Actually, I think the title was a bit overzealous. The tasting menu was divided into four categories: Germany, Belgium, British Isles, and North America (Maryland and Maine). Beer…Planet, you say? Well, I guess “Beers of the North Atlantic” doesn’t sound quite as cool.

Dornbusch, an engaging speaker who epitomizes the term “beer nerd,” attempted to cram a college course’s worth of world history into four hours. I groaned and settled in for a long ride when his first Powerpoint slide asked: “How long has homo sapiens been on this earth?” But somehow, we made it rather quickly through evolution, the dawn of civilization, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians, all while still sipping our first beer, a gentle, malty ale called “Old Brown Dog” from New Hampshire’s Smuttynose Brewing Co. (Not clear what the connection was between the beer and the topic at that point; other than the word “old.”)

Beer bubbles, courtesy Flickr user Attilla 1000

No one’s sure exactly when beer was invented—it was referenced as early as the 6th century B.C. in Sumeria—or how. Dornbusch’s personal theory, that beer was invented by accident during bread-making, goes something like this: One day, someone was making bread outdoors when their work was interrupted by a big rainstorm. They ran for shelter and forgot about the dough for a day or two, then came back to discover a soupy, fermenting liquid in the bowl. They tried it, got tipsy, and said, “hey, this is good.”

Eh, that seems like a bit of a stretch, but as I don’t have a better theory to offer, we’ll go with it. Dornbusch says brewing spread to Egypt and continued to grow until Cleopatra instated a beer tax (at this, a rumble of “booooo” went around the room—the tasting seemed to be taking effect) and declined drastically after Arab conquest of the region in the 7th century, since Islamic laws proscribe drinking alcohol.

But while beer’s popularity waned in the Middle East, it was gaining ground in northern Europe. People there somehow figured out brewing (perhaps via another soggy-bread epiphany) by at least 800 B.C., based on beer residues in a Celtic amphora found in modern Bavaria. Dornbusch says the Romans were the first to invent the modern brewing process—involving malting and mashing—based on the ruins of a 179 A.D. brewery discovered in a Roman settlement near what is now Regensburg, Germany.

For this portion of the tasting, we started with a Hefeweizen from Weihenstephan, which claims to be the world’s oldest continually operating brewery, founded in 1040 A.D. by Benedictine monks. I’ve been a fan of this beer since I lived in Germany a few years ago, so I was happy to taste it again; there’s a spicy, sweet quality to it reminiscent of banana bread. Then we moved onto a Jever Pilsener—crisp and refreshing, but unspectacular—and a Reissdorf Kölsch, a pleasant, light-bodied brew which Dornbusch compared to a British pale ale.

In the early years, German beer was flavored with whatever was available to cover up its rank taste in warmer months: herbs, bark, mushrooms, or even chicken blood and bile! In 1516, Bavarian Duke Wilhelm IV issued the now-famous edict restricting the ingredients of beer to barley, hops and water. For the past century this edict has been commonly referred to as the Reinheitsgebot, or “purity law,” which irks Dornbusch. (”Ninety-five percent of it was about price fixing; this was no ‘purity law!’” he told us, pointing out that it excludes wheat and even yeast, which hadn’t been discovered yet.)

Eventually we moved on to Belgium, whose more anti-authoritarian culture is reflected in its more inventive and eccentric beers. I was sure I’d find my favorite in this country, and I was right…sort of. The beer I liked best—a dark red ale called Ommegang—is named for a Belgian festival, inspired by Belgian Trappist ales and even made with Belgian yeast, but the brewery is actually in Cooperstown, New York. Ommegang’s spiced-fruit flavor reminded me of the “drunken fig preserves” I made a few months ago, and I imagine a bottle of it would disappear from my fridge even more quickly than those did! Same goes for the two true Belgians we tasted: Saison Dupont, a bottle-conditioned farmhouse ale with coriander and orange notes, and Liefmans Kriek, a cherry lambic that tastes like fruitcake (in a good way).

In Great Britain, archaeological evidence suggests that fermented beverages date back to Neolithic times, and brewing became an industry during the Roman occupation. Ale was drunk widely in medieval Britain (hey, it was safer than water), and hops had become part of the brewing process by the 16th century.

Although not as exciting as the Belgians, the two British ales we tasted (Fuller’s ESB, and Boddington’s Mild) were highly drinkable, and the O’Hara’s Irish Stout from Carlow Brewing was every bit as good as Guinness, my first love in terms of beer.

Finally, we landed (tipsily) in North America, where we tried two brews from nearby Maryland: Flying Dog Double Dog, an “insanely hopped” IPA which I found too bitter too drink, and Clipper City’s Great Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, which tasted like, well, pumpkin pie that someone spilled beer on. The real star of the show was the Maine-brewed Allagash Curieux Tripel Ale, which had hints of coconut, bourbon and vanilla in it after aging for two months in Jim Beam barrels.

If you could plot a trip to your own “Beer Planet,” what countries would your tastebuds pull you toward?

