Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Friday, March 7, 2008
Bento Love: Snacks!
I love putting snacks in my bento box. I think that's the best part. I especially like Japanese snacks because the wrapping is so colorful and the flavors so interesting. My fave is this package of little cakes meant to be eaten with tea. Each one is individually wrapped, and there are different flavors such as red bean, white bean, green tea and milk. I feel guilty about all of the packaging, but they taste so good. One of the joys of living in a culturally-diverse area with lots of Japanese businesses is that one can buy things like this without having to go to Japan.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Brunch at City Bakery
A few weeks ago I went to City Bakery. If it weren't for my having to go for my exam today, this is what I'd be eating right now.
City Bakery is overpriced, but the caramelized French toast made with a big ol' hunk of challah bread is irresistable, and the the eggs are served up too quickly to get waterlogged. Yum. Perfect winter time food.
City Bakery is overpriced, but the caramelized French toast made with a big ol' hunk of challah bread is irresistable, and the the eggs are served up too quickly to get waterlogged. Yum. Perfect winter time food.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Bento box lunch set- finished!
I don't even want to tell you how long it took to finish this project. It started as a simple bento box cover for my night job, when I was temping from place to place. Then I decided I needed a carrier for my water bottle.
I am usually not very girly with flowers and all, but I love Victoriana. At the time I started this project I was making flowers a lot and selling them to a local hatmaker to pay the bills. I was constantly doing piece work in between working two regular jobs, and I did it two holiday seasons in a row. However, doing this massively improved my crochet skill. Since I was sick of the flowers I was making, I went online and found some other patterns for myself- I'll try to find the link to give credit. And somehow, those flowers and leaves (a combination of large and small roses, violets, and matching leaves) ended up on my project.
As I worked on this, I was reminded of how many people see black hair as somehow inferior because it doesn't hang loose on it's own- it's wooly and relatively stiff. Yet African hair has a sculptural quality that lends itself to braiding, fading and geometric cutting. I realized that crochet is the same way. It's in many ways stiffer than knitting. It can drape, but not with the same ease. A lot of people see this as a flaw. But in truth, crochet has a sculptural quality that lends itself really well to the floral motifs on this lunch set. The design is both sturdy and delicate, rugged and feminine. Essentially, this set is my masterwork. It brings together my vision of myself as a worker, a steampunk, a neo-Victorian, a crocheter, a woman, a feminist, and a person of African descent. If for some reason I could never crochet again, I could still be happy- because I came up with these designs on my own and put them together in a new way.
I am usually not very girly with flowers and all, but I love Victoriana. At the time I started this project I was making flowers a lot and selling them to a local hatmaker to pay the bills. I was constantly doing piece work in between working two regular jobs, and I did it two holiday seasons in a row. However, doing this massively improved my crochet skill. Since I was sick of the flowers I was making, I went online and found some other patterns for myself- I'll try to find the link to give credit. And somehow, those flowers and leaves (a combination of large and small roses, violets, and matching leaves) ended up on my project.
As I worked on this, I was reminded of how many people see black hair as somehow inferior because it doesn't hang loose on it's own- it's wooly and relatively stiff. Yet African hair has a sculptural quality that lends itself to braiding, fading and geometric cutting. I realized that crochet is the same way. It's in many ways stiffer than knitting. It can drape, but not with the same ease. A lot of people see this as a flaw. But in truth, crochet has a sculptural quality that lends itself really well to the floral motifs on this lunch set. The design is both sturdy and delicate, rugged and feminine. Essentially, this set is my masterwork. It brings together my vision of myself as a worker, a steampunk, a neo-Victorian, a crocheter, a woman, a feminist, and a person of African descent. If for some reason I could never crochet again, I could still be happy- because I came up with these designs on my own and put them together in a new way.
Egg Cozies!
My sweetie is a Shriner. I happen to love France. therefore, when I found an egg cozy pattern from the 1950s that included a rooster with a fez and a hen with a French sailor hat, I couldn't resist. I used scrap embroidery floss for the bills and the sailor hat- the pompom on the hat is made of dental floss. You can't see the tassel hanging off the fez, unfortunately. And yes- my boyfriend has a big head, and he's barrel-chested. That wasn't a mistake.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Greenmarket Mon Amour, or why poor people eat so badly in most cities and towns
I went shopping this morning. I bought an uncut loaf of bread. I picked up some free cheese. I bought curry lamb sausage with pomegranates and currants. I bought a bottle of milk, and had a snack- some hot apple cider and a donut. I splurged and bought flowers- tulips and hyacinths. And not once while I did my shopping was I indoors.
I was at my local Greenmarket during the dead season. Right now nothing is growing, so all the veggies are from late last year's harvest except for the greenhouse tomatoes from one farmer. The meat, except for the poultry, was slaughtered late last year also, for the most part. The milk was fresh- it came out of a cow the other day. The cheese came from a sheep, and the reason it was free is because one of my favorite sheep farmers forgot to bring me the fleece she was going to sell me, and gave me cheese as a present. The loaf of bread was baked early this morning, and is never sliced- I laugh whenever I'm online to buy bread and overhear someone asking for sliced bread.
