Editor’s Note: All content here at Epi-Ventures.com has officially moved over to CityStoriesMedia.com, where we’ll continue to post fresh blog posts, videos, and more.

No additional updates will be made at this url.

Please direct all comments and inquiries to City Stories and feel free to drop me a line at courtney@citystoriesmedia.com.

Thanks and see you on the other side!

I fell asleep on the couch and woke up several hours later to Joel Osteen’s Sunday morning sermon blaring from my television. Somewhere between dreaming and waking, I had listened to him extoll the meaning of A Great Shift for the better part of 30 minutes.

A Great Shift, he said, is something that happens when the winds of favor blow opportunity into your life. It happens suddenly. It happens without explanation. Not the result of your own talent or determination, but a great force in the universe designed to put you in the place you’re supposed to be.

Okay, Joel.

I rolled over, facing the television. I blinked hard, trying to loosen my contacts. In a faint, sideways outline, I saw his oblong head, the curvature of his hair as if chiseled from stone. His voice piped up and down.

“A shift is coming,” he said.

I fumbled around for the remote. I changed the channel.

Later that night, Dustin and I made dinner. We stacked prosciutto and sage on top of pork tenderloin fillets and rolled them into pinwheels. He poured wine and gave pieces of meat to the dogs when he thought I wasn’t looking. We debated the accuracy of our last insurance bill.

“Do you believe in universal shifts?” I asked him, turning the pork in a pan.

“I have no idea,” he said.

We finished eating and piled our plates in the sink. We let the dogs out so that they could bark at neighbors and attack shadows in the yard.

Later on, we laid side-by-side in bed with the window propped open. A narrow stream of cold air funneled in, freezing the tip of my nose.

I thought about the last post I might write on Epi-Ventures. How I might formally introduce my next effort, which will start with a live website on February 1st. How I might thank you for being a part of the last four years and for graciously letting me figure out how — and where — I belong in the world of writing, cooking, and storytelling.

I wasn’t sure if I believed in Sunday sermons any more than I believed in fortune cookies. Or if suddenly, I believed in them both. Either way, laying there, watching the ceiling fan spin in circles, I knew one thing. A great shift was coming.

Starting on February 1, I will no longer update Epi-Ventures.com. Instead, visit City Stories, where I’ll focus on building community through totally integrated storytelling. That means you’ll get all the parts of Epi-Ventures you’ve come to know (including the blog and our video) … with a lot more over time. I hope to see you soon.

At one point or another I have been a thinker, a risk-taker, a smart ass, a kiss ass, and a bore. On the search for creativity, I have questioned everything. Twice. I’ve been envious of effortlessness, hostile with authority, and cautious about the unknown. I have miscalculated. I have looked for perfection but have not found it. I have been hard on others but harder on myself. There have been quite a few times when I have cut too deep.

Punishment for setting the bar impossibly high has been fear of the ordinary. For as long as I have sought creative endeavors, this notion has driven a knife through my gut.

I have spent most of my life trying to find the better part of myself. I have chased it like a ghost. Wrestled it in my sleep. I believed I had it cornered at least a dozen times, but on each occasion it has laughed and escaped out the window.

I have failed. I have lost sleep. I have unlocked creativity and spilled it on the floor. I have unlocked creativity and lost it under the couch cushions.

In the end, I agreed over a steaming hot bowl of mussels––with a lover or a friend or a colleague or an acquaintance––that it doesn’t matter anyway. Not on the plate, on the notepad, or on the computer screen. The search for creativity is a crooked line. If you’re committed to wrestling it down, you have to be willing to bump your head.

At 25, I was living on Race Street in a high-rise loft, spending a lot of time in the kitchen slicing off the tips of my fingers. It’s a period of time I like to call Fish University because I was obsessed––completely obsessed––with fish cookery. This was before culinary school or the restaurant, so I was studying cookbooks like they were textbooks. When I wasn’t sprawled out on the kitchen floor getting busy with Mark Bittman and Alton Brown, I was geeking out with turbot, snapper, salmon, halibut, haddock, anything I could get my hands on. Friends and family pleaded for me to end the madness but I soldiered on. To hell with them. I would learn how to cook fish even if it meant mercury poisoning and slow, painful deaths for us all.

One of my earliest successes was fish “en papillote,” or “in paper.” This is, of course, fish and other aromatics wrapped in parchment paper and steamed in the oven. I loved how it turned out moist, perfectly tender fish. But most of all, I loved the theatrics at the dinner table. The moment everyone opened up their packages.

