetery gates, I walked back and forth handing out flyers, and as if selling red-hots, chanted, “You have a right to know what’s in your food! Vote Yes on Prop 37!” There were a few other people who were also handing out Prop 37 literature, including a guy who had printed his own Halloween stickers.

If you put a photo of Hitler on a sticker, chances are people will want one. For some inexplicable reason, an image on a self-adhering back really draws a crowd—and these devils were no exception. So the guy I met gave me a big box of stickers to take home, and back I went to the 99¢ Store to buy a cauldron to carry them in for my next night out. Did I feel guilty for buying cheap plastic crap from China? Yup, but hot on the heels of my cemetery visit, I quickly buried the shame.

After work on Halloween night, I headed over to the big RuPaul of parades—the West Hollywood Halloween Costume Carnaval—a mile-long stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard full of flamboyant revelers and sexually ambiguous creatures out on an all-night gender bender. If I was going to make a spectacle of myself, doing it in a carcass apron in the middle of a raunch-fest was as good a place as any. Even though I knew I’d be preaching to the Gay Men’s Choir, I figured out of the 500,000 people in attendance, there had to be a few who didn't know about Prop 37. So as I walked for miles with my sign and cauldron handing out stickers and flyers, I was just an ordinary freak in the crowd—who happened to be chanting, “You have a right to know what’s in your food! Vote Yes on Prop 37!”

Since a dark mob scene had proven the perfect milieu for a macabre messenger, Friday night I headed off for another Day of the Dead festival—this one in East LA. It was not the bastion of safety for a solo gringa after dark, but I wanted to spread the Prop 37 word to Latinos since GMO corn is the centerpiece of their diet. I had a loco motive to take the Metrolink train because I could hand out stickers and literature through the various stations I passed through along the way. As people came up to me, asking me questions about Prop 37, I was starting to feel kind of useful. Was I more than just a strong opinion and a big mouth or did I have some street cred? Either way, there I was, decked out in death garb, chatting with passersby in the station and strangers on a train.

The Metrolink let me off right in front of the festival, and as I walked among the ginormous paper maché skeletons and festive altars, the heavenly waft of tacos, tamales, chile rellenos and churros tried to seduce me. Even with all that GMO corn, it smelled diabolically good. But then my inner skeleton said, “You are here to spread the word—not to eat la comida.” So I took the skeleton’s advice, and as I walked the grounds and worked the crowd, people enthusiastically took the stickers and engaged me in conversation. Some even made it a point to thank me for what I was doing.

Meanwhile, back at the office, my contribution to our annual Halloween pumpkin carving contest was a Monsanto still life. I tightly wedged a watermelon inside a pumpkin and strategically placed purple cauliflower in it to look like it was growing. A dead lab rat was lying in front, accompanied by a cauldron of free stickers. A friend told me that while she was looking at the pumpkins, Danny, a guy we worked with, gazed at mine, rolled his eyes and said in a disparaging tone, “Gee, I wonder who did that one.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Danny thinks!” I told her.
I knew I had a bit of a "reputation," but now for the first time, what Danny thought of me was Danny’s problem.

As people celebrated Halloween at my farmers' market, there I stood in broad daylight with my sign, apron and cauldron, handing out stickers and flyers. This was the last time I would be fighting for this cause at the market where I had staked out my territory so many months before—where I had felt so mousy collecting signatures. This was last call before closing time, and I wanted one last round—one last shot to get the word out before the election. A woman came up to me and started talking about what this proposition meant for our food supply, and she passionately thanked me for what I was doing. Then she asked if I had a business card, and I gave her one. A few days later she sent me an email:

"Hi Adair, I met you Sunday at the farmers market in Mar Vista. First let me tell you how much I respect and appreciate people like you, people who fight for the right things, people who care. Thank you for being you."

Wow. Someone thanking me for being me? I used to apologize for that. But boy, oh Danny boy, those days are over.

An I-Don’t-Give-a-Rat’s-Ass Epiphany, Part 2

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

OMG…GMO! TMI? WTF!?

An I-Don't-Give-a-Rat's-Ass Epiphany, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 17:08:00 +0000

God forbid you should miss Part 1.

As I stood clutching my satchel full of GMO ballot initiatives, I told the armed guard standing in front of the synagogue that I was there to speak at a sustainable living class. He found my name on the list, deemed me terrorist-free and waved me in. "When had West L.A. become the West Bank?" I wondered.

Once inside the foyer area, I saw the ornate, sacred torahs and children’s arts and crafts displayed in glass cases that led to a large reception hall with high ceilings and gold chandeliers. I walked inside, and about 50 people were sitting at several round banquet tables. My eyes immediately clung to a long, empty table I imagined would have been chock-full of rugelach, mandelbrot, macaroons and babkas on a Friday night. But as I cursed my calendar for being a Tuesday, I reminded myself I was there on a mission—not for a nosh.

 A woman in her early sixties, about 4”11 with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses came up to me.

“Are you a member?" she said with urgency, as if some other synagogue were about to snatch me up.”

“No,” I said, in awe of this lady's chutzpah and Jewdar.

“Would you like to be?”

“I don’t practice anymore,” I said.

I wasn’t going to confess to her that I was only in it for the food. So I quickly changed the subject to the task at hand, and before I knew it, I was standing at the podium.

My fear of public speaking prevented me from opening with my freshly minted Harvey Milk joke. So I said, “I’m with Label GMOs and I'm here to talk about an initiative we’re trying to get on the 2012 California ballot to label genetically modified food.” I was pretty sure that line wouldn't have killed in the Catskills, but now I was on the GMO-free circuit, not the Borscht Belt, and this was no laughing matter.

As I gave my short spiel, I could tell this was a savvy group of liberals. All I had to say was "we have a right to know what's in our food," and I had them eating out of my hands. Of course with this crowd, I could have mentioned the deleterious health effects of GMOs, and I would've had them at “organ failure.” Between personal liberties and health obsessions, these were my people—the chosen ones. They were not only eager to sign the clipboards I passed around, some of them came up to me and asked if they could collect signatures. Apparently God was in the house.

Joan, the lady with chutzpah, said she’d take five sheets. Gary, a nice guy in his sixties, said he could collect signatures at the synagogue's day care center. Then the two of them thought that if they got permission from the rabbi, I could come back for Friday night services when there would be a lot more people. They could set up a table in the foyer and I could bring some signage. I hadn't been to services in so long, I felt a little nervous. Did they wear jeans or pearls? I guess if the rabbi was on board, I'd find out.