I love my Greenmarket, even in the dead season. But there's one thing that makes me angry. Even though I know that many of my farmers take EBT (the New York State equivalent of food stamps), I don't see a lot of poor people taking advantage, because they don't know that there's a market where even in the dead of winter they an get fruits and vegetables for their families. Yet in my city right now there are whole neighborhoods where the local stores don't sell fruits and vegetables at all and the supermarkets sell their 'fresh' food in a state I wouldn't give away to a starving person in Darfur. Yet this isn't true just in New York City; my mother had never really heard anything about the farmer's markets in Baltimore and other parts of the state, and when I visited New Orleans, most of the people shopping at the market there were tourists and wealthier cognoscenti.
Why is this happening? Part of it is advertising. Greenmarkets and farmer's markets, which can be found in various forms all over the country, usually aren't found where they are needed most- in poor areas. The local papers that cater to ordinary people don't mention them, and certainly don't mention the kind of bounty that can be had, even in winter. But I think it goes deeper than that. A few years ago, as an experiment, I brought in fresh bread and jam from my market to my students, and ran a taste test. They were skeptical, but after tasting, they were shocked. Pretty much every single one of them said that in tasting the bread, they realized they had never in 18+ years taste real unchemicalized bread before. They had never tasted real jam. Not only that, but they liked the taste of the the food I brought in, as it was better than anything of that kind they'd had before. My sweetie had a similar epiphany when he had some of my local milk. He said he hadn't tasted milk like that since childhood. He also bought a bottle to take home with him, and refused to share it with his brother. His favorite part was shaking the bottle to mix the cream back in with the milk. Now he frequently mentions how he lusts after that milk (and the sausages, apples, and other market items I buy) and is unsatisfied with the milk from his supermarket.
What would happen if every American got to taste what food is really supposed to be like? What if they learned that real bread goes stale, and that when it does one can make fabulous French toast with it? What if people learned that real milk tastes so rich that a small glass is satisfying, and one can enjoy it without pushing up one's cholesterol? What would happen to all of the fast food restaurants and crap food in supermarkets?
As yarn lovers, this concerns us, too. What would happen, for instance, if people had access to yarn that still felt like it came from an actual animal, and was dyed in natural colors? What would happen if people realized most clothing and accessories feel awful because they are made from inferior textiles, and that really good textiles can actually be made while sitting on the subway or talking on the phone? That beautiful, well-made objects that fit do not have to just be within the price range of the rich; that if people began to work together to spin, knit, crochet, tat, sew and quilt items in small co-ops, more of us would be warm, well-dressed, and not suffer from allergic reactions brought on by the very clothing (and the chemicals therein) that we wear? That we could be at least partially free from the slavery we are now forced into to major corporations who don't care if clothing is badly made, poorly constructed, and falls apart in weeks?
The next part of the burgeoning DIY revolution is not in making cute toys or adorable scarves- it's going to be producing viable, beautiful and carefully-made items, not just for the young and thin and trendy, but for all those who will want to work together with farmers to take raw materials, turn them into fabric, and clothe people at a reasonable rate of money or trade. The same also goes for decent food. If we want a happy and healthy society, we'll have to move beyond creating joy for ourselves, and making sure that others can partake, too. It's a matter of figuring out how best to do it; currently, New York City is opening a Greenmarket in Harlem, and has a well-established one in the the South Bronx.
I was at my local Greenmarket during the dead season. Right now nothing is growing, so all the veggies are from late last year's harvest except for the greenhouse tomatoes from one farmer. The meat, except for the poultry, was slaughtered late last year also, for the most part. The milk was fresh- it came out of a cow the other day. The cheese came from a sheep, and the reason it was free is because one of my favorite sheep farmers forgot to bring me the fleece she was going to sell me, and gave me cheese as a present. The loaf of bread was baked early this morning, and is never sliced- I laugh whenever I'm online to buy bread and overhear someone asking for sliced bread.
I love my Greenmarket, even in the dead season. But there's one thing that makes me angry. Even though I know that many of my farmers take EBT (the New York State equivalent of food stamps), I don't see a lot of poor people taking advantage, because they don't know that there's a market where even in the dead of winter they an get fruits and vegetables for their families. Yet in my city right now there are whole neighborhoods where the local stores don't sell fruits and vegetables at all and the supermarkets sell their 'fresh' food in a state I wouldn't give away to a starving person in Darfur. Yet this isn't true just in New York City; my mother had never really heard anything about the farmer's markets in Baltimore and other parts of the state, and when I visited New Orleans, most of the people shopping at the market there were tourists and wealthier cognoscenti.
