Confessions of A Vanilla Badass...

Sometimes, because I’m a quiet white lady and I only weigh about 108 pounds and a little bit older and I don’t have tattoos or crazy hair and I don’t do drugs and I’m nice and I enjoy giving out homemade dog treats to the local pups…

Sometimes, people see me as a “pushover”.  The sort of delicate flower you can step all over and they’ll just sit quietly in a corner of the garden and “take it”.

But I’m actually kind of a secret badass.  Maybe because I went to Catholic schools.  Two things you learn there---when you’re forced to wear uniforms, you’re forced to develop a PERSONALITY to distinguish yourself from the others.  And second---nuns may look all sweet and gentle…  But DO NOT mess with a nun.  

I repeat---DO NOT MESS WITH A NUN!!!
  

There's a mistaken belief that you need to “look dangerous” and “talk tough" to be a badass.  But the worst kind of badass you can encounter is a Vanilla Badass---someone like me---because you'll never see it coming.

My mother is a Vanilla Badass.  Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't swear. Never has and never will.  You do NOT want to run into her in the dark alley of your life.

Because don't even THINK of taking advantage of my mother.  I've seen her do battle with every kind of "bad guy" imaginable.  She always wins.  After she's dispatched her latest assailant, she goes home to enjoy a cup of tea with rye bread and butter to watch the nightly news while her victim curls up like a partially-aborted fetus and whimpers under his mommy's bed.

Being a Vanilla Badass has NOTHING to do with skin color and EVERYTHING to do with your attitude towards life, your fellow man, and the world around you. 

Gentle, but with an inner strength.  An Iron Butterfly.

Last week, my friend Jana was in town from Bali where she works as a healer.  As we chatted over tea and coffee and a delicious lunch in the East Village---I learned SO much about Bali. 

Pros:  It’s BALI!!!  Beautiful weather, fresh fruits and vegetables, lots of yoga and relaxation.  Ah! 

Cons:  Bugs.  Huge ass bugs.  And lizards and snakes and lots of other creepy-crawly things…none of which seem to have any trouble getting into your home.

As I squirmed in my seat, Jana shrugged it off and explained, “After all, it IS the jungle.”

That's SO badass!!!  

It would take a LOT of yoga for me to be all namaste about that.

But she gave me two little gifts from Bali that thrilled me to no end---cocoa butter and Balinese vanilla beans!  Two products not only inexpensive in Bali, but perfected there.

One of the things Jana mentioned over lunch, “It’s weird, I can buy vanilla beans and vanilla bean paste and powdered vanilla….but I can’t find vanilla extract anywhere in Bali.”

It wasn’t till I was I was back home that it dawned on me.  I remembered something else she’d mentioned over lunch so I sent her an email.

“I have a feeling that the reason you can’t find vanilla extract in Bali is because it contains alcohol.  But I’ve made it at home and it’s easy! I’ll send you the recipe.”

What she had mentioned was that while Bali is fairly autonomous from the rest of Indonesia due to both its reliance on tourism and the fact that it’s always been less of a Muslim culture than a Hindu/Buddhist/animism culture steeped in thousands of years of ritual---it’s still technically a Muslim country and alcohol is…well, not exactly forbidden, but… 

You CAN import it---but with a tax of 300%. 

So let’s just say it’s “discouraged”.

Vanilla has a fascinating history. I’ve read TWO books about vanilla this past year---both written by the same woman.  Patricia Rain.  She’s known as “The Vanilla Queen” and probably the world’s expert on vanilla.  SO badass! 

As her website explains: 

“Patricia Rain is an author, educator, culinary historian, and owner of The Vanilla Company (www.vanillaqueen.com), a socially conscious, product-driven information and education site dedicated to the promotion of pure, natural vanilla, and the support of vanilla farmers worldwide.”