One day at work, I got a call from Joan.

“I’ve got five pages of signatures for you,”  she said.

“That’s great! Where did you get them?”

“I tried a few places, but ended up in Trader Joe’s, asking people who were standing in line. It was hard work,” she said, surprised.

“You want some more sheets?”

“No," she said as if I had just asked her to climb Mt. Sinai with a bum foot. "I said I'd get you five sheets and I did."

I drove to Joan's house to pick up the ballots, and then I got the word.

"The rabbi gave his blessing," she said.

Friday night, I set up my literature on a long table in the foyer outside the synagogue sanctuary and sat there waiting. A few people came over to me, but I wasn't getting much action. Then Gary showed up, and the schmooze-fest began. He worked that foyer like Bill Clinton at the county fair. As congregants walked by, Gary called each one by name, said a few lines and escorted them over to my table.

 "Michael," he'd say. "Have you heard about this initiative to get genetically modified food labeled? We want to know what's in the food our kids and grandkids are eating. It's an issue we feel is very important to the community. If you'll just sign this clipboard here."

I just sat there answering questions, verifying their information and thanking them for signing.

The day before the signature-gathering deadline had come to an end, I drove to Gary’s house to pick up the signatures he had gotten at the daycare center. As I held all the ballots I had collected in my hot, little hands, I realized that even though I did not enjoy this type of work, I had gone out there and gotten the quota I had committed to at the beginning of the campaign. Did it matter that I felt mousy and didn’t do all the heavy lifting myself? Mousy, my ass. A signature's a signature. I was a freaking power broker, an ace recruiter—the big GMO-free, Harvey Milk cheese!

Stay tuned for the gripping conclusion.

The Bubbie Brigade and the Circle of Life

An I-Don't-Give-a-Rat's-Ass Epiphany, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 14:44:00 +0000

As far as epiphanies go, this isn’t up there with discovering you’re really a man trapped in a woman’s body or anything. It is about growing a pair, though. Either way, cahones are involved. Let me explain.

In the summer of 2011, a small group of people were sitting at a Santa Monica coffee house having a let’s-trash-Monsanto-over-a-macchiato meetup. The goal was to plan an anti-GMO rally in L.A. that would get some media coverage. From what I could gather, no one had activist chops savvy enough to plan a real rally—never mind changing the world’s food supply. Someone sort of knew how to get access to the Federal Building grounds in Westwood. Someone else knew a Brazilian band that might play for free. Another guy knew a raw food vendor who could set up a booth. I thought, if only I knew someone with a Port-O-Potty, I’d be useful right now.

Talk about from the ground up. Sheesh. How was this grassroots group gonna tell the world about Monsanto and its nefarious scheme for global seed domination? If the world is our target market, don’t we at least need a strategy brief from Ogilvy & Mather? And shouldn't a P.R. agency be on board? Sure, I’d been writing in the advertising trenches since the caveman invented the first wheel slogan, but did I actually know how to plan and deploy a world-changing campaign from down there? I may have been feeling all hopey and changey, but I was no community organizer or president of the Harvard Law Review. I was no behind-the-scenes Karl Rove mastermind or touchey-feeley Bill Clinton charmer. Maybe I could get a few people to bite with my mastery of words, but global deployment strategies were always left to the bigger fish full of mercury. After all my years in shark-infested waters, where was Jaws when I needed him? As I sat fixating on a guy eating a pecan square, wondering if he knew whether it had GMO corn syrup in it or not, I was feeling dubious about this motley crew’s activist potential—especially my own.

Yet somehow over the next several months, the Rally for the Right to Know got planned and our day had come. Several hundred people showed up with signs. We proudly held them high as we yelled at cars that drove by. Indian dancers performed traditional corn dances. Speakers from the world of health and politics enlightened and motivated us. While we never got that Port-O-Potty, we were pissed off together, comrades in arms with bladders on the brink. I left feeling like I was part of a secret society that knew something that the rest of the world hadn't been privy to yet. Or maybe people just didn’t want to know. Either way, we were determined to tell them.

In 2012, I manned a booth at my local farmers’ market on Sundays to collect signatures for a GMO labeling initiative that we were trying to get on the California ballot in November. But unlike Field of Dreams, I built a booth, and not that many came. So for my dream of GMO-free fields, I had to go to them. Yep, I had to be one of those people you want to swat like flies when they walk up to you with their clipboards and get all up in your face. At times I would have rather been in the dentist's chair, but like braces, I figured it would pay off one day with a shiny new food supply.

Even when I asserted myself, I stood there feeling mousy, envying the more effective evangelists who seemed to be endowed with thicker skin. I remembered a part-time telemarketing job I had in college when some guy I called reduced me to tears by yelling at me for interrupting his dinner. And another time in high school when I worked behind the movie theater concession counter, some jerk threw a hissy fit when I took too long getting his butter-flavored popcorn. It seemed that whenever someone yelled at me for doing a sales job I not only hated, but was lousy at, like Time Warner cable, my tears were On Demand. But with me, no subscription was necessary.

One Sunday at the farmers' market, I went up to my city councilman, who didn't know me from Adam.

"Bill," I said. "Will you sign this initiative to get GMO labeling on the November ballot?"

"I don’t know," he said. “That's a complicated issue."

"It's just a label," I said. "We're not banning anything. We have a right to know what’s in our food. California has a chance to lead the whole country. You’re a progressive. Don't you want to lead the fight for food justice?”

He stood there quietly for a few seconds.

"Oh all right," he said." You talked me into it."

It was a small victory, but by influencing my councilman, somehow I felt I had graduated to the next level. I was feeling more testicularly up to the task. So I took my newfound balls and spoke at a few sustainable living classes about GMOs and the ballot initiative as I tried to collect signatures and recruit volunteers. When I was asked to speak at a synagogue, I figured if Mitt Romney could turn the French into Mormons, the least I could do was get some members of my own tribe on board. It wasn’t like I was asking anyone to become a Christian or marry a goy. Would a little volunteering to help save the world's food supply kill them?

To be continued...

Related Links:

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

OMG…GMO! TMI? WTF!?

The DIY Fruitcake Kit

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 18:03:00 +0000

It’s not that I hate fruitcake. It’s just that this poor cake has suffered so much ostracism through the years, I figured what’s one more day? Because when I got an assignment to create a holiday card for my company to give to its clients, my mind made a beeline straight for that lowly, ostracized confection.

