Dirty Fingers.....

When was the last time you encountered a finger bowl at a restaurant? You know what I'm talking about, right?

A finger bowl is a tiny little bowl, filled with water, for the purpose of rinsing your fingers between courses, especially if said courses involve eating with your hands.

Many cultures still eat with their hands (I'm thinking of Ethiopian and Moroccan off the top of my head). I have never eaten at a restaurant that delivered finger bowls to the table, although I've read about them.

We dined at an Asian restaurant recently, and the first thing brought to the table, after the menus, was a bamboo cradle holding a steamy, hot towel. I thought for a moment I was in business class on my way to Europe.

Apparently, it isn't uncommon to receive a hot towel before the meal in many Japanese restaurants, but it was the first time I ever encountered it and I think I kind of like it.

Curious Cook...

Memory can just happen -- and then you are at the mercy of how your brain is wired -- or you can work to remember. People ask me how I can pick out certain flavors in dishes. They think I'm a supertaster.

I'm not a supertaster, and in fact, people who are supertasters are at a disadvantage because their taste buds are too sensitive to discern certain flavors. Fault how many taste buds they have on their tongue compared to a normal tongue. (Are you a supertaster?)

The reason I can pick nutmeg out of a white sauce is because I have built a nutmeg flavor profile in my brain. I have tasted nutmeg -- all by itself and in combination with other ingredients -- hundreds of times.

I can tell if something needs salt because I've tasted thousands of dishes with and without salt. It's not rocket science. It's really pretty simple. You put things in your mouth and think about them.

My husband will never build a flavor bank in his brain, not because he can't, he can -- anyone can. He won't because he doesn't like to taste a dish's components individually or in stages as the dish comes together. He only wants to eat the finished product.

I'm the opposite. I want to taste each individual ingredient, and taste them again as each one is added to a dish. That is the definition of a curious cook.

French Butter Pears

There they sit on the window sill, wondering what's to become of them. The middle one is leaning toward the left, as if straining to hear the other one.

They are French Butter pears, and I found them at Whole Foods Market. The sticker says they're from California. Since I'm in Utah at the moment, they didn't have to travel too far, although much further than the peaches I bought yesterday at the farmers market that traveled only 60 miles.

A little research tells me that this pear is also known as Beurre Hardy and is a relative of the Anjou (which isn't my favorite -- that would be Comice). This heritage variety was used almost exclusively for canning up until several years ago, since it doesn't travel well when even the slightest bit ripe. But farmers markets and specialty grocery stores are stocking the French Butter pear when it's grown nearby.

I'm waiting for them to ripen. Pears are one of a handful of fruits that ripen off the tree (bananas, peaches and plums are others), so it's only a matter of days before the flesh around the stem begins to give a little under pressure. By then, I'll be able to detect a delicate, pear fragrance from the bottom end. For now, the butter pears are window dressing. In a few days, they'll be sugary sand in my mouth. Hurry.

Season Straddling...

I love the shoulder seasons -- the transitional time between one season and the next. In terms of traveling, it's when hotels and restaurants discount their rates because traffic is slower.

In the food world, it means you can combine the last of one season's gifts with the next season's emerging bounty.

That's why you see a bowl of steaming oatmeal (what, you don't see the steam?) topped with juicy, ripe, end of season peaches and plump blackberries. The toasted walnuts and oatmeal belong to the fall.

I like instant oatmeal because it only it takes an instant instead of minutes to make. Instant oatmeal is whole oats that have been cut finer to cook quicker. Although I'm splitting hairs here: it doesn't take much time to cook either.

Nutritionally, they are the same. Where things get off kilter is buying the flavored instant oatmeal packages, (like my favorite, maple & brown sugar) because these flavored ones have added sugar, salt, and other natural and not so natural additives.

If you buy plain old-fashioned oats, or plain quick cooking oats, there is no difference in nutritional content. (Before you dietitians jump on me, telling me that whole oats are in fact better than chopped-up whole oats because by definition they take longer to digest, I say: prove it.)