A few basic things I learned about vanilla to impress your friends:

1. The world’s two favorite ice cream flavors originated in Mexico---chocolate and vanilla.
2. What kind of plant does vanilla come from?  An orchid.  It's an orchid flower.  
3. WAY before Cortés hit the shores of the New World, the Mexican tribes had been cultivating vanilla for hundreds of years.  The invading Spaniards fell in love with its fragrance and (after killing thousands of Mexicans) took the delicious new spice back as booty to King Carlos of Spain.  Not “that” kind of booty.  The war kind.
4. Back in Europe, when they couldn't get the seeds to turn into anything even remotely resembling vanilla, they went back to Mexico and were all like, “Hey guys!  Sorry about killing all your friends and family.  But we can’t get these things to grow.  Could you do us a solid?”  The Totonoc Indians were still (understandably) a bit peeved about their whole civilization being destroyed so they pretended to not understand what the conquistadors were saying.  This would be the first documented instance of a Mexican pretending not to speak…well, in this case, Spanish.  You killed my family and now you want my help to grow crops?  Um…no hablo espagnol.  The problem?  Their colonial plantations didn’t have the right tiny little Mexican bees to pollinate the plants.  Mum’s the word. 
5. It wasn’t until 1841 when a slave on Madagascar’s Reunion Island off Africa, Edmond Albius, discovered that you could get vanilla if you hand-pollinated the orchids….  To this day, almost all vanilla is hand-pollinated.  
6. Bourbon Vanilla does NOT contain bourbon.  The vanilla-cultivating Bourbon Islands off Africa were colonized and named after the Bourbon line of the French throne.  But bourbon and vanilla ARE the perfect match!  
7. Artificial vanilla is actually----wait for it---cardboard.  It’s basically a wood by-product leftover after making pulp paper.  Another type of “vanillin” is made from coal tar.  So if you’re using it in your baked goods---you’re doing your dessert a disservice.  It’s the margarine of the spice world.  That is, unless you enjoy newspaper-flavored ice cream or you’re baking Christmas cookies for some shitty kid and you can’t bring yourself to give him the bag of coal he actually deserves. 
8. There are three basic Latin genus of vanilla-----Vanilla planifolia, V. tahitensis, and V. pompona.  The quality varies by farmer and producer, but Vanilla planifolia is generally considered the most fragrant.
9. Vanilla can take up to five years to produce a profit for the farmer.  Because of the time and labor involved, it is the world’s second (behind saffron) most expensive spice.
10. While it’s an easy guess that fresh vanilla beans would be best stored in the refrigerator----NOT!  They don’t like humidity and can easily get moldy.  The Bourbon ones, especially, will crystallize.

Upon squirreling my Balinese vanilla home, I promptly stored the beans in a test tube-like container I saved from the vanilla beans I bought at Fairway last summer.

I tucked the little jar into my larder and there the beans will remain----well, probably for only a week or two till I make Balinese Vanilla and Cocoa Butter Ice Cream!  I just have to figure out a recipe…

But making your own vanilla extract is easy!  The homemade version is really just infused vodka.

Okay---vodka in 50 words or less:

Vodka is vodka is vodka.  Don't let some bully bartender shame you into ordering the bogus "hand-crafted top shelf" stuff.  The house brand IS likely poorly-distilled, but the rest of it is all pretty much the same.  And if he's a good bartender---he knows this, too.

By the way, if you recall, the school bully was always the dumb kid.  Remember that next time someone tries to steal your lunch money.

My go-to vodka is a Polish brand simply called Wódka.  Last year I used it to make limoncello with Meyer Lemons.  Homemade hootch.  Pretty badass.

How to make vanilla extract?  Chop up some vanilla beans, put them in vodka, cover tightly, and let it rest in your cupboard for a few weeks.  Feel free to shake and sniff it occasionally just for fun. 

That’s it!

Here’s a tiny little jar of what I call Bourbon-Bourbon Vanilla Extract. 

It’s bourbon, infused with a bourbon vanilla bean.  Perfect for bread pudding!  To give you an idea how much vanilla to use----this is one vanilla bean in a tiny airplane bottle.  As long as the beans are submerged in the alcohol, they won’t go bad.  In fact, they’ll continue to age and flavor the alcohol.

Armed with the simple idea of infusing, you now have the tools to make everything from vanilla extract to limoncello to a catnip tincture for colds to a darn fine household cleaner.  And what is more badass than Mr. Clean?

Sometimes I think if people read my plays, they might not mess with me.  I may be quiet---but my thoughts are dangerous.  My favorite book on the craft of writing is called The Triggering Town by poet, Richard Hugo.  

He says: "To write a poem you must have a streak of arrogance---not in real life I hope.  In real life try to be nice.  It will save you a hell of a lot of trouble and give you more time to write."

To Yelp A Yelper...

The other day I went on Yelp to get the address of one of my favorite restaurants in Minneapolis to share with a business traveler friend.  What occurred next prompted me to write my first (and probably last) Yelp review.  

Enjoy.