Why is this happening? Part of it is advertising. Greenmarkets and farmer's markets, which can be found in various forms all over the country, usually aren't found where they are needed most- in poor areas. The local papers that cater to ordinary people don't mention them, and certainly don't mention the kind of bounty that can be had, even in winter. But I think it goes deeper than that. A few years ago, as an experiment, I brought in fresh bread and jam from my market to my students, and ran a taste test. They were skeptical, but after tasting, they were shocked. Pretty much every single one of them said that in tasting the bread, they realized they had never in 18+ years taste real unchemicalized bread before. They had never tasted real jam. Not only that, but they liked the taste of the the food I brought in, as it was better than anything of that kind they'd had before. My sweetie had a similar epiphany when he had some of my local milk. He said he hadn't tasted milk like that since childhood. He also bought a bottle to take home with him, and refused to share it with his brother. His favorite part was shaking the bottle to mix the cream back in with the milk. Now he frequently mentions how he lusts after that milk (and the sausages, apples, and other market items I buy) and is unsatisfied with the milk from his supermarket.
What would happen if every American got to taste what food is really supposed to be like? What if they learned that real bread goes stale, and that when it does one can make fabulous French toast with it? What if people learned that real milk tastes so rich that a small glass is satisfying, and one can enjoy it without pushing up one's cholesterol? What would happen to all of the fast food restaurants and crap food in supermarkets?
As yarn lovers, this concerns us, too. What would happen, for instance, if people had access to yarn that still felt like it came from an actual animal, and was dyed in natural colors? What would happen if people realized most clothing and accessories feel awful because they are made from inferior textiles, and that really good textiles can actually be made while sitting on the subway or talking on the phone? That beautiful, well-made objects that fit do not have to just be within the price range of the rich; that if people began to work together to spin, knit, crochet, tat, sew and quilt items in small co-ops, more of us would be warm, well-dressed, and not suffer from allergic reactions brought on by the very clothing (and the chemicals therein) that we wear? That we could be at least partially free from the slavery we are now forced into to major corporations who don't care if clothing is badly made, poorly constructed, and falls apart in weeks?
The next part of the burgeoning DIY revolution is not in making cute toys or adorable scarves- it's going to be producing viable, beautiful and carefully-made items, not just for the young and thin and trendy, but for all those who will want to work together with farmers to take raw materials, turn them into fabric, and clothe people at a reasonable rate of money or trade. The same also goes for decent food. If we want a happy and healthy society, we'll have to move beyond creating joy for ourselves, and making sure that others can partake, too. It's a matter of figuring out how best to do it; currently, New York City is opening a Greenmarket in Harlem, and has a well-established one in the the South Bronx.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Crochet Love: Catskill Merino
Sometimes you really need yarn. No, I mean it. Like today- I have to make a square for a project on Ravelry, and I needed blue yarn. Now, I thought of going to my local yarn shop, but quite frankly, I find them a bit annoying. It was rainy, so I didn't want to run all over town. Thank goodness it was Saturday, because I was able to combine my food and yarn shopping at the Saturday Greenmarket.
My local Greenmarket has wonderful raw and cooked ingredients. I bought bacon today from the incomparable Violet Hill Farm- I think they have some of the best bacon in North America. I also bought some apples from Terhune Orchards, and some potatoes from yet another stand. Tonight's dinner is bacon cooked with potatoes, onions, and apples. In winter I like making as many one-dish meals as possible. It seems more homey that way, and I can do it fairly on the cheap.
Still, I needed yarn, and for this project it had to be blue. Therefore, there was only one business with whom I could shop: Catskill Merino, a farm located in Swan Lake, New York which is owned by the Wyatt family.
Catskill Merino makes yarn the old-fashioned way- they grow it on their sheep. Then they send it out to be spun, and do the dying themselves. Their yarn isn't cheap- it's $13-$16 a 125 yard skein. However, is soft, pliable, and dyed with natural dyes such as fustic, cochineal, madder, and indigo and set so they won't run. If you are looking for yarn to go into your historical project and you actually want to feel the yarn you buy, this is the way to go, since these are the very types of dyes that were used from ancient times through the early nineteenth century. The yarn takes J, K, and L size hooks, as it's thick like some of the well-known Noro yarns (needle sizes are 10, 11, or 12).
How do I know which hook sizes? Because the information sheet given to you when you buy a skein says so. Which means Catskill Merino is crochet-friendly and therefore (say it with me) deserves your business.
My local Greenmarket has wonderful raw and cooked ingredients. I bought bacon today from the incomparable Violet Hill Farm- I think they have some of the best bacon in North America. I also bought some apples from Terhune Orchards, and some potatoes from yet another stand. Tonight's dinner is bacon cooked with potatoes, onions, and apples. In winter I like making as many one-dish meals as possible. It seems more homey that way, and I can do it fairly on the cheap.