But I'm getting off point here. My point is that this is a wonderful time to mix summer with fall ingredients, and get the best of both seasons.

Natural Instinct

They'll eat anything, these two. Even if it makes them sick. I'm amazed at what they'll put in their mouths. A rotting apple core on the side of the road. A discarded Q-Tip (eeewwwh!) And grasshoppers--fresh grasshoppers.

I guess the grasshopper delicacy shouldn't surprise me. And for Chloe (on the right), it was an acquired taste. She first discovered grasshoppers when one jumped in front of her and her hunting instinct took over. She caught the little sucker and immediately spit it out when it kicked in her mouth.

The next time she caught one, she twitched when the grasshopper kicked, but she didn't immediately spit it out. But eventually she did and then she just wanted to play with it, coaxing it with her nose to get it to jump again. And after a few more catches, she finally decided that the best use of her booty was not to spit it out. So she ate it...crunch, crunch, crunch.

It doesn't surprise me because arthropods are eaten by humans in many areas of the world, although usually not raw. I have a book in my library called Unmentionable Cuisine, that describes how to prepare grasshoppers (and locusts and other various insects).

One of the chefs I met while working on The Great Ranch Cookbook, handed me a copy of Unmentionable Cuisine while she prepared dinner for her guests one night. As she slowly cut asparagus on the bias, she said that she traveled everywhere with that book. In the summer, she cooked at a high end fishing lodge in Montana. In the winter, she moved to the southern hemisphere, cooking in fishing camps in New Zealand or in the Yucatan. "You never know what kind of food sources you'll find in some remote camps, so this book comes in handy," she said.

One thing the book did for me was to open my eyes -- and mind -- to the fact that one man's disdain is another man's delicacy. I still don't think I approve of Chloe's new favorite snack, but I can't fault her for trying new things.

Cookie Monster...

I've turned into a cookie monster since we've been in the high country. At sea level, I could pass up a cookie in a heart beat (unless said cookie is one of Eugenia's French macarons). I don't even think about cookies at altitudes less than 2,000 feet.

It started with just one simple cookie out of the Whole Foods bakery case called outrageous fruit and nut cookie. It was. Outrageous.

Next, we stumbled upon a charming little bakery. Their case is filled with all kinds of specialty cookies ($1.25 each) as well as regular (and regular sized, not monster size) cookies like chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin and molasses for a reasonable $.50...the same cost of a local newspaper, and much more satisfying.

My favorite is the heart shaped molasses cookie, one edge seductively dipped in vanilla icing, precariously holding a toasted pistachio. Actually, it's two cookies sandwiched together with a spiced cream filling -- double decadence. AND ONLY $1.25 EACH! Who can resist that? Not me.

Nacho usual snack...

My first nacho was a simple little thing. Just a triangle tortilla chip (probably Doritos), covered with a square of cheddar cheese, topped with a pickled jalapeno slice from a jar, and broiled until the cheese was just melted.

That's how my Dad made them back in the late '60's as a game day snack, and so that, to me, is a nacho. I was in college before I learned that ordering nachos in a restaurant meant something entirely different: a plate piled high with chips, covered with chili or pinto beans, topped with grated cheese and then melted under a broiler. The whole plate was then topped with diced tomatoes, sliced jalapenos (sometimes fresh, sometimes pickled) and perhaps a blob of sour cream and/or guacamole.

Nachos dropped off my radar screen sometime after college but made a blip about four years ago. My brother's girlfriend at the time was a nacho mama, and once again, I was introduced to the nacho of my childhood, only this time, a fresh jalapeno replaced the pickled one. I was hooked again.

I order nachos frequently now, and recently, I think I may have tasted some of the best ones yet. A little barbecue joint in a little mountain town in the west offers up tri-tip nachos. What's so special about these nachos? It could be the charred bits of medium-rare tri-tip steak, or the house made barbecue beans, or the perfect balance between all the ingredients (including enough cheese to reach all the chips, not just the ones on top).