Shetland cod with pig's trotters, tripe and ears, perhaps showing up on a menu near you soon, courtesy of Flickr user Sifu_Renka

‘Tis the season for the trend prophets to release their forecasts for the upcoming year. Last week restaurant consultants Baum & Whiteman, the Nostradamuses of the food world, announced their annual list of 12 food and dining trends for 2010 (pdf). In a word, it’s going to be offal. (I didn’t just write that, did I? I should be pun-ished. Can one’s journalism degree be revoked?)

A unifying theme was that people are paring down in response to the economic climate (the list itself seemed to be following its own prediction—there was one fewer trend than last year). People’s priorities are shifting to the more personal, and they are looking for comfort and a connection with others—what the consultants call, metaphorically, the “campfire experience.”

I have already noticed some restaurants moving in the direction of the second item on the list—a greater emphasis on small plates, different portion-size options, and plates for sharing—which they call “putting the focus on the left side of the menu.” I heartily welcome the shift to smaller portions; I can rarely finish what’s on my plate when I eat out, and I don’t always want to carry around leftovers. Why should I pay for $25 worth of food when I’m only hungry for $15?

I’m also happy to note that, according to the list, our palates are becoming more attuned to tartness. Like Michele Hume, who wrote “What’s Wrong With Chocolate” at the Atlantic Food Channel, I almost always prefer a tangy lemon dessert to a chocolate one, and I add lemon juice to everything from vegetables to chicken soup. Although the publishers and devotees of the recently rejuvenated bestseller Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child might disagree, I concur with the consultants’ reasoning that “classic French cookery, based on excesses of butter and cream, is in decline because it puts the taste buds into snooze mode…. We’re all getting older and we need more zing in our food.” Hear, hear!

And, yes, there was a reason (though probably not a good one) for the offal pun. Baum & Whiteman predict that tongue, trotters, gizzards and other spare animal parts will be showing up on more menus to augment downsized portions of prime meats. This, I assume, has the double benefit of lowering food costs while making diners feel adventurous and in-the-know. I suppose it also cuts down on wastefulness, which is good. I still don’t think I can bring myself to eat it, though. When I was about 6, my grandmother, a big fan of tongue, once fed it to me without my knowledge. I liked it—until I found out what it was and couldn’t stop picturing myself biting my own tongue.

If organ meat isn’t scary enough, the list warns hotels and restaurants that they “no longer control what’s said about them.”  The old “Voices of Authority,” such as Gourmet magazine, are disappearing in favor of the “Instant Opinion Makers”: bloggers, Twitterers, Facebookers and their ilk, who “broadcast ‘buzz’ and bad news to a million gullible people in the blink of the eye.” I started to feel the slightest bit guilty about the role of blogs such as this one in the demise of quality food magazines, but then I got over myself. First of all, I don’t think the editors of Gourmet would agree that they ever allowed restaurants to control what was said about them. And, while I regret the decline of print journalism in general (which, after all, provides the bulk of my livelihood), I don’t think what we’re doing here at Food & Think is a replacement for the restaurant reviews, recipes and beautiful food photography that such magazines offer.

]]> http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/food/2009/11/12/food-trend-predictions-for-2010/feed/ 2 http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/food/2009/11/12/food-trend-predictions-for-2010/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/smithsonianmag/food/~3/3-Z0imM6dzs/ http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/food/2009/11/11/five-ways-to-eat-beets/#comments Wed, 11 Nov 2009 17:21:37 +0000 Abby Callard http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/food/?p=3649

Beets from a farmer's market, courtesy of Flickr user phxpma

I ordered a salad with roasted beets when I was out with my parents recently. They looked at the hunks of purple of my plate and wrinkled their noses. The “I remember when…” statements weren’t far behind. They recalled stinky, pickled beets from a can, which is something they never subjected me to when I was a child (which may be why I was so willing to eat them). “Beets taste like dirt,” my dad said with conviction.

Beets do get a bad name in the culinary world, but recently their heath benefits have many reconsidering the oft-overlooked vegetable. Beets are high in folate and vitamin C, for example.

When I insisted that my parents try the beets, they both skeptically took bites and were shocked. The beets were not the mushy, noxious lumps they remembered from their childhoods, but rather a food worth eating, savoring even. My dad plans on grilling them once his Chicago-area hometown thaws.

Still nervous about recreating some awful childhood memories? Try these alternate preparations that have nothing to do with pickling or borscht. Just be careful when handling them—anything they touch will turn red.

1. Sweet. Because beets have the highest natural sugar content of any vegetable, using a sweet preparation is a no-brainer. Tyler Florence shared this red velvet cake recipe on “The View” as a healthier substitute for the Southern favorite. (Tip: His recipe forgets to mention that the vegetable oil should be mixed in with the wet ingredients at the beginning of the recipe. Can’t find pomegranate molasses? Try this Alton Brown recipe.)If baking is a bit ambitious, try this simple glazed baby beets recipe from Alton Brown.

2. Hidden in pasta. Delicious Days has a recipe for incredible-looking beet pasta dough. They used a sweet ravioli filling, but I think the recipe can be versatile. I plan on making this with a butternut squash filling as soon as I can get my parents to ship my pasta machine.

3. Simple. Sometime simple is best. Wrap whole beets, skins on, in foil and roast in a 400 degree oven for an hour or so until tender. The skins will peel off easiliy. Chop beets and eat alone or mix into a salad, maybe with cooked beet greens and oranges. Or, try a Mediterranean beet and yogurt salad.