Here’s what to expect: a violent wave of seriously pissed-off steam. A fish facial. Then, the kinder, gentler smells of lemon, herbs and garlic. But never mind these things, because this is what you’ve come for: the juice. Juice from the fish, from the tomatoes, from the lemon, from the white wine. Together, swirling in a pool. Dripping down your chin, soaking your shirtsleeve, making a mess of the table.

I’ll admit, my fish education is still far from over. I still fool around with Mark Bittman on the kitchen floor every now and again. (He’s every bit as good as they say.) But my husband’s cool with it. He never did get mercury poisoning. And even if he had, he’d still request this dish. It’s that hot.

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Turbot en papillote

This recipe is adapted from Mark Bittman’s Fish, who uses pine nuts and basil, which would also be great. The key here is that you can throw anything into the parchment package and steam it –– from carrots to potatoes –– so just let your hair down and have fun with it.
Serves 4

Ingredients:

Four 4- to 6- ounce pieces turbot fillet (you can substitute with snapper or another white, flaky fish)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 shallots, minced
1 lemon, sliced into circles
4 sprigs of dill
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons white wine

Procedure:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Season the fish with salt and pepper. Fold a piece of parchment paper in half, then use scissors to create a half heart shape, starting out at the bottom of the folded edge and working your way to the top. (For more directions on this, watch this video.) Lay your fish on one side of the fold, then top with garlic, shallots, lemon, and dill. Spoon tomatoes next to the fish and season with salt. Drizzle fish and tomatoes with olive oil. Sprinkle the fish with white wine. Fold the parchment paper over so that it forms a pouch, then crease the edges shut. Repeat this process for the remaining pieces of fish. Set the pouches on a baking sheet and bake for 30 minutes. The turbot should be white, opaque, and tender when done.

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As resource development director at Findlay Market, Karen Kahle has one of the biggest and most influential roles (and voices) in the world of Cincinnati food. Get to know her here, see why she’s so passionate about public markets – and discover why Findlay Market is at such an important crossroads.

It’s all here in the fourth episode of Cincinnati Deconstructed, an original video series directed by Chaske Haverkos and produced by yours truly.

The intention of Cincinnati Deconstructed is to give you an intimate, behind-the-scenes peek inside the unique personalities that define the food scene here in Cincinnati. (See previous episodes featuring Molly Wellmann, Jean Francois Flechet and Owen Maass.) Learn more about the series here.

If you like what you see, please make sure to let us know by commenting, tweeting and spreading the love through Facebook. As we look towards expanding this series, know that it’s your support and enthusiasm that makes it all possible.

I used to be an optimist. Then I got punched in the mouth and all that changed.

It was grade school. I had three text books tucked under my arm and I was walking down the hall to 6th period. Enter a toothy, female redhead with sharp, splintery eyes. A Goliath to my then 5-foot tall body. A freakish, oafish, pale giant who interrupted my carefree stride with a pointer finger to my chest.

“I heard what you said about my friend,” she said, edging closer to my face.

My heart thumped through the sides of my head.

“Who is your friend?” I asked.

“Diane.” she said. “And she has a message for you.”

Before I could ask who Diane was – in that very moment – I felt a white, hot pain in my upper lip. A whiz of motion had erupted as her white-knuckle hand met my mouth, sending the back of my head into a row of lockers. Meanwhile, my knees buckled and I slid down the wall like a pool of mud.

As I took stock of remaining teeth and blood and pride, I looked up at her and searched for words. I spoke the only ones I could find.

“Well, she sounds like a bitch.”

I never did figure out who Diane was, nor did I ever tell anyone what had happened in the hallway that day. But I did find solace and comfort in another person later in the evening. My mother. Sensing my gloominess, she made up a batch of her very own homemade caramel sauce. Then she ladled it over apple slices in grand proportion – raising her eyebrows as it circled into my bowl.

I smiled, cracked lip and all.

And so, even back then, I was old enough to know that in a sometimes very cruel world, a little sugar is all the sweetness you need.

This is a recipe from Katie Workman, my friend, who visited recently from New York to promote her new book, The Mom 100 Cookbook. It’s a collection of recipes anybody can make, on any day of the week. Busted lip or not.

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Caramel Sauce

Recipe form Katie Workman, author of The Mom 100 Cookbook

Ingredients:

1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup heavy cream
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
Ice cream or apples for slicing

Procedure:

In a relatively small pot, combine 1/4 cup of water and the sugar. Place the pot over medium-low heat and heat until the sugar dissolves. Swirl the liquid gently every 30 seconds or so by picking the pot up by the handle and whirling around – not by stirring with a spoon. When the sugar has dissolved, increase the heat to medium-high and let the mixture come to a boil. After 10-12 minutes, and the mixture has turned golden brown, take the pan off the heat and whisk in the heavy cream.