If I'm going to make them at home, though, I'm going to go for simplicity -- just the chip, the cheese and the fresh jalapeno slice (hey, it's worth a little trouble). Nachos really are the perfect football-watching snack. If you have to watch football (and apparently I do in this household) then you might as well have a warm, spicy treat to make it a little more pleasant... (go Cowboys!)

Sweet Bites...

I can live without dessert, but I don't want to. It's a bad habit to fall into--having dessert after every meal. I had broken the habit for a while, but it's back. I'm blaming my job (reviewing restaurants) for the return of the sweet curse, but the reality is that I simply love to end a meal with a sweet bite.

Speaking of bites, why don't more restaurants offer dessert samplers? With some desserts reaching the price of a small entree, who wants to commit that much to an unknown? What if you shell out $10 to $12 bucks and the dessert sucks?

A couple nights ago, we were dining at a locally owned steakhouse. It was a lovely meal -- perfectly dressed Caesar salad spears, perfectly cooked filet (although it didn't have much flavor on its own, the chef topped it with a kicky corn and chipotle relish), garlicky mashed potatoes, and then the dessert tray arrives.

I crack up at those trays, laden with fake or "preserved" versions of the real thing. And steakhouses are notorious for whipping up huge, sugar bombs -- dark chocolate cake, ice cream pies, monster bread puddings.

But this local steakhouse smartly put together a sampler -- a taste of three of their most popular desserts -- bread pudding with butterscotch rum sauce, creme brulee, and Mississippi mud pie. The trio arrived in a long, rectangular tray, with the desserts in three ramekins.

There was plenty of each for two to share. None of the desserts were spectacular, but it was fun to sample three and not feel like we invested all our eggs in one basket. I wish more restaurants would go to the trouble (and it is a little more trouble) to package up dessert samplers.

Crabby

I have nothing against imitation crab (sometimes called krab or surimi) but sushi made with real crab just plain tastes better. It just plain costs more, too. I recently read a story about the nutritional difference between the two, and crab clearly trumps krab.

Both crab and krab are low in fat, therefore neither is a good source of the prized Omega-3 fatty acids found in other seafood, but real crab has more protein, more potassium, and less sodium than imitation crab. That's all fine and good, but for me, taste trumps nutrition and that's why I'll pick crab over krab any day of the week.

Waffling

I almost missed it! This is National Waffle Week, and I nearly let the week slip by without a waffle. Can't let that happen, so just in time, here is a recipe from one of my cookbooks for a cornmeal waffle. The recipe comes from The Great Ranch Cookbook. From Vista Verde Guest Ranch near Steamboat, CO, these waffles were served as a brunch dish, with smoked salmon and white cheddar cheese. But I like them with maple syrup and fresh blueberries, for a sweet version. Don't let Waffle Week pass you by!

Cornmeal Waffles
(makes 8 waffles)

1-1/2 cups cornmeal
4 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
2 cups low fat buttermilk
4 tablespoons melted butter
Maple syrup and fresh blueberries for garnish

Combine first 6 ingredients (cornmeal through baking soda) in a large bowl and stir. Beat eggs and buttermilk together in a separate bowl. Pour egg mixture over cornmeal mixture and stir just until dry ingredients are moistened, and then stir in melted butter just until blended. Do not over mix. Heat a waffle iron according to the manufacturer's directions. Ladle about 1/4 cup batter over hot iron and cook until crisp. Serve with maple syrup and fresh blueberries.

Take it off...

Is wearing a ball cap in a nice restaurant still taboo? Or am I just old-fashioned?

Last evening, we're seated in a high-end restaurant, but one that doesn't necessarily require you to dress up. You'd feel comfortable in jeans and a nice sweater. The restaurant is in a resort town, and casual dress is the norm.

The white cloth tables are set with wine glasses and heavy silverware.The menu is gourmet (entrees range from $20 to $40).

In walks a young, late twenties/early thirties couple, and the guy is sporting a red ball cap. I notice that he doesn't remove it. I shouldn't look at him but he is in my direct line of sight.