I started thinking outside the card and came up with an idea for an anti-fruitcake that would give people the parts of a fruitcake that they actually like—the booze, nuts and holiday-free dried fruits. Voilá: the DIY Fruitcake Kit. No baking required. Concept and copy by yours truly; designed by the talented Diana Martinez.

A mini bottle of brandy and individual pack of trail mix were accompanied by a poem, DIY directions and nutritional info.

It was originally supposed to go to about 75 clients, but word of it kept spreading throughout my company and it turned into 300.

“Twas the night ‘fore the holiday and all through the kitchen

Fruitcakes were bakin’ that weren’t all that bitchin’

So we fashioned this version that might come in handy

With a handful of trail mix and shot of cheap brandy

One executive didn’t want to use the word, “bitchin’” for her clients and asked me at the 11th hour for alternate copy. After my prima donna instinct subsided, I realized I love a good rhyme challenge. So in a few minutes I gave her this version:

“Twas the night ‘fore the holiday and all through the kitchen

A fruitcake was bakin’ we knew you’d be ditchin’

So we fashioned this version that might come in handy

With a handful of trail mix and shot of cheap brandy

All's well that ends well. So long, 2012.

Have a fruitful New Year, everyone!

—Lentil Breakdown

Right-to-Know Calabacitas Tacos

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 19:08:00 +0000

“Pardon me,” he said. “But what exactly are calabacitas? If I’m going to eat them, I have a right to know.”

“Calabacitas or ‘little squash’ is a stew-ish dish with zucchini, corn, tomatoes and green chilis," I said.

“I see,” he said. “Is the sweet corn in your stew-ish dish non-GMO?”

“Does Monsanto like million dollar bills?” I said with duh on my face.

"Is the masa harina in your handcrafted tacos non-GMO corn?"

“You talkin' to me?" I said. “You talkin' to me?"

"What about the zucchini? Some squash seeds are genetically modified too," he said.

“Boyfriend, my seeds are cleaner than a virgin’s panty drawer.

"Wow, that's clean!" he said. "It's TMI, but clean."

"Well with all those pesticides, GMO “food” isn't clean. And without labeling, it’s not enough information!

"Damn right!" he said with uppity exuberance.

“Here, try one of these righteous calabacitas tacos,” I said.

"Mmmm. These are righteous! Do I have a right to read the recipe?"

“Like I said before, I’m all about transparency.”

Calabacitas

4 medium organic zucchinis, sliced

2 medium organic tomatoes, chopped

1 ear organic corn, shucked

1 small onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 roasted poblano chile (Anaheim or Hatch is fine)

1 – 2 tsp olive oil

½ tsp coriander seeds, crushed

½ tsp cumin seeds

¼ tsp cumin powder

¼ tsp salt (add more to taste)

pepper to taste

chopped cilantro

crumbled cotija or feta cheese (optional)

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat and sauté the onion for 5 minutes with the cumin and coriander seeds; then add the garlic for another minute. Add the zucchini, tomatoes, corn and cumin powder and cook for about 15 - 20 minutes over medium heat. Then add the roasted chile, salt and pepper and cook until soft for about 10 more minutes.

Serve in tacos with chopped cilantro and crumbled cheese.

Homemade Tacos
1 package of Bob’s Red Mill Masa Harina (see package for recipe)

Water

Lentil’s Breakdown

About 85% of corn produced in the U.S. is genetically modified with a built-in pesticide. An inserted gene from soil bacteria called Bt (Bacillus thuringiensis) secretes the insect-killing Bt toxin so that a bug’s stomach will explode when it eats it.
A new peer-reviewed study links GMO corn to mammary tumors, kidney and liver damage and other serious illnesses.
Avoid buying sweet corn (on the cob) at Walmart since they agreed to sell Monsanto's Bt sweet corn that is not labeled; Whole Foods and Trader Joe's pledged not to sell or use it.
Over 24,000 acres of zucchini and crookneck squash are genetically modified in the U.S. to resist a plant virus. Certified organic seed varieties by definition are GMO-free. The Organic Seed Alliance maintains a list of organic seed companies.
Most masa harina that you’ll find in Latin markets like Maseca is genetically modified, but Bob’s Red Mill does not use GMOs in their corn products (I wrote them an email to verify, and they kindly responded back).

OMG...GMO! TMI? WTF!?

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

OMG…GMO! TMI? WTF!?

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 08:55:00 +0000

I wrote this guest post for October Unprocessed, where blogger Andrew Wilder of Eating Rules challenges thousands of people to give up processed food for an entire month. So after this excerpt, please head over to Andrew's terrific blog to read the whole post.

I was standing with my clipboard at the farmers’ market when she walked by.

“Would you like to sign an initiative to get labeling for genetically modified food on the California ballot in November?” I said.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in your food?” I asked.

“We don’t need to know everything.”

I paused, in holy crap mode.

“But what if I want to know?” I said.

“They tell us too much already,” she announced.

I could see her reasoning-impaired mind was made up, and like they told us in signature gathering training, when someone is not going to budge, just move on. So like a good volunteer, I let her go.

Read the gripping conclusion.

Hatch Chile Art Class 101

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 04:31:00 +0000

Apply colors and fire up the kiln.

Add black until they're charred, blistered and soft.

Let sweat for 20 minutes.

When cool, strip away the outer layer of paint.

Stand back and admire your work.

Build mixed media installation by arranging them in flat rows between sheets of wax paper. Place in container and freeze.

Lentil's Breakdown

Orange or red Hatch chiles are riper than green ones.
You can roast chiles on an outdoor grill, broiler, grill pan, or roast over an open flame on the stove.
I prefer to let the warm chiles sweat in a paper bag rather than plastic, so the toxins from the hot plastic don’t leach into the chiles.
For a good tutorial, see How to Roast Hatch Chiles at Shockingly Delicious (but use paper bag).
Hatch chiles from New Mexico are available from Melissa’s Produce.

Related Links:

Shishito Chile and Cheese Frittata

Chillin’ with the Chiles in Chimayó: Part 2

Right-To-Know Blueberry Blue Cornmeal Scones

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 15:30:00 +0000

“Did you use non-GMO cornmeal in these scones?" he asked.

“Does Paula Deen put bacon in her cupcakes?" I said, with duh on my face. "Did you know that 85% of corn in the U.S. is genetically modified? But blue corn is still the way nature designed it—not by some guy in a lab coat."

“Well how am I supposed to know if a package of cornmeal has GMO corn when the label doesn't tell me?" he asked. "Don't I have a right to know what's in my food?”