Still, I needed yarn, and for this project it had to be blue. Therefore, there was only one business with whom I could shop: Catskill Merino, a farm located in Swan Lake, New York which is owned by the Wyatt family.
Catskill Merino makes yarn the old-fashioned way- they grow it on their sheep. Then they send it out to be spun, and do the dying themselves. Their yarn isn't cheap- it's $13-$16 a 125 yard skein. However, is soft, pliable, and dyed with natural dyes such as fustic, cochineal, madder, and indigo and set so they won't run. If you are looking for yarn to go into your historical project and you actually want to feel the yarn you buy, this is the way to go, since these are the very types of dyes that were used from ancient times through the early nineteenth century. The yarn takes J, K, and L size hooks, as it's thick like some of the well-known Noro yarns (needle sizes are 10, 11, or 12).
How do I know which hook sizes? Because the information sheet given to you when you buy a skein says so. Which means Catskill Merino is crochet-friendly and therefore (say it with me) deserves your business.
Friday, February 8, 2008
I Saw Bobby Flay, and I Didn't Kick Him in the Shins.
I've had rough week. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it wasn't a picnic. One of the operators at the Firm had his hours cut, and another one is in an understandable depression because his 16 year-old cat died last week. There were some bright spots, though. For instance, at School I explained the concept of culture this week, and used it as an excuse to throw Mardi Gras beads at my students on Tuesday, and to demonstrate my spindle on Thursday. Plus, I received a ridiculously large bag of goodies from an acquaintance that included lots of wool to spin. I'm going to be an expert in no time.
Last year around this time, if I'd had a rough week I would just have come home and slept, and then tried to eat everything in the kitchen. However, I made a resolution to take care of my stress in more healthful ways. In my case, that meant going to the spa again. I'm loving that place- I want to marry it. I want to move in, be a spa slave, and bear its children. Fridays are perfect for going there, because the place doesn't get busy until around 4pm. When I got there this morning at 10am (after working all night on some complex jobs and then checking my bank account and receiving the cheering news that the School hadn't sent out my paycheck due to some missing paperwork that I didn't need to fill out), I was stressed and a little... testy. Ok, a lot testy. I'd even go so far as miffed. So I did what anyone in my position would do- I changed into my spa uniform of shorts and tee-shirt, went to the third floor, rented a bathing suit and a robe, changed again and got in an outdoor pool of water that was delightfully warm and bubbly. After ten minutes I actually began to giggle.
More spa-age occurred, and a small nap was taken. I no longer wanted to punch the entire Human Resources staff at School in the head. I came home by subway, and just as I came above ground- there he was. One of the most annoying people on the Food Network, Bobby Flay himself.
My subway stop happens to be right at the location of the Union Square Greenmarket, which was open today. And there was old Bobby with fawning camera crew, preparing for another episode of his obnoxious show, 'Bobby Flay's Smackdown'.
This is how you know you are a New Yorker- any other person would have asked for his autograph, or stared for more than the minute I spent ogling until I could figure out what was going on. A tiny unrelaxed part of me wanted to challenge him to making sweet potato pudding without his having an entire truck full of supplies or a month of preparation, but the Spa Gods soothed my brow and got me to hold my tongue. It's amazing what a little warm water can do.
Last year around this time, if I'd had a rough week I would just have come home and slept, and then tried to eat everything in the kitchen. However, I made a resolution to take care of my stress in more healthful ways. In my case, that meant going to the spa again. I'm loving that place- I want to marry it. I want to move in, be a spa slave, and bear its children. Fridays are perfect for going there, because the place doesn't get busy until around 4pm. When I got there this morning at 10am (after working all night on some complex jobs and then checking my bank account and receiving the cheering news that the School hadn't sent out my paycheck due to some missing paperwork that I didn't need to fill out), I was stressed and a little... testy. Ok, a lot testy. I'd even go so far as miffed. So I did what anyone in my position would do- I changed into my spa uniform of shorts and tee-shirt, went to the third floor, rented a bathing suit and a robe, changed again and got in an outdoor pool of water that was delightfully warm and bubbly. After ten minutes I actually began to giggle.
More spa-age occurred, and a small nap was taken. I no longer wanted to punch the entire Human Resources staff at School in the head. I came home by subway, and just as I came above ground- there he was. One of the most annoying people on the Food Network, Bobby Flay himself.
My subway stop happens to be right at the location of the Union Square Greenmarket, which was open today. And there was old Bobby with fawning camera crew, preparing for another episode of his obnoxious show, 'Bobby Flay's Smackdown'.
This is how you know you are a New Yorker- any other person would have asked for his autograph, or stared for more than the minute I spent ogling until I could figure out what was going on. A tiny unrelaxed part of me wanted to challenge him to making sweet potato pudding without his having an entire truck full of supplies or a month of preparation, but the Spa Gods soothed my brow and got me to hold my tongue. It's amazing what a little warm water can do.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Crochet Love: Habu and School Products
If you don't live in New York City, you really need to come for a visit. Seriously. I'm not talking about a visit so that you can go to Times Square, get in the way of workers like myself, and eat bad,overpriced renditions of bar food. No- you need to come here so you can shop for yarn like a complete and utter fool.