The mixture should be amber – but not burned. [Katie Workman note: Don't be scared if the mixture sputters or bubbles when you add the cream.] Whisk the caramel sauce until it is well combined and smooth. Add the vanilla and salt and let the sauce cool. Once thickened considerably, serve.

Busted lip optional.

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To celebrate the big 3-0, I thought I’d take a page out of Joy the Baker’s book. I thought I’d tell you some of what I know. Half of these lessons I’ve learned by doing the complete opposite. The other half I’m still learning.

30 things I know

Humor makes up for a multitude of sins. The absolute most difficult times in life can be countered by potty jokes. I don’t know why they work, they just do.

If a problem arises and you don’t know what to do, take a bath. If you haven’t figured it out by the time your hands shrivel, it’s probably out of your control.

That feeling in your gut is what’s telling you to do it anyway. Do it anyway.

In conversations concerning politics, religion or sex, you should probably just eat your mashed potatoes.

Try to forgive yourself.

Friendship is what holds you accountable for your craziness. It’s also what helps you sleep at night.

Sometime between late May and early September, dinner makes itself. Proof? Corn and tomatoes.

Over-promise. And then run like hell until you deliver.

If you can’t tone it, tan it.

Find a handful of people who would do anything for you. Do anything for them in return: pick them up when they lose their keys, pick them up when they lose their boyfriends, pick them up when they lose their way.

Say yes.

Listen really hard. Listen really long. Speaking is surprisingly optional.

It’s probably best not to reconnect with exes. They never smell as good.

Michael Ruhlman says, “Follow what fascinates you. Others will, too.” I like that.

Adjust your expectations.

Try not to get attached to anything you own. It’s far more likely to shrink, warp, ding, scratch, bend, rust or evaporate.

Go for the laugh.

Always, always, always ask why.

Be yourself. If you can’t be yourself, be Tina Fey.

Always measure when baking. Never measure in life. (This is easier said than done.)

Coffee is better with cream and sugar but learn to drink it black. I got that from my father-in-law. You can’t always count on condiments.

Find someone who defends you when you’re wrong. Keep them.

Save the pants that are two sizes too big.

My sister always tells her art classes, “Accidents are okay. If you spill your water you’re okay. You can start over or we’ll make a happy accident out of it.” I like that, too.

Pay attention because people come into your life for a reason.

Start every day at zero.

Trust the ocean. It’s bigger than you.

Don’t trust cheese in a bottle.

Set out to get what you want. Just like that. But understand that in the end, the universe always wins.

When it comes to knowing everything, accept that you’ve just barely scratched the surface.

At Cumin in Hyde Park, Executive Chef Owen Maass is churning out some of Cincinnati’s most impressive, eclectic food. Behind the scenes, he’s driven. Articulate. Funny. Exactly who he says he is – no matter what. Lucky for us, Cumin owner Alex Mchaikhi is opening a sibling restaurant next door (called M), and Owen will be Executive chef there too, featuring a rustic, wood-fired menu. See his story in our third episode of Cincinnati Deconstructed, filmed by Michael Holder and produced by yours truly.

What is Cincinnati Deconstructed?

An intimate, behind-the-scenes peek inside the unique personalities that define the food scene here in Cincinnati. We’ve got big plans for the future. Please continue your enthusiasm by sharing, tweeting, posting and commenting so that we can continue this project. And let us know if you catch the video playing on the jumbotron in Cincinnati’s Fountain Square.

New to our project?

See our pilot episode with rockstar mixologist Molly Wellmann and our second episode with Jean-Francois Flechet from Taste of Belgium.

Owen Maass fan?

Let us know in the comments. Learn more about his new restaurant here – and of course – if you’ve got ideas for a future episode, please share. We’re always listening.

Special thanks to Owen Maass, Alex Mchaikhi, Katerina Pototsky Minevich and the staff at Cumin for making this video possible.

In 1995 my mother learned she had stage four breast cancer. The doctors tracked her white blood cells on a whiteboard while they pumped chemicals into her body. She promised me, wrapped in her white gown, shrunken from a liquid diet, that she would come home to make dinner again. In the mean time, I learned how to do laundry, how to make eggs and how to sleep on a hospital floor.

Today, more than 15 years later, we’re breaking bread.

The doctors sent her home the day before Christmas. We hoped she was well enough to celebrate the holiday. She wasn’t. 24 hours later, sitting in the back seat of my friend’s car, I learned she had returned to the hospital. All I remember are the cold, leather seats, the way they crinkled when I moved.

What followed, I don’t clearly remember. There were procedures and new medications and then there was a new word for my young vocabulary: remission.