SAIGON UPTOWN by Joyce T. New York, NY

I've dined at Saigon Uptown many times. The food is delicious and the service lovely. That's why I was shocked to read a review by "J.B.": "The food has been ok, but I didn't care for the shitty attitude of the lady that worked there when I paid for my egg rolls with a card. What a bitch."

To hear about the Exorcist-like head spin of that kind, older lady... Has she been possessed by Satan to have such a complete character change from her otherwise mild demeanor? Were you excoriated and beggared not to return? Did she pummel you with bitter melons till you were left broken and bleeding at the curb?  Did she call you a bitch?

And how were the egg rolls?

Sadly, that was your entire review, J.B. And it left me feeling somehow empty.  Could you provide more details? Some information that accentuates your encyclopedia-like knowledge of Vietnamese cookery? A review that takes a simple eggroll excursion into an Anthony Bourdain-like gastronomic escapade that dazzles us with your literary talents, your culinary expertise, and your tender humanity?

Because it's hard to get past your potty mouth.

So I read your other reviews. You mentioned being a waitress. I don't know where you work. But at one point you wrote in a review, "Hey! Somebody hire me!" And in another, you wished you had a job at Dunn Brothers Coffee. You really enjoyed your cup of coffee that day, didn't you?  I'm so happy you FINALLY had a good day!

But if you're still looking for work... I would highly recommend you NOT provide a link to your Yelp page on your resume.

Before you think of me as a "budinski"... I'm just doing the same thing you're doing on Yelp---sharing an experience and trying to help a business improve. I mean, that IS what you're trying to do, right?  So that's why I'm writing this review of your reviews---to HELP!

For starters, you seem to spend a lot of time waiting 20 minutes for a server to acknowledge your presence. That's bananas! 20 minutes is a LONG time. Maybe there's a problem with your watch? Only a pathetic doormat would wait that long. You might want to visit a watch repairman. You may only be waiting a minute or two. I'm sure you could look on Yelp and find a good repairman---that is, if you can look past all the nasty things people write on Yelp. Sometimes I read the reviews and go, "It's obviously not the shop---it's THEM! They're a miserable, unhappy person who takes out their bad day on other people."

It's pretty easy to see. I'm a writer. That's what we do. Subtext.

And you REALLY like Happy Hour! Over half your reviews are for Happy Hour specials. Are you going to be able to wake up in time to work brunch? An employer may worry about that.

PS---you seem to rank the service MUCH higher when you get free stuff. I can clearly see a bit of a taint.  And not in the smutty way. If you're snickering, the onus is upon you.

No.  I said "onus".

That "free stuff" comes with a price. I know because I'm also a waitress. Not bragging, but... At the lower-priced joints where some diners nowadays think that a camera on their cell phone and a Yelp account make-thee a Michelin critic.. They can't "make or break" an Olive Garden; but they CAN cause a 12-dollar-an-hour manager to lose his job. So when someone complains that their "drink is weak"...

And boy, do you have the WORST luck not getting any liquor in your drink!  How does that happen SO often? And those free drinks you're getting-----um, the bartender is stealing. He wants a big tip. Managers may not see your team spirit the way I do, J.B. They'll see you as trouble walking in the door.

I hope you don't mind me calling you "J.B." I only do so because in your reviews, you mention servers and managers by name. Sucks-for-them that a waiter's name is on the check. As for managers, you get their names by acting all indignant and saying, "Excuse me---what's your name?" But you seem to know this already.

I wish I had more time to chat, but I have TWO waitressing jobs! One of my restaurants is a neighborhood establishment. LOVE my regulars! My other is one of the top restaurants in NYC. A huge hunk of our clientele is the rich, famous, and culinary elite. So while this affords me the opportunity to dine in the finest places----this is my FIRST Yelp review! Never bothered because the better restaurants don't pay attention to Yelp. They don't think Yelpers know anything about food or wine or service. They expect reviewers to know so much STUFF! I mean, I LOVED that piece you wrote about the pho not having enough broth.

Who knows? One day we may be working together at Bon Appétit! No need to worry about getting a server with a "shitty attitude" when we're dining at Condé Nast! I've had lunch there and it's cafeteria-style! I want you get an AMAZING job so you can afford to go to REALLY nice restaurants and become my food writing bestie for ALL the top publications! And maybe even become a better person in the process.

Sub-textually yours....