"Damn right!" I said.

“Here, have one of these righteous blue cornmeal scones full of fresh blueberries, lemon zest, buttermilk and GMO-free love,” I said.

“Mmmm. These are righteous!" he said. "Do I have a right to read the recipe?"

“Hey, I'm all about transparency.”

Blueberry Blue Cornmeal Scones

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

 3/4 cup blue cornmeal¹

1/4 cup cane sugar²

 2 tsp. baking powder³

 1/4 tsp. baking soda 

1/4 tsp. salt

5 TBSP organic salted butter⁴

1 tsp. (heaping) grated lemon zest

 2/3 cup organic buttermilk⁴

1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries

1 tsp. vanilla

Please see my Breakdown below the directions.

In a medium mixing bowl, stir together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Using a pastry blender or two knives, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add lemon zest. Make well in center of mixture; add buttermilk, berries, and vanilla. Stir just until moistened.

Turn dough out onto lightly floured surface. Quickly knead dough by folding and pressing gently 10 to 12 strokes or until nearly smooth. Pat or lightly roll dough into 9–12 balls.*

Using a large spoon, drop dough into 9-12 mounds on a large, ungreased baking sheet, leaving 1" between mounds.

Bake in a 400˚ F oven for 20 to 25 minutes or until golden. Remove scones from baking sheet. Serve warm or at room temperature. They will last several days.

* If you’d prefer scone wedges, pat or lightly roll dough into an 8-inch circle on an ungreased baking sheet. Cut into 8 wedges, cutting only about halfway through to score.

Lentil’s Breakdown

¹ I got this blue cornmeal from Talon de Gato Farm at the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market, but you can find Arrowhead Mills or Bob’s Red Mill locally. If you want to use yellow cornmeal, make sure it’s organic since organic standards do not allow GMO seeds.

According to Web MD, blue corn is healthier since it’s 20% higher in protein than white corn and contains less starch. The blue color comes from anthocyanins in the corn, which are the same healthy compounds found in berries and red wine.

²The sugar beet, used to make white granulated sugar, is one of the five main GMO crops in the U.S., and 95% of it is GMO. To avoid this, buy cane sugar, made from sugarcane. Unless it says ‘organic’ or ‘cane,’ it’s almost certainly GMO.

³Most baking powder has corn starch in it which is GMO, but Rumford uses non-GMO corn.

⁴ Dairy products may not directly contain GMOs, but if they're not organic, then the animals subsist on a diet of GMO corn.

GMOs have not been tested on humans for long-term health results and have been linked to infertility, serious allergies, weight gain and organ damage in lab animals.

Find out more about California Right to Know Prop 37, volunteer for the campaign or donate to ensure that we win in November.

Related Links:

How to be a Bad-Ass Anti-GMO Activist

Non-GMO Project

Travel Bite: American Empire Abroad

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 14:29:00 +0000

Prague, Czech Republic

Not to be outdone by the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, American emperor Ray Kroc brought his arches to Europe, poised for a hostile takeover of the old world.

Vienna, Austria

Kroc conquered the Austro-Hungarian Empire by craftily diverting its people into his territory.

Budapest, Hungary

An American King arrived and had the Hungary masses eating out of his hands with the promise of supersizing.

Istanbul, Turkey

An American Colonel incited a poultry war on the Ottoman Empire by introducing his chicken to Turkey. A truce was finally reached, resulting in the "Finger-lickin’ Good Piece Treaty."

(I took these photos on sundry trips abroad.)

Travel Bite: Naschmarkt, Vienna

Travel Bite: Great Market Hall, Budapest

Travel Bite: Kolaches, West, Texas

A Bi-curious, Two-timing Almond Cake Affair

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 14:02:00 +0000

I’m going to come right out and say it: I swing both ways. Think of it as my experimental kitchen years, if you must, but I like to get it on with Butter and Olive Oil. My girl Olive and I have a healthy relationship. I spend lots of quality time with her. But sometimes I sneak out and get a little Butter on the side. Salty and dangerous, he drives me wild. Please don’t tell him this, but lately, I’ve also been getting it on with his brother, Unsalted. I really didn’t want to be a two-timer, but the experts told me to. They said for true fulfillment, I needed Unsalted. Frankly, I find him a bore. Who are they to tell me who I can love? If they told me to get it on with Crisco, I’d tell them to go to hell. That would be like hooking up with Charles Manson—if he were hydrogenated. Just because I’m bi-curious, it doesn’t mean I’m a trollop. Telling me to two-time on Salted? Pastry chefs, recipe writers and baking bloggers: please leave my love life out of your callous directives.

You say that Salted will make my cake too salty, but I say phooey. If you think I lack the culinary savoir faire to appreciate the subtle nuances between the two, au contraire. You’re forgetting that 1) I have an Extra Sensory Palate, and 2) I just used two French words in one sentence—that rhyme, no less. I even did a two-way with the brothers to prove my point. I made David’s Almond Cake for two birthday parties. And both of them were real pleasers.

Sure, Unsalted satisfied when we did the deed, but then I was stuck with him the next morning and forced to have him naked on my toast. There’s no intimacy with Unsalted because you can’t even tell he’s there. Like a mirage, I see him, but I don’t taste him. Why have him when you could be with his more exciting brother? And don’t tell me to simply salt my toast. That would be gauche. I might as well open a bag of Doritos and have those alongside my eggs. Do I really need them both around? How do you think that makes Olive Oil feel? Three’s a crowd.

When I made the cake with Salted, I simply used a little bit less salt than was called for. I wasn’t even that scientific about it. I just used my eyeballs. That’s what they’re there for. And not one person at the party stood up and accused me of straying from said callous directives. In fact, in between moans, they asked who had made the incredibly sublime almond cake with the pitch-perfect apportionment of salt. And along with their oohing and ahhhing ovation, they demanded the recipe on the spot.

So I am not buying into your Unsalted butter authoritarianism that made me stray from my love, Salted. Martha Stewart, Dorie Greenspan, David Lebovitz and Joy the Baker: you’re not the boss of me.

Almond Cake from David Lebovitz

(In his words, slightly abridged; my notes in red)

One 9-inch or 10-inch (23-25 cm) cake

Adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts by Lindsey Remolif Shere

This cake is best made in the food processor. If using a stand mixer, use the paddle attachment and let the mixer run until the almond paste is finely broken up. There’s a few notes at the end of the recipe, including some almond paste tips and suggestions.