By 1998, all of her hair had grown back –– darker and curlier than before. My dad threw her a party at The Maisonette to celebrate and we put on dresses and said toasts and tried to make sense of something senseless. She began resuming activities as usual, creeping into my room at night to switch off the TV, punishing me when I came home too late. But best of all, she started to make dinner again. Elaborate steaks. Twice-baked potatoes. Chocolate cake for dessert. Now we break bread around the table, never really admitting how different things could have been.

This recipe comes from the cookbook Beard on Bread – given to me recently by a friend. This recipe, which is cornmeal based, turns out hearty and rich. You barely need butter to serve. But, hell, I’d add it anyway. You only live once.

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Cornmeal Bread

Recipe from Beard on Bread from James Beard
2 loaves

Ingredients:

1/2 cup cornmeal
1 cup boiling water
1 teaspoon salt
2 packages active dry yeast
1/2 cup warm water
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1 cup warm milk
2-3 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup dark brown sugar
1 to 4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

Procedure:

Pour the cornmeal into a pot with the boiling water. Add the salt and stir vigorously until thick, about 4 minutes. Transfer the mixture to a large mixing bowl to cool. In a small bowl, combine the yeast, sugar and water. Allow the mixture to set for 5 minutes, until frothy. Pour the yeast mixture into the mixing bowl with the cooled cornmeal. Mix well. Add the warm milk, salt, brown sugar and flour 1 cup at a time, mixing well after each addition of flour. When well blended and the cornmeal mixture pulls away from the sides of the bowl, turn out on a lightly floured surface. Knead until smooth and elastic, about ten minutes. Butter a large bowl and place the dough inside. Cover and set in a warm place to double in bulk, about 45 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Punch the dough down and divide in half. Shape into two loaves and let rest while you butter two 9 x 5 x 3 inch dishes. (I used a larger baking dish separated by a line of foil.) Place the dough in the cooking dish, cover and let rise again until almost doubled in bulk or just level with the tops of the dish. Bake for 10 minutes, then lower the temperature to 350 and continue baking for 20 – 25 minutes, until the bread is nicely browned. Cool on racks before slicing.

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Quick is the game these days. If you’re not quick you get left behind, mentally and physically. This is the case in business––and it’s also the case in every restaurant kitchen I’ve ever worked in or observed. Slow movements burn the souffle. Slow cooks get their asses handed to them.

There is indescribable reward in toughing it out in a kitchen under these conditions––a place where your pride lives or dies on your ability to think on your feet. But all I seem to want to write about this morning is taking it slow.

At home, cooking is slow. There is time for wine sipping. If dinner slips past 8, no one is worse for the wear. It’s the kind of place where taking a little extra time to stir the grits gently –- and to butter poach the shrimp correctly –– is usually fine by everyone involved. So allow me to introduce Michael Ruhlman’s shrimp and grits. A dish we made for Sunday dinner when most everyone was being lazy.

BONUS: At the end of the process, the butter you use to poach the shrimp gets added to the cooked grits–making them rich and creamy. So go ahead, give it a whirl. That is, if you’ve got the time.

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Butter poached shrimp and grits

Recipe from Michael Ruhlman’s Twenty and also featured in this post from his blog.

Ingredients:

4 ounces bacon, cut into small dice
1 medium onion, cut into small dice
Kosher salt
1 1/4 cups high-quality stoneground grits
2 cups milk or vegetable stock
Freshly ground black pepper
1 cup butter, cut into about 12 chunks
1 pound shrimp/prawns, peeled and deveined
4 lemon wedges

Procedure:

Place the bacon in a medium saute pan and add water, just to cover. Cook over medium heat until the water has evaporated. Reduce the heat to medium-low and continue to cook the bacon until it browns. Add the onion and cook until soft. Season with salt.

Add the grits to the pan and stir. Add the milk or stock and 2 cups of water. Raise the heat and bring to simmer. Reduce heat to low and cook the grits, stirring for about 30 minutes. Add milk or water as needed to keep the mixture fluid. The grits should not stick to the sides of the pan – so keep adding more moisture as necessary.[Ruhlman note: you can always cook off the additional liquid if you need to.]

Once ready, put 2 tablespoons of water in a saucepan that is just large enough to accomodate the shrimp. Bring to a simmer and then add a chunk of butter at a time, whisking continuously as each chunk is incorporated. Once an emulsification has formed, add butter chunks 3 at a time and continue to whisk vigorously.

Add the shrimp to the pan and stir. Don’t let the butter boil or the emulsification will break. Lightly poach the shrimp until cooked through, about 3 – 5 minutes. Season with salt and black pepper.

Add about 1/3 of the shrimp butter to the polenta to finish. Serve with shrimp on top and lemon wedges.

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