Kitchen Remodel 101---Or How To Utilize Your New Mental Health Insurance

If I haven’t been posting lately, it’s because I realized that the time was ripe for remodeling my kitchen!

So I haven’t been cooking as much as I normally do.  In fact, last week I discovered that the take-out Chinese place across the street from me (I don’t normally order from there, I prefer the take-out Chinese 10 blocks away)…but they have a DELICIOUS fried half-chicken!

Five dollars!  

It’s take-out Chinese, so I can’t vouch for the pedigree of the chickens.

But it got me thru the night while I was painting my kitchen.

We’re not talking an episode of This Old House.  After all, I’m a renter.  There’s only so much money I’m willing to put in here.

But since the construction of a new apartment complex next-door to our Pre-War building, there have been some cracks in the walls.  The building management sent in surveyors with devices that resembled those laser-pointers you use to torment your elderly cat.  Everything was notated.  Many letters regarding various insurance policies were slid under our front doors.  

But in the end---nothing.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I may not look especially handy----but I am!

I started making plans.  I Googled things.  I spent hours pummeling the Dominican guys at the local hardware stores with lady questions.

Several people suggested, “Why don’t you just call your super?”

Well…supers all across this great country of ours have a tendency to blame YOU for whatever problem you’ve called them upstairs from their mole-like basement apartments to repair.

I once had a super try to blame me for the fact that my 1962 refrigerator had finally met its demise.

“Ehhh….the problem is,” he explained in a thick Egyptian accent, “you open it, eeehhhhh, too quickly.  It ruins the plastic.  Then!---it does not work anymore.  But we will get you a new one.  You just have to open it VERY slowly.”

This advice came with a demonstration on how to open my refrigerator at the pace of Continental Drift.

And he was a Coptic Christian, so he suggested that a portrait of Jesus above my refrigerator might help.  After all, he kept the picture of Jesus in the boiler room----and was there ever a problem with the heat?

Well....it was Minnesota.  So there was. But I didn't want to blame Jesus.  I kept my mouth shut.

Not only would my Spanish-speaking super somehow find a way to blame me for the cracks in the ceiling.  “Mami, I hear you are tap dancing in here.  You can no do that.  Tap shoes will destroy even The Empire State Building!”

And I'm not here to hate on documented or un-documented citizens.   

They work hard and they deserve the best.

But you can't choose your super.

You can barely choose your over-priced NYC apartment.  

It's a sad fact of life here.

But no matter where you live, he's a troll-like guy who's missing a few teeth and dwells in the basement with the roaches and rodents

I ALSO knew from experience that he and his assistants would do a sloppy job.  Don’t even get me started on the time a portion of my ceiling got flooded from a burst pipe upstairs and fell to the floor.  My super saw the damage that day, but I waited months before I finally braved that call the would bring on the angry crusaders to rape and pillage.  All I remember is that I got home from the dinner shift at 1:30 am.  I had no idea when they would finally reach Jerusalem all drunk on mead, scrofulous and bedraggled. But by 7:10 am, they were pounding on my door.  I begged for five minutes to put on some clothes while they sulked and diddled themselves in anticipation of their pre-apartment rape of my ceiling.  Within fifteen minutes of rolling out of bed after 4 hours of sleep, they’d smashed thru my walls and covered my entire apartment in a fine coat of asbestos dust.

yay.  

And because I’m a doormat when it comes to supers, I tipped them 50 bucks for the dastardly deed.  This ensured that they did a “curtsey sweep” and left me to clean up the bulk of the mess.

In short-----I’d spend as much time and money trying to clean up their mess as it would take me to do it myself---and do it better!

So I put on my overalls and got down to business.

Walls are an arduous task.  First you wash the walls (kitchens are notorious for collecting grease), then you lay down the tape, then spackle, then paint…  Not to mention all the time you have to wait in-between these tiresome steps.

It's pretty boring stuff.  But I don't think of it as "boring".  I connect with my Buddhist side and I don't think---I just paint the walls white. 

In the beginning, I decided to listen ONLY to The Velvet Underground while working.  But I ran thru their oeuvre so quickly, that I switched to Tom Waits.  And then Bix Beiderbecke (but he died so young!).  So I moved onto violin concertos.  And there are a lot of them, but….  Now it’s strictly Mozart.  He also died young, but was amazingly prolific.  By the time my kitchen remodel is finally finished, I’ll be climbing down from the step-ladder as Gregorian Chants echo inside my pristine monastery walls.