I dialed down the butter from the original recipe, which had two more ounces (55g), for a total of 10 ounces (280g) since some feel the cake was a bit heavier and too-buttery with all that butter in it. But if you do wish to go that route, I’d be interested in knowing what you think. (No! It’s got plenty! Do I look like Ina Garten?)

1 1/3 cups (265g) sugar

8 ounces (225g) almond paste (I used a 7 oz. tube of Odense)

3/4, plus 1/4 cup (140g total) flour

1 cup (8 ounces, 225g) unsalted butter, at room temperature, cubed (or salted and use a tad less salt)

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon almond extract

6 large eggs, at room temperature

1. Preheat the oven to 325ºF (162ºC). Grease a 9- or 10-inch (23-25 cm) cake or spring form pan with butter (I used a 9-inch spring form), dust it with flour and tap out any excess. Line the bottom of the pan with a round of parchment paper. (See Note, below.)

2. In the bowl of a food processor, grind the sugar, almond paste, and 1/4 cup (35g) of flour until the almond paste is finely ground and the mixture resembles sand.

3. In a small bowl, whisk together the remaining 3/4 cup (105g) of flour, baking powder, and salt.

4. Once the almond paste is completely broken up, add the cubes of butter and the vanilla and almond extracts, then process until the batter is very smooth and fluffy.

5. Add the eggs one at a time, processing a bit before the next addition. (You may wish to open the machine and scrape the sides down to make sure the eggs are getting fully incorporated.)

After you add all the eggs, the mixture may look curdled. Don’t worry; it’ll come back together after the next step.

6. Add half the flour mixture and pulse the machine a few times, then add the rest, pulsing the machine until the drying ingredients are just incorporated, but do not overmix. (You can also transfer the batter to a bowl and mix the dry ingredients in, which ensures the dry ingredients get incorporated evenly and you don’t overbeat it.)

7. Scrape the batter into the prepared cake pan and bake the cake for 65 minutes, or until the top is deep brown and feels set when you press in the center.

8. Remove the cake from the oven and run a sharp or serrated knife around the perimeter, loosing the cake from the sides of the pan. Let the cake cool completely in the pan.

Once cool, tap the cake out of the pan, remove the parchment paper, and set on a cake plate until ready to serve. (Tip: Warm the bottom of the cake pan directly on the stovetop for just a few seconds, which will help the cake release.) 

Storage: This cake will keep for four days at room temperature, well-wrapped. It can also be frozen for up to two months.

Note: For this cake, I used a 9-inch cake pan, whose sides are 2 inches (5cm) high. Some readers noted that the batter rose higher than their pan, although I’ve made this cake well over a hundred times and have not had that problem. So use a standard size cake pan whose sides are at least that high, not a layer cake pan, which is shallower.

Related Links:

A Plum Amaretti-Crisp Quandary

Cream Cheese Brownies (by David Lebovitz)

Strawberry Rhubarb Galette

Fat Time Off

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 14:11:00 +0000

I had to call in fat today. I told my boss I couldn’t come in because I didn’t have anything to wear. Waistbands were conspiring against me. Zippers were not my friends. Buttons were laughing at me. Even the hook and eyes were busting a gut. Leave it to clothing hardware to sink my morale. Did I need to go buy some Spanks? No thanks. I needed to call in fat. I figured my company would be better off if I stayed home rather than showing up at a client meeting and saying, “Sorry I’m late, but my pants wouldn’t button.”

We get Personal Time Off and sick days. Why shouldn’t we should get Fat Time Off? It’s thoughtless to go to work when you’re sick or your pants are too tight. You could get other people bloated. It’s not that I’m suddenly the blueberry from Willie Wonka or anything, but when you’re a small-statured person, pounds are like cat years. People say they can’t see the extra weight, but I think they’re just being polite. To me, those two and a half pounds stick out like whole wheat on gluten-free bread. Why can’t people tell you the truth? Wouldn’t you be more motivated to do something about it if you knew everyone was pointing at you? So if someone asks if you can tell they’ve put on a few pounds, here are a few ways for you to soften the blow:

10 Ways to Tell Someone They've Gained Weight:

1. It’s admirable that in this economy, you’re not wasting food.

2. Old people shouldn’t be too thin. It makes their face sag.

3. Now people can focus on your personality. Say something zingy.

4. Your new midsection detracts from the fact that you need a pedicure. If only you could see your toes.

5. Congratulations! You’re finally going to be popular. People like to be around you when they’re thinner than you.

6. You look so glamourous, you could be a model for Lane Bryant.

7. Soon you can star in a prime-time TV show: The Biggest Loser.

8. Maybe you'll get an endorsement deal and start rubbing elbows with the fatterati: Kirstie Alley, Marie Osmond and Jared the Subway guy.

9. It’s not your fault. Counting calories requires math skills, and obviously those didn’t come with your G.E.D.

10. You’re in good company. Look at Fats Domino, Fats Waller and Chubby Checkers. Now if you could only become a black man and learn to play the piano.

11. (Bonus) It shows high self-esteem that you’re so secure, you don’t give a rat’s ass what you look like.

Then tell them to call in fat, break out their stretchy pants and lounge, laze and luxuriate in elastic. They’ve earned it. They owe it to their midriff and hindquarters. Oh, and their chair at work deserves a day off, too.

The Stewed Okra Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 13:34:00 +0000

Lentil: What’s wrong?

Okra: Nobody likes me.

Lentil: I do. You were one of my momma’s most savory side dishes.

Okra: But you’re from Texas. Everyone else thinks I’m a slimy hick.

Lentil: Well don’t just stew about it. Embrace your slime. Own it!

Okra: I do have this song...

Lentil: Sing it, Okra. Sing it!

The Stewed Okra Blues

I’m seedy and slimy

But baby you should try me

I’m such an easy roll in the pan

Sautée me and stew me

You know you wanna do me

I’ll satisfy more than your man

I ain’t white trash, but I heard Johnny Cash

Loved me more than his ol’ gal, June

Like her sweet succotash, she cooked me in a flash

And served me with some fried raccoon

I’m slimy and seedy

But baby I ain’t needy

You can leave me all alone to braise

Stew me and sautée me

But don’t you dare fillet me

I’m goin’ through a vegan phase

Now listen up, you haters

Grab some peppers and tomaters

I’m a little sweet ‘n sour

You don’t need no oil and flour

Don’t fry me, I’m slimy, just try me

I’m so thick ‘n chunky when I’m stewed

I’m a hot ‘n hunky southern dude

Why me? I’m slimy, just try me

I may lead a life of slime

But I’m delicious and I rhyme

Buy me, I’m slimy, just try me

The Stewed Okra Recipe

1 small onion, diced

1 medium pepper, diced (I used yellow for color, but the traditional is green)

1 ½ - 2 stalks of celery, sliced

3/4 lb okra, sliced

14 oz. can of stewed or diced tomatoes*

1 tsp brown sugar

Salt and pepper to taste

Sautée onions until a little brown. Add pepper and celery. Sautee 5 - 7 more minutes. Add okra and sautée 5 more minutes. Add tomatoes and cook over low heat for about 30 minutes. Add salt, pepper and brown sugar, and cook until okra and celery are fork-tender done but not mushy. Adjust seasonings if necessary and serve.