4. Raw in a salad. The simplest preparation of all. Take some inspiration from the New York Times’ “The Minimalist: 101 Simple Salads for the Season” and pair beets with arugula and goat cheese.

5. Eat the greens. Beet greens are very similar to hearty greens such as collard green and kale. Try them baked in a gratin, in a salad or cooked with bacon and onion.

A bride and groom play a game of throwing rice on each other's heads at a Hindu wedding. Photograph by Amanda Lynn Photograph

A few weeks ago I attended a Hindu wedding for the first time. I was struck by the prominent role that food rituals played in the ceremony, and how each food had a symbolic significance.

A traditional Hindu wedding can last for several days, though the one I went to was an abbreviated two-hour version, which followed a Western-style civil ceremony (the bride, my friend Padma, is an American-born Indian and the groom, Joe, is Caucasian). The ceremony took place outdoors under a mandap, or canopy, and was performed by a priest who spoke Sanskrit. I found it interesting that, although there were seats arranged for the guests to sit in while viewing the ceremony, it was acceptable for people to walk around, talk quietly, and even go grab a refreshment at the bar set up a few yards away from the mandap.

The ceremony began with Padma’s parents welcoming Joe into the mandap. A curtain was held up in front of him so that when Padma entered, the bride and groom couldn’t see each other (as the bride’s sister explained in a running play-by-play, traditional Hindu weddings were arranged by the families of the bride and groom, and the concerned parties may have never laid eyes upon their future mates before the ceremony). The lifting of the curtain is a dramatic moment in the ceremony, even for couples who have met before.

A coconut was placed in Padma’s hands; her father then held her hands and, together, they handed the fruit to Joe. The coconut was a divine offering to ensure the marriage was blessed, Padma explained to me later. Coconuts are considered a symbol of prosperity in Hinduism.

Next, a paste of cumin seeds and brown sugar were crushed together and placed in a betel leaf; as the priest recited Vedic mantras, the bride and groom in turn placed the leaf on the other’s head. The mixture represented the bitterness and sweetness of life, Padma said.

Rice also played a major role in the ceremony. In the Western tradition, rice was thrown at a newlywed couple as a symbol of fertility. However, in the Hindu tradition, rice represents sustenance. Guests were invited to the mandap to throw sprinklings of turmeric-colored rice on Padma and Joe as a blessing. Offerings of puffed rice were poured into the sacred fire, which the priest kept burning by dousing occasionally with ghee, or clarified butter.

Although the Hindu ceremony was mostly solemn, and rooted in spiritual beliefs, there were moments of levity, including games (which probably helped break the ice for a young couple getting to know one another). One of my favorite parts of the wedding was the game where Padma and Joe competed to see who could throw the most rice over the other’s head. The outcome was said to indicate who would be dominant in the relationship. In a way, it reminded me of the somewhat polarizing custom among some Western brides and grooms of smashing cake into the other’s face, although more lighthearted and with less chance of hurt feelings. As far as I can tell, the cake custom—a variation on the much more widely acceptable tradition of feeding one’s new spouse a bite of cake—has no symbolic meaning today, although it may stem from the ancient Roman custom of smashing a barley cake over the bride’s head to ensure her fertility. Considering the reaction of some modern brides to having their perfectly done hair and makeup destroyed by frosting, I imagine it might have the opposite effect nowadays.

Four types of cinnamon, courtesy Flickr user FootosVanRobin

The chatty coffee-shop employee’s comment confused me. I had paused at the condiment station to add a sprinkle of cinnamon* to my cappuccino, and he was wiping down the counter in front of me.

“Ah, yes, for your eyes?” he asked, gesturing at the cinnamon shaker.

“My…eyes?” I fumbled in response. “No, for my coffee…”

He gave me a pitying smile, informed me that “everyone knows” cinnamon is good for ocular health, and went back to cleaning.

As a bit of Googling revealed, he’s not the only one who believes in cinnamon as a health product. It’s sold in many nutritional supplements and homeopathic remedies, marketed with claims that range from boosting metabolism to controlling blood sugar to, yes, enhancing vision.

I don’t see (pardon the pun) hard evidence for most of those claims, but a 2006 German study reported that cinnamon could help stabilize insulin levels for people with Type 2 diabetes, and a study published this year in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition supports the idea that dietary cinnamon compounds “could reduce risk factors associated with diabetes and cardiovascular disease.”

Today, cinnamon was in the news again as the USDA’s Agricultural Research Service (ARS) reported that it may help prevent or reduce brain swelling.

When the brain is temporarily deprived of oxygen and food (glucose)—as in the case of a traumatic injury or stroke—brain cells tend to swell, which can cause permanent neurological damage. But in a lab experiment conducted by scientists at the ARS Human Nutrition Research center in Beltsville, Maryland, isolated brain cells that were exposed to a cinnamon polyphenol extract did not swell.

However: “The researchers caution that table cinnamon compounds may accumulate in the body and should not be ingested consistently as more than a spice over long periods of time.”

In other words, I should stick to just sprinkling it on my cappuccinos and apple crisp for now. But, as a scientist I interviewed a while ago about pepper-based fungicides for wine grapes said, nature may hold the answers to many human and plant health problems—right under our noses.