Bear in mind, I’m not weaving medieval tapestries-----it’s not all about the walls.

But those Zen moments you have while spackling around the gas pipe and cleaning up the paint drips from the ceiling after you’ve spent five hours of looking forward to nothing but “white----clean white”-----those moments are when you’re at your most creative and problem-solving best.

Why are the pot holders there?  That’s not convenient.  If the homemade crackers are about to burn, I need the pot holders HERE where they’re handy!  

The perfect place for the pot holders has been driving me bananas for almost two weeks now.  

And why is the coffeemaker there?  I should not have to gather things from five completely different places in my kitchen just to make a cup of coffee at 7am.  What have I been thinking?  Why am I making my life so hard?  You do realize you’re doing this all to yourself, you know?  And why do you still have that old coffeemaker from the break-room of an office you worked in years ago?  I mean, it still works, but for godsakes, it’s old and stained-----and you broke the glass pot in the dishwater THREE months ago!  Why have you been content to make coffee in a measuring cup for the past three months?  What is wrong with you?  Stop being a doormat!  Just buy a new coffeemaker!

And that stupid ice cube tray….really?

Oh!----EVERY inch of my kitchen has come under consideration!

And it should not only be user-friendly----but warm and inviting!

Why am I re-painting it white?  Why is my kitchen so damn white?!?!

Which brings up my “tidiness”.  I don’t like to say OCD.  Because I swear, I’m really not.  But my grandma’s idea of babysitting was to put me to work cleaning.  I’d spend entire afternoons of my youth crawling into deep cabinets and pulling out cast iron skillets that weighed a much as me, “You’re small and I can’t bend down there, honey.”

It’s why I know how to do old lady things like wax floors, polish silverware, clean ovens, and take apart and clean a crystal chandelier.

When she died of a sudden heart attack, I spent the entire week of her funeral helping the family by cleaning her house for the wake.  

Because that’s what Grandma would have wanted.

I still have the Webster’s Encyclopedia of Dictionaries my aunt bought for me as a reward.  It’s inscribed:

"To Joyceee for being hostess at Grandma’s during the week of her funeral.” 

I was fourteen.  I’d spent my life learning that if you cleaned, you would be loved.  

The strange thing is that, to be honest, I’ve put down a three-month moratorium of letting ANYONE into my apartment.  There is no instant-love-gratification in the works.  Not that I’m party-central.  I’m SO boring.  But outside of the super (my toilet HAS been a bit tricky lately) I really just want some time to be in my comfy space and make it perfect for ME!

No drop-ins.  No reservations.

This is so selfishly and unabashedly about me.

I did a pretty good job in my kitchen when I moved in almost 8 years ago----but my needs have changed.  I’ve grown smarter, wiser, and (with all my quirks) even more self-confident.  

I am a woman who knows what she wants in her kitchen.

And in her life.  

I want the pot holders THERE.

And a little to the right.  

Up just a bit….

How To Make Caesar Dressing!---and correctly pronounce Worcestershire Sauce.

Nothing is as ubiquitous to a restaurant menu as the Caesar Salad.

From white-linen French restaurants to the newest farm-to-table offering to your neighborhood Applebees----the Caesar salad is everywhere.

Restaurants all over NYC offer myriads of variations on the simple salad, as well.  Some switch up the standard romaine lettuce to raw baby kale or even grill the romaine over open flames.  Some will do it old skool with raw eggs and a tableside presentation.  Other places vary up the croutons and make them out of corn bread or some house-baked sourdough.  And then comes the plethora of “additions” to your salad---chicken, salmon, shrimp, and I’ve even seen grilled baby octopus.

All these things in an attempt to make a simple salad that everyone likes more complicated.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for variations on the theme.  But I worry it encourages a belief that the Caesar Salad is too complicated to make at home.

‘Tis not!

Without going into the hotly debated origins of the salad, it is definitely Italian in origin.  Now, whether it was one Italian guy in Chicago in 1903 or one of two Italian guys in Tijuana in 1924 OR 1927…

I am not here to create a ruckus.

I will dispel one myth, however.  NO Caesar dressing uses raw eggs.  It employs one-minute coddled eggs.  Yes, this is a very fine distinction.  There’s a line from an old British comedy from the 1930s where an elderly Lord complains to his butler, “Are these eggs medium-boiled?  They are NOT!  They are in the same virginal state as when they left the hen!” 

That would be the sort of egg we're talking about here.