*I used Muir Glen Organic Fire-roasted Diced Tomatoes.

Lentil’s Breakdown

Canned tomatoes giving you the BPA blues? With their high acid content, they’re one of the worst offenders for Bisphenol A exposure—a known endocrine disruptor. The majority of canned goods in the U.S. are still sealed with resin that contains BPA to prevent contamination and spoiling, but some manufacturers like Muir Glen and Trader Joe’s are going BPA-free. If the can is white inside, it’s got a BPA lining; a bright golden color inside means it’s BPA-free.

Ode to a Fugitive

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 14:00:00 +0000

You thought that you could stop and chill

Behind the garlic and the dill

The jig is up, I got your number

You’re that seedy, mean cucumber

Travel Bite: Fashionista Farmer

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 13:19:00 +0000

L.L. Bean

I just returned from the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market where I got a preview of the new summer fashions. The last time I was there, Kenneth Cole Slaw made a colorful splash with his eye-catching ensemble. And though the chile season hasn't arrived yet, this year’s designers proved to be just as haute. Here’s a quick runway rundown with the Prada of produce. While some of the supermodels may be beanpoles, none show signs of starvation. Eat that, Kate Moss!

J. Crudité

Clové

Juicy Couture

Kalamata Klein

Chévre Saint Laurent

Karl Lavender Field

Coq au vin Chanel

Todd Old Ham

Related Links:

Travel Bite: Santa Fe Farmers’ Market

Single Bite: Fashionista Farmer

Chillin’ with the Chiles in Santa Fe: Part 1

A Chocolate-Dipped Apricot and Pistachio Parable

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 17 May 2012 15:47:00 +0000

This is the story of the Princess and the Sweet Tooth.

Once upon a time [yesterday at 4:52 pm], a lovely princess [an unshowered, couch-lazing chocoholic] desired a royal sweet [Wills was with Kate, and the younger red-headed brother is too wild—even for a cougar princess]. But when the princess rang her bell, no one came calling with a tray of Godiva Chocolates [or something organic and fair trade-ish]. So she got off her throne [it folds out into a bed] and searched for something rich and dark [but George Clooney wasn’t in the pantry].

Upon discovering some royal subjects [dried apricots, chocolate chips and pistachios], the princess quickly fashioned them into royal jewels and barely lifted a finger [except to take some mediocre photos, photoshop them, write a scintillating parable, rewrite it because the first draft did not scintillate, format it into an archaic blogging platform, and hit “Publish”]. These were even easier to make than her chocolate-covered mint leaves that required a more delicate chocolateering method.

The princess was so pleased with her creation that she pilfered all the jewels [ate 24 apricots, but who’s counting?]. It was so simple, if the royal subjects had been sitting on her 16th-century, gem-encrusted credenza [IKEA coffee table], she could have fashioned these royal jewels from a semi-reclining position without ever having left her throne.

The moral of the story? If a princess is as clever as she is lazy, she will be compensated with the consummate confection.

Chocolate-Dipped Apricots with Pistachios

24 dried apricots (these were small-ish and Turkish)

1/3 cup chocolate chips (semi-sweet or bittersweet, fair trade-preferred)

1/3 cup shelled pistachios, crushed

Melt the chips in a double boiler or in a small bowl in the microwave on medium power in 30-second intervals until melted.

Dip half of an apricot into the chocolate, and sprinkle the nuts on both sides while you’re still holding it. Then lay the nut-encrusted apricot on a sheet of wax or parchment paper to set. Will last a few days unrefrigerated in a covered container.

A Simple Sautéed Squash-Blossom Parable

My Frugal Royal Wedding Canapés

A Meatless Meat Loaf Mother's Day Memoir

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Thu, 03 May 2012 14:52:00 +0000

"What kind of TV dinner do you want—meat loaf, fried chicken, Salisbury steak or Mexican?”

That was a question I was asked from the day I could eat solid food. We had a separate, full-size freezer in a back room stocked with Swanson and Banquet frozen dinners. We were well-versed in every variety, but one of our favorites was Swanson's meat loaf.

My mother had many talents, but cooking was not among them. She was gifted at overcooking, however. In the morning, I’d hear my dad scraping the char off his toast like he was playing the washboard. With all that practice, he could’ve joined a bluegrass band.

The red meat and sugar queen, mom cooked with packets of Lipton’s onion soup mix, cans of Veg-All and boxes of Schilling’s Taco Casserole. One of her better dishes was a pork chop and potato casserole in white sauce. The white sauce was from a can. The potatoes were from another can. I don’t remember if the pork chops were from a can. You’d have to ask my shrink. I may have blocked that out.

The secret sauce

Mom liked to tell the story of the time when I was about 10 and refused to eat the burnt hamburger patty, served bunless, she had made. I said, “This tastes like goat droppings!” So she put some chocolate sauce on it to get me to eat it. When I took a bite and refused it again, she ate it. I craved normal.

I’m falling apart, but some of mom’s other creations are still holding up.

Her forte was at the sewing machine. She made my sister and I adorable, one-of-a-kind outfits with matching accessories and my brother an elaborate George Washington costume for school, replete with a white powder wig. She’d stay up all hours of the night to sew a hem for one of us or to put the crowning touches on one of her creations. No one else's mom had such originality, and sometimes I just wanted to blend in by wearing something store-bought and vanilla. But my mother had grander visions.

A few mementos from her button-hoarding collection

The maestro with a needle and thread, she orchestrated each stitch into a glorious string arrangement. Seams and colors were meticulously matched. Buttons were chosen for a breakout solo performance or softer, quiet accompaniment. Zippers, threads and rickrack played along in pitch-perfect, three-part harmony. Every detail was a weighty aesthetic decision to be agonized and labored over. Back then it was called artistry and craftsmanship. Today there are meds for that. Yep, the OCD doesn¹t fall far from the tree.