*Like most of the ground cinnamon sold in supermarkets, this was probably cassia, not Ceylon cinnamon, which some people call “true cinnamon.” I just checked with one of the ARS researchers, Richard Anderson, and he says they’ve tested several types of cinnamon, including cassia, and all proved effective.

An apple bakes slowly in a schnitzer atop a wood stove. Photograph by Lisa Bramen.

While visiting an Irish friend in the Kilkenny countryside a few years back, I admired her mother’s charming wood cookstove. It was nearly the size of a twin bed, was always kept burning, and produced daily loaves of delicious brown bread and amazing apple pies. But, until I moved to New York from California, I had no idea that many people in this country still use wood stoves to heat their homes.

I recently bought an old farmhouse in the Adirondack mountains, and I now have my own wood stove. It is considerably smaller than my friend’s mother’s, and is designed primarily for keeping the house warm and cozy, not cooking. But, as I’ve recently discovered, it does have some culinary uses.

One of the best (and most unusual) housewarming presents I received was a pair of apple schnitzers, which are little cast-iron dishes for baking apples atop the wood stove (they can also be used in a regular oven if you don’t have a wood stove). They are round, covered in speckled blue enamel and have a spike in the center, onto which you place a cored apple, with some cinnamon and sugar, or whatever else you like, sprinkled on top or in the cavity where the core was (the spike is small enough that there is still space). The apple cooks from the inside out.

I hadn’t heard of a schnitzer until a few months ago, when, at my other job as an editor of a regional Adirondack magazine, I was helping to edit a cookbook compiled from recipes that have been in the publication in the past 40 years. This being the northern part of New York, a good portion of the recipes were apple-based, and one of them was for an apple schnitzer. According to the person who contributed the recipe many years ago, schnitzers are an old German invention. The origin of the word is a mystery I have yet to solve; my German-English dictionary defines Schnitzer as meaning “carver.” Through an Internet search and my iffy college German I gleaned that schnitzers no longer appear to be in common use in Germany, at least by that name (I found a forum where a woman was looking for suggestions on how to bake an apple on her wood stove, and the replies including using aluminum foil, a Romertopf clay pot and something called an Apfelbratgerät, or, roughly, apple-baking device, which may in fact be a schnitzer but I couldn’t find a picture). However, it does appear that the Amish still use them. Lehman’s, an Ohio retailer that was established in 1955 to serve the local Amish community, sells schnitzers on its Web site.

I tried my schnitzer for the first time last night, using a Macintosh (I think a thinner-skinned variety might work better), some brown sugar and cinnamon. It smelled delicious while it cooked, and, about an hour later, I had a yummy baked apple.

I would love to see what else I can cook on my wood stove. Suggestions, anyone?

Properly prepared, these tiny brassica plants can be a real treat—and they’re nutritionally noble (low-cal and fat-free, yet just a handful will provide all the vitamin C you need for the day, plus several grams of protein and fiber). They may even help prevent cancer!

Forget about frozen, which in my experience are inevitably mushy. Look for fresh, locally grown sprouts—still on the stalk is best—with tightly closed leaves. Wash and trim them only when you’re ready to cook them. That’s cook…NOT OVERCOOK. Got that?

In fact, less cooking could mean less of that sulfurous stink associated with Brussels sprouts. For these and other cruciferous vegetables with high levels of sulfurous compounds, the book “The Science of Good Food” recommends “quick, high-heat cooking methods,” or blanching the veggies in boiling water for 30 to 60 seconds before more extended cooking.

Brussels sprouts, courtesy Flickr user Chiot's Run

Here are a few ways to get acquainted with the little green guys:

1) Sweet and sour: Brussels sprouts pair nicely with citrus and other tangy flavors like lemon and vermouth, cranberry and balsamic vinegar, or ginger and orange.

2) Spicy: Vegan for the People uses Moroccan spices to dress up Brussels sprouts. For non-vegetarians, there’s Eating Well’s bacon-horseradish Brussels sprouts, or this Delicious Days recipe that bakes sprouts with pancetta, bread crumbs, and red chili. And while Momofuku chef David Chang’s spicy sprouts recipe looks a bit too complicated for me, I’m intrigued by the inclusion of Rice Krispies!

3) Maple-y. Is there anything maple can’t do? It tastes good on everything from to squash to snow! Try Food and Wine’s maple-roasted Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, the Zesty Cook’s figged and maple Brussels sprouts, or Mollie Katzen’s braised Brussels sprouts in maple-mustard glaze. I also love these shredded Brussels sprouts with apples and a touch of maple.

4) Creamy. Okay, it’s not very healthy, but I trust food writer Molly Wizenberg’s (a.k.a. Orangette) taste, and she calls this recipe for sprouts braised in heavy cream “the best thing since Brussels sprouts.”  You’ll find more sprouts and cream in her recipe for fettuccine with pine nuts.

5) Nearly Naked: This is my personal favorite; simply cut the sprouts in half and cook them in a skillet (lid on and low heat at first, to steam them into tenderness; then lid off with higher heat to brown the bottoms) in a bit of olive oil or butter. Add salt and pepper, and perhaps a sprinkle of Parmesan. Yum.