Why do I tell you this? It's simple. If you have sent even 5 minutes watching Martha Stewart and then look up the stores where her minions get her goods, most of them are in New York. The city is still a garment center, and it caters to many of the top designers. What does that mean for you, my little ducklings? It means you get to clean up at a discount.
Let's take Habu. It's in an unassuming building in the wholesale district. By suburban yarn shop standards, the neighborhood looks scary. But it isn't. Really. Trust me on this one. You can get off the bus at Port Authority and walk a few blocks to Habu, witch is off the ground floor, and since you are off the street you are in civilization again. You go down the hall, ring the bell, and some nice Japanese women will help you with stuff you've never seen before. The place is crazy- the place looks like an incredibly cool teahouse filled with textiles and yarn. The place offers weaving lessons, too, as that's their main market. They see to a lot of knitters, but on the day that I went, when I told them I was a crocheter, they were thrilled. They want to see more of us.
Anything you might ever want to crochet, they probably have it. Steel wire, linen tape, bamboo- it's there. I was in the mood for spring colors when I went, so I bought lots of lavender stuff. I could just as easily gone dark- Habu stocks lots of browns and blacks. They have yarn that looks like seaweed, and ribbon, and everything. This is beyond novelty yarn- this is art. Plus, they have constant sales, where you can buy little bags of yarn balls for $15-$20, so you can try out what the have and use the rest for edging, or plying with your own yarn.
I have to warn you- this place is not cheap. I dropped $60 or so in there without blinking an eye- but I intend to go back, especially now that I spin. But when you get back to your local crochet or spinning guild, you will be cackling your ass off and everyone will hate you. So there.
Of course, if you really want them to hate you, you need to walk a couple of blocks over from Habu and go to School Products. Ignore the name, sweetie- this place is not for kids. Why is it calls 'School Products'? I don't know- because 'Spend Your Last Dime Products' doesn't sound as good. Cashmere in cones? Check. Some yarn that Donna Karan ended up not using? Sure. Some no muss-no fuss Lamb's Pride? Uh-huh. Plus hooks and needles and ball winders. You are not going to get designer-quality cashmere thread in quantity any cheaper in New York. Even the Italian acrylic looks tasty. If you have any money left from shopping at Habu, you can come in here and give School Products some. Just remember that since they buy a lot of their yarn from designers and facotries, the stock changes seasonally, and sometimes they won't have what you like. Forget coming here with a set laundry list. Just go with the flow. If you have any money left after all this shopping, you can head downtown on the N/R and eat dim sum in Chinatown- I recommend Mandarin Court. Have some baked roast pork buns and picture yourself lording it over your friends when you get back home rubbing your hands together as you point out the yarn used in the Chanel jackets this year.
Why do I tell you this? It's simple. If you have sent even 5 minutes watching Martha Stewart and then look up the stores where her minions get her goods, most of them are in New York. The city is still a garment center, and it caters to many of the top designers. What does that mean for you, my little ducklings? It means you get to clean up at a discount.
Let's take Habu. It's in an unassuming building in the wholesale district. By suburban yarn shop standards, the neighborhood looks scary. But it isn't. Really. Trust me on this one. You can get off the bus at Port Authority and walk a few blocks to Habu, witch is off the ground floor, and since you are off the street you are in civilization again. You go down the hall, ring the bell, and some nice Japanese women will help you with stuff you've never seen before. The place is crazy- the place looks like an incredibly cool teahouse filled with textiles and yarn. The place offers weaving lessons, too, as that's their main market. They see to a lot of knitters, but on the day that I went, when I told them I was a crocheter, they were thrilled. They want to see more of us.
Anything you might ever want to crochet, they probably have it. Steel wire, linen tape, bamboo- it's there. I was in the mood for spring colors when I went, so I bought lots of lavender stuff. I could just as easily gone dark- Habu stocks lots of browns and blacks. They have yarn that looks like seaweed, and ribbon, and everything. This is beyond novelty yarn- this is art. Plus, they have constant sales, where you can buy little bags of yarn balls for $15-$20, so you can try out what the have and use the rest for edging, or plying with your own yarn.
I have to warn you- this place is not cheap. I dropped $60 or so in there without blinking an eye- but I intend to go back, especially now that I spin. But when you get back to your local crochet or spinning guild, you will be cackling your ass off and everyone will hate you. So there.