My meatless meat loaf. Trust me. You don't want the recipe.

But she made a meat loaf that I actually liked. Her Chinese meat loaf had ground beef and a sweet and sour sauce made from a can of tomato sauce, French's mustard, white vinegar and brown sugar. As an adult, I tweaked the recipe and made it with ground turkey, and it was a real crowd-pleaser. But since I rarely eat meat anymore, I got to thinking, why not try a vegetarian version with that same sauce? So I made one up with lentils and brown rice. It tasted vaguely familiar because of the sauce, and it looked like a meat loaf, but the first time wasn't exactly a charm.

My meatless meat loaf TV dinner. You don't want that either.

While this “meat” loaf was made in her honor, ironically, without the meat, I doubt she would have eaten it. Not without chocolate sauce anyway. And after a few bites, I’m thinking that's not such a bad idea. This will be my third Mother’s Day without my mother, and I no longer crave normal. Now I'm craving chocolate.

The Swanson Meat Loaf Dinner image was from Miami NewTimes blogs.

Related Links:

Cream Cheese Brownies (for Mother’s Day)

The Last Butterscotch: In Memory of My Mother

“Shhhh. I’ll take it for later.”

I Only Bought it for the Hunger-Strike App

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 08:30:00 +0000

I finally bought an iPhone. I know. I’m the last one on the planet. Even the toddler next door has one. And he just got his first tooth. I really only wanted it for directions and a few apps like the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch and ones that tell me what products have GMOs, pesticides, corporate greed and other neuroses-forward information. And when I heard about the iCouch app, I figured if I could fire my shrink, the iPhone would pay for itself.

The final straw was when I realized in order to be an effective food activist, you need the proper tools. I mean, where would Gandhi have been without his white sheet and sandals? That bright, pre-Monsanto Indian cotton was a beacon of light to the rest of the world. But today Gandhi would probably be sitting at a Starbucks in his hoodie, starting a petition on Change.org and using a weight-loss app for his hunger strike. One that monitors his calorie deprivation and dehydration levels, and then automatically downloads them to Twitter. Old-school Gandhi is hard to fathom. I don’t know how people starved themselves back then. Why did I wait? I’ve broken it down to the following 12 reasons:

1. I didn’t want to be a slave.

Isn’t checking email, Facebook and Twitter enough on a laptop? Do I need another gadget and more pings to induce new Pavlovian responses? Won’t I get all those pings mixed up and fetch my Frisbee when I’m supposed to be playing dead? How many masters must I answer to?

2. I didn’t want to be a slave driver.

The idea that I would be contributing to slave labor in a Chinese factory really put a worm in my apple. But since Apple hired the Fair Labor Association to audit the working conditions there, I don’t feel as bad. Now all my guilt is being directed at Siri. The way I order her around and tell her what to do? I picture her in a Chinese factory making 3¢ an hour while she Googles the nearest bagel for me. I can see her whole family in a cave, sharing a Top Ramen noodle.

3. Who needs brain cancer anyway?

Isn’t there a price to pay for all those electromagnetic rays swirling around your head like a swarm of warm bees? The ones that are left, anyway (see Colony Collapse Disorder). But there I go, projecting the future. Why can’t I just live in the high-frequency now like normal people?

4. I didn’t want to be a party to the Tea Party.

Credo Mobile has sent me thousands of emails and direct mail solicitations telling me that AT&T and Verizon are the devil, contributing to extremist right-wing causes. And I believe them. Yet after all of Credo's offers for free phones (everything but an iPhone), I’m still an Apple girl. So If I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it on my terms. Or so I thought. Turns out it’s on AT&T or Verizon’s.

5. Must we know everything about each other?

Do you really need to know that I’m at Target buying toilet paper? I don’t care that I get some kind of points for announcing it on Facebook from my phone. Single or double ply is my business. And gentle reminder: not so interested when you’re buying yours either. Especially that brand that cuts down virgin rainforests.

6. I couldn’t commit to a two-year relationship.

I can’t commit to a dental appointment a month in advance. Yet for the next two years I’m supposed to pay for this thing that could fall in the toilet? What if I decide to go live off the grid in Siri’s hovel? Hopefully she’ll still get paid her 3¢ an hour for the next two years. That is if she didn’t drown.

7. I didn’t want to be a professional eight-year old.

You know how annoying it is when people are playing with their smartphones in meetings, including the managers? What happened to the days when you got in trouble for chewing gum in class? Of course, now that I have one, I find myself playing with it to subtly broadcast: Here’s what I think about your freaking time-suck of a meeting. Maybe I’ll finally get that promotion.

8. I fear the new Darwinian order.

I see the future of man, and it’s not pretty. We’re hunched over, looking down with giant thumbs. Not only do we revert back to apes, we’re pretty much extinct from having crossed one too many streets, looking down.

9. Why should a phone be smarter than me?

Doesn’t it make you lazy and codependent for your phone to have all the answers? Actually, in the smarts department, Siri is not much of a threat. She rarely knows anything I ask her. Am thinking it’s malnourishment from sharing that noodle.

10. I can’t face FaceTime.

What if someone with an iPhone wants to videochat with me before I’ve combed my hair or brushed my teeth? Shouldn't that be illegal? I hear plastic surgeons are making a killing from FaceTime. I’m sure the new iJob or iLift isn’t far behind. And now that I’ve accidentally seen all my chins in that two-way camera, I’m thinking of suing Apple for pain and suffering.

11. I didn’t want to make a decision.

Verizon, AT&T or Sprint? Voice, data plans, texts, sexts. It’s too much. How do you know how much sexting you’ll do? And is the sexting free between other sexters on the same plan, and can you see the sexters if they have an iPhone too? And let’s not even mention that two-way camera.

12. I didn’t want to know how many calories I was eating.
I was perfectly happy living in denial until that night I ate a whole 3.5 oz. organic fair-trade dark chocolate bar and the next morning my pants wouldn’t button. That's when I said, "Get me that hunger-strike app ASAP."

Is the Gefilte a Sustainable Fish?

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 15:48:00 +0000

Net-trawled gefilte from the waters of Boca Raton, Florida

I've often wondered about the sustainability of that favorite Passover fish, the gefilte. So I decided to do a little research by consulting the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Seafood Watch. Their pocket guides, web site and mobile apps help people make choices that promote healthy oceans by recommending which seafood items are “Best Choices,” “Good Alternatives” and ones to avoid. Listed in alphabetical order between the Flounder and Halibut, the Gefilte disappointingly merits a "Feh" (equivalent to a "Meh" if you're a Gentile).