Homemade mozzarella, courtesy of Flickr user RBerteig

I learned something potentially dangerous this weekend: cheese, especially fresh (not aged) cheese, is surprisingly quick and easy to make.

A group of people in my area who are concerned about the environment has been hosting a series of “lost arts” workshops on topics like making sauerkraut and baking bread. This weekend’s cheese-and-yogurt-making workshop was the first I attended. In less than two hours, the women demonstrating the techniques produced a ball of fresh mozzarella, a batch of ricotta, and the first stage of what, after 8 hours of sitting, would turn into yogurt.

Making yogurt is probably the simplest of the three. All it requires is some milk, a covered container, a microwave or stove and an oven with a pilot light or oven light. Oh, yeah, and some yogurt. Like money, it takes yogurt to make yogurt. A teaspoon of plain yogurt, store-bought or homemade, contains enough active cultures to start the process (if you use store-bought, though, make sure the container indicates that it has active cultures).

But first you need to bring the milk just to the boiling point, either in a microwave or on a stove. The woman conducting this portion of the workshop told us that milk of any fat content (including skim) will make yogurt, but the less fat it has the tangier it will be. Once the milk begins to boil, you take it off the heat and allow it to cool to about the temperature you would want a baby’s bottle, approximately 110 degrees. You stir in a teaspoon of yogurt per quart of milk, then place the mixture in a covered container and put it in a cool oven with the light on, so that it is away from drafts and remains at a consistent, slightly warm temperature. In about 7 or 8 hours, you’ll have a batch of plain yogurt. If you save a teaspoonful and repeat the process every day or so, you’ll have a lot fewer little plastic containers to contend with. Of course, you can also buy a yogurt maker but, after seeing how simple it is to make without one, it doesn’t seem necessary.

Nearly as simple, and a lot quicker, is making mozzarella. The whole process, from heating the milk to forming the cheese into a ball, takes about a half an hour. It requires no special equipment and only a couple of ingredients you probably don’t have in the pantry, like citric acid and rennet. In Italy, where mozzarella originated, it is usually made from buffalo milk. Most Americans don’t have access to buffalo milk, though, so cow’s milk can be substituted (however, it must not be ultra-pasteurized, because that process changes the protein and won’t lead to the desired result). The liquid mixture (milk plus 2–3 other ingredients) is heated on the stove, where it separates into custardy curds and liquid whey, or casein and albuminous protein, respectively. The curds are then kneaded together and formed into a ball. The result is like the fresh mozzarella you can buy in a store—it doesn’t melt like the aged mozzarella used on pizzas, but it would be perfect sliced with good tomatoes and basil, drizzled with olive oil.

The whey, a yellowish liquid, can be eaten while sitting on a tuffet, or reserved to make ricotta—the only time-consuming part of which is allowing the cheese to drain in a cheesecloth for several hours. We skipped this step in the workshop, and the result was still delicious, although slightly chewy compared to the creamy texture of store-bought ricotta. I don’t know if this was because of the ingredients we used or some other variable—some experimentation is probably in order, which I just might do if I’m feeling ambitious (and bored) this winter.

The site www.cheesemaking.com has complete instructions, with photos, for making mozzarella, ricotta, yogurt and aged cheeses.

Fresh carrots, courtesy Flickr user brianna.lehman

After a bit of online research, I concluded that, like most of the world’s brilliant ideas, someone else had thought of this first.

The blog White on Rice recently featured a salad of radish, carrot, and/or beet tops with vermouth vinaigrette.

Edible Vancouver has recipes for carrot green and parsley pesto and queso fundido, a spicy melted cheese dip that incorporates carrot greens.

A site called the “Carrot Museum” offers several more recipes, calling carrot tops “edible and highly nutritive, rich in proteins, minerals and vitamins.”

Historically, the first reference I found to edible carrot greens—excluding recommendations to use them as garnish, rabbit or chicken feed—was a 1917 Washington Post article. In a one-paragraph entry titled “Do Not Waste,” the unnamed author exhorts readers to “Cook carrot tops as greens. Use your own ingenuity to convert every bit of food into a healthful, tasty dish.”

In 1924, they get another mention in the same publication, but this time the motivation is waist management rather than waste management: “Turnip tops, carrot tops, tender leaves of lettuce, radish leaves, the leaves of Swiss chard and even watercress may be prepared in a similar way” to boiled spinach, which “folks like” because “it is good for them, helps to fill ‘em up, and yet is very low in caloric value,” writes the author of an article titled “Control Your Weight Via the Kitchen.”

This 1974 article from Backpacker magazine notes that wild carrots and their greens—the plant more familiarly known as Queen Anne’s Lace—are also edible, although the nicest adjective the author can muster about them is “rough.”

I’m not a scientist, so I don’t know for sure what to make of the claim that carrot tops may contain toxic compounds (although Harold McGee, who writes about the science of food, says he’s not worried). This notion may be rooted in the fact that carrots are in the same family (Apiaceae, also called Umbelliferae) as poison hemlock, but so are innocuous herbs and vegetables like celery, coriander, fennel, dill, parsley, and parsnips. However, I would caution against eating greens from non-organic carrots—since most farmers don’t expect people to eat the tops of carrots, they may apply pesticides there.