Of course, if you really want them to hate you, you need to walk a couple of blocks over from Habu and go to School Products. Ignore the name, sweetie- this place is not for kids. Why is it calls 'School Products'? I don't know- because 'Spend Your Last Dime Products' doesn't sound as good. Cashmere in cones? Check. Some yarn that Donna Karan ended up not using? Sure. Some no muss-no fuss Lamb's Pride? Uh-huh. Plus hooks and needles and ball winders. You are not going to get designer-quality cashmere thread in quantity any cheaper in New York. Even the Italian acrylic looks tasty. If you have any money left from shopping at Habu, you can come in here and give School Products some. Just remember that since they buy a lot of their yarn from designers and facotries, the stock changes seasonally, and sometimes they won't have what you like. Forget coming here with a set laundry list. Just go with the flow. If you have any money left after all this shopping, you can head downtown on the N/R and eat dim sum in Chinatown- I recommend Mandarin Court. Have some baked roast pork buns and picture yourself lording it over your friends when you get back home rubbing your hands together as you point out the yarn used in the Chanel jackets this year.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
It's Green Acres at My House
The wonderful thing about this century is that if you live in the Western world, you can pretty much create your own reality and find other people who are willing to share it with you (or enable your insanity, depending on how you look at it). For instance, by boyfriend seems to be oblivious to the fact that he's in love with a rural housewife from 1870. He doesn't seem to find it odd that I took up canning two summers ago, and now turn out preserves that could win a prize at a county fair. My crocheting mufflers and starting on socks doesn't faze him. I told him that I started spinning- he thinks it's cute. I'm the only woman he knows outside of a religious congregation who wears skirts down to her ankles, often with granny boots. He admires the cross-stitch sampler I made for my grandmother, which now hangs on the bathroom door, and he believes my interests in corsetry, steampunk, and recreating 19th century textiles to be benign.
Maybe it's because he used to be an historical reenactor. Maybe it's because he plays bagpipes. Or maybe he so busy enjoying the woolens and food that come out of my apartment that he hasn't noticed my desire to miniaturize sheep and goats so that I can milk them and keep them for their hair while sequestering them in a desktop pen. Considering that I've never lived on a farm, have no desire to move out of the city, and dress pretty much like a Corp Goth, there is something distinctly weird about this- both his lack of concern and my growing obsession with all things pre-20th century. I suppose he'll stop me if I join a quilting bee and try to move a cow into the apartment so we can have raw milk, but maybe not. I wonder- are there others who are suffering through an extended phase of Greenacres-itis?
Maybe it's because he used to be an historical reenactor. Maybe it's because he plays bagpipes. Or maybe he so busy enjoying the woolens and food that come out of my apartment that he hasn't noticed my desire to miniaturize sheep and goats so that I can milk them and keep them for their hair while sequestering them in a desktop pen. Considering that I've never lived on a farm, have no desire to move out of the city, and dress pretty much like a Corp Goth, there is something distinctly weird about this- both his lack of concern and my growing obsession with all things pre-20th century. I suppose he'll stop me if I join a quilting bee and try to move a cow into the apartment so we can have raw milk, but maybe not. I wonder- are there others who are suffering through an extended phase of Greenacres-itis?
Porky Goodness, or the Pleasures of Dining Alone
I work from 12 midnight until 8am five days a week. I'm lucky- I live in Manhattan and a car from the Firm comes to pick me up each night and whoosh me off to work. Lunch time is at about 3am, when I open my beloved Nissan wide-mouth or one of my bento boxes and set up lunch. But by 8am, I'm kind of hungry, and it's dinnertime at Casa Carpenoctem.
Working at night has made food more important to me than at any other time in my life, save one (we'll get to that at a later date). It's what makes my nights bearable, and I often plan my meals on a weekly basis, while conforming my desires to the vagaries of the local Greenmarket.
There are times though when my 'breakfast' becomes even more important to me than my lunches. Usually when I come home from work I down some cereal and a glass of juice- caffeine ins a no-no, since I'm in bed by 2pm if possible. But this morning (last night to you) I kept thinking of a sausages that were in my fridge.
Understand this- I am not the world's biggest fan of red meat. I only eat hamburgers if they come from really good joints, and only when there's nothing else to eat on the menu or I'm suffering from a heme-induced craving. I actually have to feel anemic before beef looks good, and the only reason I don't use iron supplements is that I've found they don't make me feel healthy the way red meat does.
Lamb I like. I especially like lamb stew- once a year. I could care less if PETA hates me; I like veal, but I haven't had any in years. But pork and I have a love/hate thing that goes back to childhood. I may be one of the few people in the US who genuinely hates pork roast without having vegetarianism or religion as a reason. The thought of chitlins and hogmaws is enough to make me turn green. I turn up my nose at pork chops, stuffed or otherwise. I have scrapple in my freezer, mostly out of nostalgia. For the most part, I would rather eat ground glass than sausages. The only parts of the pig that I like are bacon (cut thick, smoked, and cooked until still somewhat limp), ham (only if my mother or I make it), and whatever on earth cuts are used in pulled pork sandwiches, roast pork buns and pork fried rice, at which point I become a fiend, but only temporarily.