Store-caught gefilte from the Albertson's in Boca Raton, Florida

Why the “Feh or Meh” rating? Whether net-trawled or store-caught, each method of gefilte fishing has sustainability problems. With the trawling method, the gefilte nets are dragged along the sea floor, uprooting the gefilte’s habitat, leading to the expulsion of the gefiltes from their homeland. The nets also collect everything in their path, including unwanted species like shellfish, which are not kosher and contaminate the gefilte. And while many gefiltes have been relocated to a contained area in either jelled or clear waters in Florida, store-caught gefilte season peaks in April, leaving store shelves empty the rest of the year.

To combat these issues, scientists at Monsanto are working on a genetically modified gefilte that has been engineered to reproduce year-round while repelling shellfish. By inserting flounder genes into the gefilte's DNA, it is said the new Geflounder^® will be approved in time for next year's Passover festivities with no further testing. Gefilte fishery executives are hoping this will at least upgrade the gefilte from a “Feh or Meh” to a “Bleh.”

Travel Bite: Food Vendor Cell Conversations

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 15:42:00 +0000

Nuts 4 Nuts vendor, Midtown Manhattan

"Yo, Vinny. Wanna go to da Nutcracker wid me tonight at Lincoln Center?"

Big Apple Pretzels vendor, Midtown Manhattan

"Of course I can talk and salt at the same time. Unless it's Pink Himalayan."

Vinny's Nut House vendor, Little Italy, Manhattan

"Sure, I'll go to da Nutcracker. Should I bring da cotton candy or da Torrone Nougat for da Sugar Plum Fairy?"

Chestnut vendor, Hagia Sophia church, Istanbul

"Hmmm. I thought I downloaded that roasted chestnut app."

Mexican chotchke vendor, Olvera Square, Los Angeles (So it's not food. Sue me.)

"Slow day. Where's the cha-ching from all this bling? I'd make more selling Chiclets in Tijuana."

My Girl Scout Cookie Cartel Makeover

noreply@blogger.com (Adair Seldon) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 20:15:00 +0000

Buh bye, Savannah Smiles. Hola, Lemon Escobars

You're probably thinking, “Must you skewer those poor Scouts again? Weren’t last year’s Notes from a Girl Scout Cookie Curmudgeon and My Healthy Girl Scout Cookie Makeover enough?” Well have you tried their latest offering, Savannah Smiles? It’s described as a “cool and crisp lemon wedge cookie that looks like a smile.” I sampled one (for research), and this lethal powdered sugar and lemon speedball was so addictive, I would’ve sold my mother for another. Of course Savannah’s smiling. Nothing cries 'crackhead' like someone hopped up on GMO sugar, soybean oil and corn syrup, rainforest-depleting palm oil, artificial flavor and lemon juice solids (isn’t 'juice solids' an oxymoron?). Wouldn't a more apt name be Lemon Escobars after cocaine kingpin, Pablo Escobar? The girls sell this stuff on the streets, they control the entire supply chain, and their customers wait in an addled frenzy for their orders to arrive.

Since this is the 100th anniversary of the Girl Scouts, and 2012 has been declared the “Year of the Girl,” what better time to roll out a new business plan? According to the Los Angeles Times, cookie sales in 2011 brought $760 million in profits—100% of it going to the councils and the girls. And new Scouts' CEO, Anna Maria Chavez, is launching an initiative to groom girls for leadership posts because a survey showed that 61% are either ambivalent about leadership or say it's not important to them. So I’ve created a crack business initiative built on the Girl Scout framework: Courage, Confidence, Character. With one addition.

Courage, Confidence, Character and Connections

Courage It’s not easy to admit their cookies are a drug, but why sugarcoat the truth? The girls could be selling a pure, plant-based, highly profitable product. Derived from the coca plant, cocaine is more natural than the genetically modified and pesticide-laced sugar beets that are used in the sugar, soybeans in the soybean oil and corn in the corn syrup; coca is not depleting the rainforest and orangutan population through the harvesting of unsustainable palm oil; and it contains no artificial flavor. Sure, it takes cahones to join a Colombian drug cartel, and the girls will have to ask for a raise in their allowance for the upstart costs, but I think they’ll be up to the task.

Confidence If a kilo of coke can be purchased for about $1800 in Colombia, how much profit will you make selling it in New York City for $23,000? No, that’s not a simple math problem. That’s the bright future of our Scouts. Drugs bring in $300-400 billion a year, and it’s been said that illegal drug money may have saved the banking industry from collapse, as it was the only liquid investment capital available in 2008. What better way for a girl to gain self-esteem than to keep the global economy afloat? As they learn valuable lessons in economics, horticulture, chemistry, geography, ocean sciences and law, these young entrepreneurs will also become fluent in Spanish and another language: money. Nothing breeds confidence like cold, hard, Colombian-infused cash.

Character With the Scouts’ newfound wealth, they can start a philanthropic cookie company that sells organic, sustainable and free-trade confections. The profits could be used to rebuild the palm plantations in Indonesia and Malaysia that have been deforested from the manufacturing of palm oil for the current cookies. They can also start an orangutan preserve to safeguard the simians from further displacement. For an inspiring example of ‘character’, read about real Girl Scouts, Madison and Rhiannon, who created Project ORANGS (Orangutans Really Appreciate and Need Girl Scouts) to stop the Scouts from using palm oil. They’ve spent the last five years bringing awareness to this problem and have produced real results. Sign their online petition on change.org: Girl Scouts: Make Your Cookies Rainforest-Safe.

Connections When CEO, Anna Maria Chavez, introduces the girls to brother, Hugo, they will not only become schooled in international politics, they’ll be poised for world domination. You want leadership? Move over Hillary. There are some new girls in town.

Who’s smiling now?

The Lemon Escobar Recipe for Success

1 $50 dollar bill (or higher)

1 gram cocaine

1 lemon wedge

Roll up bill. Snort coke, rub on teeth, suck lemon wedge and enjoy!

This may not taste as good as my C hocolate Covered Mint Leaves (My Thin Mints), but it'll keep you even thinner.

1 serving = 1 gram

0 calories

0% Palm Oil

95% Profit

My Healthy Girl Scout Cookie Makeover

Chocolate Covered Mint Leaves (My Thin Mints)