I used my bunch of carrots, greens and all (sans stems) to make this hearty Carrot Top and Quinoa Soup, substituting shallots for onion, vegetable for beef bouillon, and adding some chopped rainbow chard. It was delicious, and I’m still feeling fine!

Slice of Cream Pie with Cherry (or ‘Piece of Boston Cream Pie’), 1964; Woodcut, Artist’s Proof; image: 8-3/8 x 8-3/4 in. (21.3 x 22.2 cm); sheet: 13-5/8 x 11 in. (34.6 x 27.9 cm); Norton Simon Museum, Gift of Mr. Paul Beckman, P.1967.08.1; © Wayne Thiebaud/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY

The Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena has a small exhibition of works on paper by an artist I like, Wayne Thiebaud, which I visited during my trip to Southern California. (The show ends today.)

I first encountered Thiebaud’s work as an art student in San Francisco in the late 1980s. He is best known for his oil paintings of cakes, pies and other sweets, which share a sugary pastel palette and luscious brush strokes that resemble frosting. On a purely visual level, they are appealing for the same reasons their subject matter is: they look delicious.

But, as the black-and-white prints in the show reveal, there’s more to Thiebaud’s work than eye candy. Look at the woodcut print to the right, ”Slice of Cream Pie with Cherry (or ‘Piece of Boston Cream Pie’),” from 1964. With a few spare shapes, he conveys an instantly recognizable image. And it still looks delicious, because your mind fills in the information it already knows: the silky texture of the cream, the contrasting flavor of the cherry on top. As the exhibition curators wrote, “We cannot separate it from the general notion of the cream pie; looking at the pie, we know exactly what it would taste like, even though we have not sampled the unique slice that sits before us.”

Similarly to the other Pop artists of his time (such as Andy Warhol with his soup cans), with whom he’s often grouped, Thiebaud was exploring iconic cultural (and particularly American) images, as well as “the tension between uniformity and individuality.” The idea of the production line is echoed in his use of printmaking, in which many copies of the same image can be reproduced. Many of his pieces, both paintings and prints, show rows of pastries—sometimes a variety of cakes, sometimes near-identical slices side by side. As the artist said of his work, in 1968, “Why must pie always be cut so precisely? Why not just scoop out a helping with a spoon? … And you can see a pie in Pasadena, or Madison Avenue, in New York, or Madison, Wisconsin, and it’s the same damn pie.”

Thiebaud was born in 1920 and grew up mostly in Southern California. As a young man he worked in a cafe, whose rows of pie slices in the display case he has cited as an influence on his choice of subject matter. In his early career he worked as a cartoonist and designer, and served as an artist in the United States Army during World War II. Although he had his first solo exhibition in Sacramento in 1951, he gained national critical attention with a 1962 show at the Alan Stone Gallery in New York City. In 2001, the Whitney Museum of American Art held a retrospective of Thiebaud’s work, prompting Michael Kimmelman to write in the New York Times, “If the world were a perfect place, the Wayne Thiebaud retrospective that has just opened at the Whitney Museum would be nailed to the walls for good and we would be free to stop by whenever we needed to remind ourselves what happiness feels like.”

Courtesy Flickr user PumpkinWayne

Unless you leave your house (or turn off all the lights and hide, as at least one person I know does) this Saturday evening, chances are good that you’ll be faced with at least a few sweet-toothed, half-pint monsters on your doorstep.

It’s a funny custom, isn’t it? Dressing cute children up like ghouls and goblins, and sending them door-to-door to beg for fistfuls of usually forbidden treats… whose idea was that?

The custom of trick-or-treating may have Celtic origins, related to the pagan celebration of Samhain, which marked the end of the harvest and the threshold of a new season. According to this paper by anthropologist Bettina Arnold:

The association between Halloween and ghosts and spirits today comes from the Celtic belief that it was at this time of transition between the old year and the new that the barrier between this world and the Otherworld where the dead and supernatural beings lived became permeable….Trick-or-treating is a modern day holdover of the practice of propitiating, or bribing, the spirits and their human counterparts roaming the world of the living on that night. Pumpkins carved as jack-o-lanterns would not have been part of traditional Halloween festivals in Celtic Europe, since pumpkins are New World plants, but large turnips were hollowed out, carved with faces and placed in windows to ward off evil spirits.

Others argue that Halloween is a Christian, not a pagan holiday, pointing to the early Catholic church’s celebrations of All Hallows (Saints) Day, and the night before it, All Hallows E’en (Evening), when Christians were instructed to pray for the souls of the departed. I can see how that would lead to a certain fascination with ghosts, but the candy? Well, back in medieval Europe, kids and beggars would go “souling” on All Hallows Eve…which sounds like a macabre version of door-to-door Christmas caroling: Instead of a merry song, the visitors offered prayers for dead loved ones, in exchange for “soul cakes.” (These, too, may have had pagan roots.)