Part of my dislike comes from having grown up in a mostly Orthodox Jewish neighborhood- I just don't dig the pig. And part of it comes from a horrifying childhood incident in which I found out that people cook pig feet not for the meat, but to eat all of the the fat, too. While I don't mind a ham hock in my greens, I only use it for seasoning. I just don't see it as food.
But last weekend my boyfriend was going to come into town. The BF is pure Celt. He is mostly Scots, with a lot of Irish mixed in, and he spent a few years in England as a kid. This is a man who loves his pig with a passion, and in his honor I went to Myers of Keswick and bought pork sausages.
Now Myers is a British-style grocery in the West Village, which is like saying roast goose is a nice piece of poultry. The family who own the shop are from the Motherland, and the owner's father was a butcher who came to New York to visit his son and started making sausages out of homesickness. While a lot of British food looks like a dog's dinner to my American eyes, there's one place where the Brits excel and that is with the humble sausage. The shop sells chipolatas (the much more tasty equivalent to the American breakfast sausage), Cumberland sausages (think mild Italian sausage, but more delicate), and pork and leek sausages that might possibly convert a vegetarian into an omnivore. I picked up a few of each and brought them home, only intending to eat one or two and feeding him the rest.
When I got home, the phone rang. The BF, who has been moving things in for a while now, had just gotten some great news- he had a job interview with the US government and another four in PA, and had to prep. He apologized profusely,and I was stuck with sausages that I don't eat.
I thought of freezing them, but sausages like this (some of which had literally been made while I was in the shop) were too fresh to ruin by freezing. I decided to make fried eggs and pork and leek sausages, with toast on the side. That was a mistake- I hoovered them.
This morning I kept thinking about the chipolatas, which are pink and delicate in their natural state. There were four of them- big deal. I cooked them this morning, again with two farm fresh fried eggs and toast. American sausages tend to shrivel when you cook them, but not these honeys. They just browned and got crispy on the outside, and were as fat as a female wrestler's fingers. I made tea and sat down to an almost proper English breakfast (all that was lacking was the broiled tomato)- and gobbled the whole thing down in about 6 minutes.
I tried to be genteel about the whole thing. I really did. I prepped my teapot and even covered it with The World's Ugliest Tea Cozy. I set the table and sat in a chair instead of eating over the sink. I sliced a photogenic slice of lemon and floated it in my Lapsang Souchong, and put music on in the background. But these sausages just kept calling to me- maybe it was because of the butter I had used to grease the pan, or the delicious eggs over easy that were snuggled up against them like sleeping babies in crocheted afghans. It was all I could do to actually use a knife and fork instead of sticking my face in the plate and licking it clean. I sat there, philosophically munching, and tried to tell myself how intelligent the average pig is compared to one of my students, and realized that most of my students would lose the contest. I mused on how slaughterhouses are evil places, even though I know Myers uses pigs that are raised on small farms. I thought about how I was probably going to go to Hell, and how my vegan acquaintances and old Orthodox neighbors would stand on the edge and laugh at me, as my soul fried like a piece of bacon in a pan at high heat.
And then I put another piece of sausage in my mouth and decided that I could hardly wait until Friday morning to fry up the Cumberlands.
Sometimes, happiness is mopping up sausage grease and egg yolk, and being secretly glad that your boyfriend is in another state where he can't see you stuff yourself like a barbarian at a Roman feast.
Working at night has made food more important to me than at any other time in my life, save one (we'll get to that at a later date). It's what makes my nights bearable, and I often plan my meals on a weekly basis, while conforming my desires to the vagaries of the local Greenmarket.
There are times though when my 'breakfast' becomes even more important to me than my lunches. Usually when I come home from work I down some cereal and a glass of juice- caffeine ins a no-no, since I'm in bed by 2pm if possible. But this morning (last night to you) I kept thinking of a sausages that were in my fridge.
Understand this- I am not the world's biggest fan of red meat. I only eat hamburgers if they come from really good joints, and only when there's nothing else to eat on the menu or I'm suffering from a heme-induced craving. I actually have to feel anemic before beef looks good, and the only reason I don't use iron supplements is that I've found they don't make me feel healthy the way red meat does.
Lamb I like. I especially like lamb stew- once a year. I could care less if PETA hates me; I like veal, but I haven't had any in years. But pork and I have a love/hate thing that goes back to childhood. I may be one of the few people in the US who genuinely hates pork roast without having vegetarianism or religion as a reason. The thought of chitlins and hogmaws is enough to make me turn green. I turn up my nose at pork chops, stuffed or otherwise. I have scrapple in my freezer, mostly out of nostalgia. For the most part, I would rather eat ground glass than sausages. The only parts of the pig that I like are bacon (cut thick, smoked, and cooked until still somewhat limp), ham (only if my mother or I make it), and whatever on earth cuts are used in pulled pork sandwiches, roast pork buns and pork fried rice, at which point I become a fiend, but only temporarily.