So I'm asking: is that becoming the norm among the next generation? Or did his mama just not teach him any manners?

Cut it out!

The deli was a basic run-of-the-mill joint so I wasn't expecting anything spectacular about the garden salad I ordered with my tuna sandwich. The greens were fresh, mostly romaine with julienned carrots and tomato wedges. The surprise came with the vinaigrette. It was vinegar -- a cheap balsamic at that -- and not one drop of oil. Odd. I guess that's one way to cut the fat out.

Rx for Bottled Vinaigrettes

Bottled vinaigrettes could use a little TLC. I’ve personally never bought one that didn’t need some doctoring to match the flavor of a fresh from scratch one. If you know of one that is just perfect straight out of the bottle, please share with us.

The first thing most bottled vinaigrettes need is a shot of vinegar. It doesn’t have to be the same vinegar that the bottle is based on, but that certainly helps. A pinch of sugar usually helps, too, or a squirt of honey or something to balance the salt, which most bottled vinaigrettes have too much of.

I pour out of a bottle as much vinaigrette as I need to dress my salad. I taste, and then start adding – a teaspoon of vinegar and perhaps a 1/4 teaspoon of sugar, and whisk. Taste. Still not right? Add a little more vinegar and/or sugar. If it is still not right, then perhaps a drop of mustard. If it is still not right after that, I’ll never buy that brand again; because at that point, it’s just as easy to make your own, from scratch.

All you need is oil (olive, canola) and acid (vinegar, citrus) and flavorings (crushed garlic, salt, pepper, mustard, sweetener). I make my vinaigrettes with half oil/half acid, which makes for a vinaigrette with a bite. But the traditional French ratio of 3 parts oil to 1 part vinegar is just too oily for my tastes.

I’ve also been known to mix a couple of bottled vinaigrettes/dressing together. For example, one of my favorite combinations is a couple of brands from Annie’s—I love to mix the Shiitake Mushroom Vinaigrette with the Gingerly Vinaigrette. I still add a pinch of sugar, but that’s it.

Strange Kitchen

I’m in a strange kitchen. The only thing I’ve brought from my home base is my chef’s knife. This kitchen is equipped for squatters – temporary occupants that have no interest in real cooking. I feel awkward, like I’m intruding. How will I manage the next few weeks without my beloved pots, pans, tools and machines?

The layout is a one sided galley, with the refrigerator almost out of the room. The stove is an electric smooth top. Quick cleanup is a small consolation. The big picture window is a bonus, opening outward with a crank to welcome in cool mountain air, even if the view is the side of the neighbor’s house.

We bought some granola at a local bakery and of course it doesn’t measure up to my Triple Creek Granola, so I stock up with the ingredients at the Whole Foods at the edge of town. My friends tell me I should sell it, but it would be the world’s most expensive granola, as it costs $20 for the raw ingredients to make a batch.

I scrounge through the drawers looking for measuring cups. The 1/2-cup is missing, so the 1/4-cup does double duty. I find a large stockpot to mix the dry ingredients – oats, three kinds of nuts, coconut, brown sugar and cinnamon, while a small saucepan gently warms oil, honey and maple syrup.

I find a cheap sheet pan in the broiler drawer beneath the oven and spread half the batch to the edges, spilling gooey oats on the counter. Fifteen minutes later the pan buckles when I take it out of the oven and it hits to cold surface of the cook top.

The granola sticks to the bottom, even though there is plenty of fat in the mix. Through the hot pad, my hand burns, as I forget that one side is only a thin veil of fabric, like a one-sided mitt.

A few more minutes, another stir and scrape, and repeat again, until the granola is golden brown and the house smells of warm cinnamon, maple syrup and toasted nuts. Now I stir in dried cherries and blueberries, breaking up the clumps as it cools.

All of a sudden, the kitchen seems right, like someone turned a light on in a dim room. The granola cools on the counter. The house smells like the home of a cook, and the strange kitchen isn’t so strange anymore.