Chef Ernest Gonzalez and I were chatting about Caesar Salads the other day.  He is the owner and chef of Harlem Food Bar.  And (in full-disclosure) I work there as a waitress.  Ernie makes all his dressings and sauces in-house.  Yes, it may be more cost-effective to buy them out of large tubs from the big distributors (and frankly, most restaurants do just that).  But when you make your own dressing, you control what goes into it.  You control the salt, sugar (or corn syrup in most bottled dressings) and you avoid the preservatives. 

They also taste WAY better!

Chef Ernie doesn’t use coddled eggs in his dressing as a precaution against pregnant women (who should NOT consume eggs that aren’t fully cooked).  But he STILL manages a flavorful dressing that customers (and staff) crave.

How does he do it?

Well...I know, because I’ve been making Caesar Salad dressing for years. 

In fact, I’ve been known in SEVERAL restaurants I’ve worked in to “save the day” when we ran out of the bottled stuff.

“We will NOT 86 Caesar Salad as long as I’M in the house!  Step aside!”

You need 8 simple ingredients that you may have in your kitchen right now.

Mayonnaise

Garlic

Black pepper

Worcestershire Sauce

Dijon Mustard

Parmesan Cheese

Lemons

Olive Oil

That’s it!

Just a few notes on the ingredients:

Mayonnaise:  Yes, I make my own.  But I’m a bit of a mayonnaise fiend.  So I ALWAYS need to have a fresh supply handy.  And being one of those naturally thin people everyone hates, sometimes in the summer when I lose my appetite to the heat---the only thing keeping my weight on is mayonnaise.  But I only buy Hellman’s.  Anything else is crap.

Garlic:  HAS to be fresh.  And fresh isn’t that pre-chopped stuff packed in water and preservatives.  All the health benefits of garlic are leeched out when you use that stuff.  If you don’t enjoy chopping garlic (Chef Ernie finds it relaxing---I find it irritating) get one of these babies.   

 

My aunt bought me this little mini-chopper as a stocking-stuffer.  I don't know how I lived without it.

Black Pepper:  If you don’t have a pepper grinder, getting one will change your life completely.  Pepper never tasted so good.  That being said----until you get one, the pre-ground stuff in a can (as long as it hasn’t been sitting on your shelf for the past two years) will do just fine.

Worcestershire Sauce:  People seem to have a wee bit of trouble pronouncing the word “Worcestershire”.  It’s a three-syllable word.  The emphasis is on the first syllable, which is pronounced Wuh.  The last syllable is like New Hampshire.  Shir.  All together it’s pronounced:  WUH-ster-shir.

Here’s a handy video tutorial, as well:

How To Pronounce Worcestershire

Also a note:  Worcestershire Sauce will make this non-vegetarian.  There’s a tiny bit of anchovy in there.

Dijon Mustard:  HAS to be Dijon.  Any brand, really.  But yellow mustard is not going to cut it here.

Parmesan Cheese:  Yes, obviously if you can get your hands on some Parmigiano Reggiano—it’s definitely the way to go.  But this is salad dressing.  Yes, if you get spoiled with the real Italian stuff, you’ll notice the difference if you shake some Kraft powdered cheese into the dressing-----but most people won’t.  Grana Padana (another hard Italian cheese) is also a good substitute.  It’s a bit milder and sweeter but it works---in some cases, better.

Lemons:  Do NOT buy lemon juice in a bottle.  I don’t know what exactly is in that bottle---but it’s not lemon juice.  I can’t even begin.  And supposedly a TRUE Caesar Salad actually uses limes.  The word for lemons and limes is the same in Spanish.  A simple error in recipe translation.  If you ask a Spanish-speaking line cook in NYC for a lemon, he'll likely hand you a lime.    

Olive Oil:  HAS to be olive oil----but needn’t be extra virgin.  In fact, I prefer regular olive oil in my Caesar dressing as the flavor is lighter---but any sort of olive oil will do.

Into you blender or food processor, put:

½ cup mayonnaise

1 Tbs Worcestershire Sauce

2 Tbs lemon juice (basically, one lemon)

½ tsp pepper

1 Tbs Dijon Mustard

2 Tbs freshly chopped garlic

2 or 3 Tbs Parmesan Cheese

Once everything seems to come together, drizzle in:

4 Tbs olive oil 

  

I often add an extra bit of cheese at the end because I like a slightly crumbly texture to my dressing.