Part of my dislike comes from having grown up in a mostly Orthodox Jewish neighborhood- I just don't dig the pig. And part of it comes from a horrifying childhood incident in which I found out that people cook pig feet not for the meat, but to eat all of the the fat, too. While I don't mind a ham hock in my greens, I only use it for seasoning. I just don't see it as food.
But last weekend my boyfriend was going to come into town. The BF is pure Celt. He is mostly Scots, with a lot of Irish mixed in, and he spent a few years in England as a kid. This is a man who loves his pig with a passion, and in his honor I went to Myers of Keswick and bought pork sausages.
Now Myers is a British-style grocery in the West Village, which is like saying roast goose is a nice piece of poultry. The family who own the shop are from the Motherland, and the owner's father was a butcher who came to New York to visit his son and started making sausages out of homesickness. While a lot of British food looks like a dog's dinner to my American eyes, there's one place where the Brits excel and that is with the humble sausage. The shop sells chipolatas (the much more tasty equivalent to the American breakfast sausage), Cumberland sausages (think mild Italian sausage, but more delicate), and pork and leek sausages that might possibly convert a vegetarian into an omnivore. I picked up a few of each and brought them home, only intending to eat one or two and feeding him the rest.
When I got home, the phone rang. The BF, who has been moving things in for a while now, had just gotten some great news- he had a job interview with the US government and another four in PA, and had to prep. He apologized profusely,and I was stuck with sausages that I don't eat.
I thought of freezing them, but sausages like this (some of which had literally been made while I was in the shop) were too fresh to ruin by freezing. I decided to make fried eggs and pork and leek sausages, with toast on the side. That was a mistake- I hoovered them.
This morning I kept thinking about the chipolatas, which are pink and delicate in their natural state. There were four of them- big deal. I cooked them this morning, again with two farm fresh fried eggs and toast. American sausages tend to shrivel when you cook them, but not these honeys. They just browned and got crispy on the outside, and were as fat as a female wrestler's fingers. I made tea and sat down to an almost proper English breakfast (all that was lacking was the broiled tomato)- and gobbled the whole thing down in about 6 minutes.
I tried to be genteel about the whole thing. I really did. I prepped my teapot and even covered it with The World's Ugliest Tea Cozy. I set the table and sat in a chair instead of eating over the sink. I sliced a photogenic slice of lemon and floated it in my Lapsang Souchong, and put music on in the background. But these sausages just kept calling to me- maybe it was because of the butter I had used to grease the pan, or the delicious eggs over easy that were snuggled up against them like sleeping babies in crocheted afghans. It was all I could do to actually use a knife and fork instead of sticking my face in the plate and licking it clean. I sat there, philosophically munching, and tried to tell myself how intelligent the average pig is compared to one of my students, and realized that most of my students would lose the contest. I mused on how slaughterhouses are evil places, even though I know Myers uses pigs that are raised on small farms. I thought about how I was probably going to go to Hell, and how my vegan acquaintances and old Orthodox neighbors would stand on the edge and laugh at me, as my soul fried like a piece of bacon in a pan at high heat.
And then I put another piece of sausage in my mouth and decided that I could hardly wait until Friday morning to fry up the Cumberlands.
Sometimes, happiness is mopping up sausage grease and egg yolk, and being secretly glad that your boyfriend is in another state where he can't see you stuff yourself like a barbarian at a Roman feast.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
New York Museum of the Week : LES Tenement Museum
New York City is known for its fine major museums, but many people don't realize how many small ones we have. I'll try to give people a highlight of what this fine city has to offer.
New York is home to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, the only museum in the world that explores what tenement life was like a century ago. Most people in the US had relatives who at some point lived in a tenement, very often under horrendous conditions. The building for this museum was an actual tenement that was sealed and abandoned in the late 1930s and not reopened until a little over 10 years ago. The curators searched for and found city records listing the various tenants during the period that the tenement was in use, and built the museum around the life stories of some of them. what I like is how multicultural this museum is, and how the curators and docents relate the past to what is happening to the poor living in tenements now. If you visit New York and go to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, you might want to complete your heritage trip by going to this museum, and then eating at the wonderful Katz's Delicatessen that is located nearby.
New York is home to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, the only museum in the world that explores what tenement life was like a century ago. Most people in the US had relatives who at some point lived in a tenement, very often under horrendous conditions. The building for this museum was an actual tenement that was sealed and abandoned in the late 1930s and not reopened until a little over 10 years ago. The curators searched for and found city records listing the various tenants during the period that the tenement was in use, and built the museum around the life stories of some of them. what I like is how multicultural this museum is, and how the curators and docents relate the past to what is happening to the poor living in tenements now. If you visit New York and go to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, you might want to complete your heritage trip by going to this museum, and then eating at the wonderful Katz's Delicatessen that is located nearby.
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