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