Some chap named Charles Dickens mentions this tradition in an 1887 issue of his literary journal, “All the Year Round” (actually, I think it must have been Charles Dickens, Jr., who took over the journal after his dad died in 1870):

“…it was a custom to bake on All Hallow E’en, a cake for every soul in the house, which cakes were eaten on All Souls’ Day. The poor people used to go round begging for some cakes or anything to make merry with on this night. Their petition consisted in singing a doggerel sort of rhyme: A soul cake, A soul cake; Have mercy on all Christian souls; For a soul cake; A soul cake. In Cheshire on this night they once had a custom called ‘Hob Nob,’ which consisted of a man carrying a dead horse’s head covered with a sheet to frighten people.”

Eep! That’s quite a trick, alright. In America these days, not too many people take the “trick” part of trick-or-treating seriously anymore; it’s more like: “Hi, gimme candy.” But according to this New York Times article, Halloween night trickery is a problem in the United Kingdom, where “egg-and-flour-throwing, attacks on fences and doors, menacing gatherings of disaffected drunken youths and the theft of garden ornaments” are enough to make some people—gasp!—”hate Halloween.”

A double-double cheesburger, fries, and soda from In-N-Out Burger. Courtesy of Flickr user Klara Kim

I recently finished the book In-N-Out Burger, by business writer Stacy Perman, about the wildly popular West Coast burger chain. Although I’ve never actually had a Double-Double, as their most iconic menu item is known, I’ve always been puzzled by the mystique surrounding what is, essentially, plain old fast food—just burgers, fries and shakes.

But, no, the devoted fans (among which are Michelin-starred chefs, celebrities and my brother) would argue, there’s nothing plain about In-N-Out. They use quality beef, real potatoes and ice cream, and make every burger to order. You can even order off the secret menu (now posted on the Web site, under the heading “Not-So-Secret Menu”), which includes Animal-style (the mustard is cooked into the patty and the onions are grilled), Protein-style (wrapped in lettuce instead of a bun), or, what I always get, Grilled Cheese (OK, so it’s really just a burger with no meat, but it’s actually pretty good).

My interest in the company also has to do with it being one of the client accounts I worked on as a young advertising art director, in the late 1990s and early 2000s. It was a boring account; the company was so set in its way of doing things that there was no room for creativity.

And who could argue with their track record? As Perman recounts, the little burger shack opened by Harry and Esther Snyder in 1948, in the working-class Los Angeles suburb of Baldwin Park, has grown steadily ever since. Investors have salivated over the family-owned business, which has steadfastly refused to franchise or go public, and eager fans cause traffic jams whenever a new location opens (which, in contrast to most fast-food chains, happens somewhat infrequently). Vanity Fair hires one of the company’s catering trucks for its annual post-Oscar bash. Ex-Californians and savvy out-of-towners head to In-N-Out straight from LAX to feed their burger joneses. Famous chefs, including Daniel Boulud, Ruth Reichl and Thomas Keller (who enjoys his cheeseburger with a glass of Zinfandel), have professed their love of In-N-Out in the national press.

Yet the company’s success has been counterintuitive, and opposite from how most successful chains operate. It never expands its menu, never cuts corners to save money, pays its employees better than the going fast-food wage (and treats them better than most), and does quirky things—like print Bible citations on its cups and burger wrappers—that risk offending some customers. If any of these things have hurt business, though, it’s hard to see how.

Perman’s book gives some insight into why the Snyders have done things as they have. She describes the original owners, Harry and Ethel, as hard workers with uncompromising values. They weren’t interested in a quick buck, but merely wanted to grow a solid family business that their sons, Rich and Guy, could carry on. Although, in many ways, things didn’t work out as the couple had hoped—Rich, who took over the business after Harry died in 1976 (and was behind the biblical citations), himself died in a plane accident in 1993, and Guy, who succeeded his brother, succumbed in 1999 to a drug addiction he had developed after a car-racing accident—their vision for the business itself persisted. Part of this, Perman writes, had to do with Ethel’s continued presence, if not active involvement, in the company. But Ethel died in 2006, leaving her 24-year-old granddaughter, Lynsi Martinez, as sole adult heir to the family business.

So far, nothing noticeable has changed at the chain. And, if fans like L.A. Times columnist Michael Hiltzik have their way, nothing ever will.

Cider donuts at Shelburne Orchards, VT, courtesy Flickr user Organic Nation

Nope. I meant donuts made with apple cider, and my condolences if you’ve never met one!

I don’t eat donuts in general, but I make an exception for these babies whenever I visit an orchard that makes them. Basically, they’re buttermilk donuts with apple cider added to the batter—lending more moisture, and a subtle sweetness—and often spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. I like them best fresh from the fryer; they don’t taste as good even a few hours later, which puts a fortunate curb on my impulse to take home a few dozen. (Although I suspect that dunking a less-than-fresh cider donut in hot mulled cider would still taste pretty darn good.)

If you’re not near an orchard, and dare to delve into a vat of Crisco for deep-frying at home, Smitten Kitchen has a gorgeous recipe for apple cider donuts. This recipe from A Bowl of Mush is similar.

I don’t know exactly when cider donuts were invented, but they seem to have made their commercial debut in the United States in the 1950s. Using ProQuest, I found the following in a New York Times article from August 19, 1951:

A new type of product, the Sweet Cider Doughnut will be introduced by the Doughnut Corporation of America in its twenty-third annual campaign this fall to increase doughnut sales. The new item is a spicy round cake that is expected to have a natural fall appeal.

According to the 2008 book “Glazed America: A History of the Doughnut,” by Paul R. Mullins, the Doughnut Corporation of America (DCA) was founded in the 1920s by a Russian immigrant named Adolph Levitt who was quite the entrepreneur. He launched a chain of doughnut shops, developed a doughnut-making machine and a standardized a mix of ingredients to sell to other bakeries, and came up with National Donut Month and a host of other marketing gimmicks.

By the way, Levitt’s DCA no longer exists (it was bought out by Lyons in the 1970s), but its name does: In what Saveur magazine calls “a stroke of pure genius,” the brothers behind a small Seattle business called Top Pot Doughnuts bought the DCA trademark. Make that a “formerly small” business; Top Pot now sells its donuts in many Starbucks nationwide. Sadly—or perhaps happily for my arteries—their product line doesn’t include cider donuts.

Between this and the 500-pound kibbeh (a snack made of minced meat and bulgur wheat) which earned Lebanon a world record earlier this year, you could be forgiven for calling the country obsessed with setting records. But this is no mere hobby; it’s a culinary campaign—specifically against Israel, the previous hummus record holder—to establish national ownership of these foods and the economic potential they represent. The name of the recent event says it all: The “Hummus and Tabbouleh are 100 percent Lebanese” festival. Neal Ungerleider has a good post on this topic at True/Slant.

Last year, the head of the Lebanese Industrialists Association told the media that his group planned to sue Israel for “stealing” hummus and other dishes (though as far as I can tell, no lawsuit has materialized), citing the precedent of feta cheese, a food name that the European Union has ruled belongs exclusively to Greece. And then, of course, there’s France’s champagne and Rocquefort cheese, Italy’s Parma ham and Parmesan cheese, and hundreds of other food products with “protected designations of origin” under European Union rules. (India’s Darjeeling tea could be next.)

What do you think, should a country or region be allowed to lay exclusive claim to particular foods or food products?

Aviation cocktail, courtesy Flickr user jen_maiser

On my latest trip, last week, I went in search of a liqueur called Crème de Violette that was recently reintroduced in the United States after decades off the market. I had read about it on the blog Rowley’s Whiskey Forge, where Matthew Rowley reported that floral, especially violet, scented cocktails were all the rage at the latest Tales of the Cocktail convention in New Orleans. Austrian distiller Rothman & Winter makes a Crème de Violette from Alpine violets that is imported by Haus Alpenz. Now, Robert Cooper of  Philadelphia-based Charles Jacquin et Cie has resurrected his family’s recipe for Crème Yvette, another violet-scented liqueur that was discontinued in 1969. The company already had a hit with its elderflower-flavored liqueur, St. Germain, introduced in 2007.

The idea of violet liqueur intrigued me. I occasionally like to buy those old-fashioned violet pastilles in a tin, and, despite my earlier rice pudding disaster, I find rose water similarly appealing. Some flavors can transport you to another place; the light perfume of violets somehow evokes another era of dainty gloves and nosegays. The fact that the Rothman & Winters Crème de Violette comes in a sleek art deco bottle made it all the more attractive to me. I am a sucker for good package design—even if you don’t end up liking the contents, the bottle will look good on your bar.

But I wondered: Why the sudden revival of floral flavors now? Robert Hess, co-founder of the Museum of the American Cocktail, told me he thought the resurgence was ”tied up with the overall renewed interest in the old pre-Prohibition classics.”

Even the venerable, though soon-to-be-defunct, Gourmet magazine had an article about violet liqueurs in its October issue. Pulitzer-winning food writer Jonathan Gold (whose column in L.A. Weekly I always read when I lived in California) wrote, “Violet-scented cocktails, once fairly common, almost disappeared 50 years ago, dismissed as auntly and old-fashioned, unable to compete with the more immediate pleasures of Mai Tais or Rusty Nails.”

He wrote about a drink made with Crème Yvette, called an Eagle’s Dream, that he was served at a speakeasy-type establishment behind the legendary Cole’s sandwich shop in downtown L.A. (Cole’s purports to be the inventor of the french dip sandwich, a claim disputed by rival Philippe’s “The Original” a few miles away). So, when it turned out that my fiancé and I would be meeting up with a friend who lives a block away from Cole’s, I seized my opportunity to try a violet cocktail.

The speakeasy wasn’t open yet, but the regular Cole’s bar—which, according to a sign outside the building, is the oldest “public house” in the city, established in 1908—had Crème de Violette in stock. The dapper bartender mixed me up a classic cocktail, the Aviation. It was made with—in addition to the violet liqueur—gin, lemon juice, Luxardo maraschino liqueur and simple syrup (a deviation from the original recipe), and finished with a gorgeous, deep-red, imported maraschino cherry (which bears no resemblance to the candied pink version you usually find in domestic bars). The cocktail was a beautiful cloudy violet color, and tasted even better than I had imagined—slightly sweet and somewhat sour, with the faintest hint of violet perfume. My fiancé said it tasted like a purple Sweet Tart, which he meant as a compliment.

Now that I’m home, I’m kind of wishing I had picked up a bottle to grace the wet bar in my house. There are some other classic violet cocktails, such as the Blue Moon, I’d like to try.  I guess I’ll have to wait until my next L.A. trip.