At the end, I always do a taste test to make sure I have the balance I’m looking for, so adjust to your tastes.

I put the dressing in a jar and pop it in my fridge.  It will become a bit thicker after “setting” for a few hours.

But no need to wait.  You can go ahead and plop it onto whatever greens you like.

Just please don’t tell me you’re using boxed croutons.

Sigh.

Why would anyone BUY croutons????

Okay, that will be my next post.

What To Expect When You're Expecting Your Farm Share

I can't say enough wonderful things about farm shares/CSAs.  

They provide you with a weekly batch of fresh, organic produce, allow you to explore foods you've never tried, and are (mostly) low-cost.  

You also make friends with the people you see every week.  You get excited about trying new recipes.  And you learn SO much about farming and fresh produce.

And you automatically eat better.  You just do.

When I have a bag of fresh vegetables on my shoulder, I NEVER go into the Popeye's on 125th St.

Oh, I still think about those spicy little fried shrimp perfectly-battered in corn starch...

But I walk right past the Popeye's and get my vegetables home to mama!

Last week, my summer farm share program had its first delivery of the season.  I was SO happy to walk in there and see old friends I hadn't seen in months and pick up my vegetables.  This is my second year doing this and I've talked with several friends about their programs, as well.

I don't have all the answers, but here are my tips:

If you don't already belong to a farm share program, you can usually sign up at any time during the season.  Some will deliver to your home (read---more expensive).  But most have pick-up sites not far from your home.  They tend to use community centers like the YMCA, churches, or food pantries.  This could potentially mean that you have to wait in the same building as homeless people waiting for the soup kitchen upstairs to open.  If you have a problem with that, um....

Get over yourself.  It's not a methadone clinic.  It's a food pantry.  You're there for the same reason as everyone else---to get food.  In fact, if you've got some free time, you might want to consider volunteering.  Food pantries are always looking for a few extra hands to cook and prep all the Meals-Without-Wheels that go out every day to people just looking for a decent dinner. 

Be a helper, not a hater. 

Don't know if there's a farm share in your area?

Just Google "farm share" or "CSA" and the name of your city or town or neighborhood.  You can usually sign up online and pay by the season or by the week.  Some even have a way to allow shareholders to pay with their food stamps.  

Quality produce is NOT expensive.  You're getting it straight from the farm.  You don't have to pay huge corporations and their thousands of employees and CEOs with huge benefit packages and their marketing companies and pesticide companies and the government agencies that THESE companies pay to keep their horrible farming practices a secret and keep the money "all in the family".

You're paying a farmer.  And the guy who drives the truck.

Being as it's "organic", they probably won't supply you with those demon plastic bags to get your little lovelies home.  Some CSAs will put everything in a box and hand it to you.  But others are more like a farmer's market.  You show up with your "reusable container" and pick the produce yourself.  Five potatoes, three onions, two cucumbers, one bunch of spinach, etc...

A cloth bag is probably your best bet. The first few weeks I went in with a wicker basket.  Not to say a basket isn't a good choice, but strolling thru Harlem in my hand-sewn skirt with a wicker backet, I looked like the "Bougie Girl" in "The Beauty and the Beat" video. 

Oh yes I did.

And now I give you my newbie mistake.

BEWARE OF THE EGGS!

Share programs will often offer the option to add-on things like cheese or honey or farm fresh milk.

Or eggs.

I'm not saying that eggs are a bad choice.  Add-ons can be a beautiful thing. 

I thought it would be a good idea to sign up for the egg share.  Because I bake a lot.  And I enjoy egg salad and deviled eggs and a poached egg on a piece of toast when I'm up writing late at night.  Not to mention my love of meringues and béarnaise sauce...

But I'm one person.  I can only eat so many eggs.  Unless you have a family to feed, a dozen eggs a week is a LOT.  At one point last summer, I had six dozen eggs nesting in my refrigerator.  I also gave away two or three cartons just to make room for the Swiss chard.  And then there was the week I was desperate and used eight eggs yolks to make ice cream and eight egg whites to make angel food cake.

I spent two days of my life just trying to get rid of a dozen eggs.

And then there was that horrible time I just couldn't take the pressure anymore and emailed my farm share claiming I was going to be "on vacation" and could I suspend my share for the following week?

I wasn't on vacation.  I didn't go anywhere.

I lied.  

I lied to my farm share! 

Twice!!!

You can see the frustration building in my very first post on this blog titled, "Love's Labor's Lost or How I Came To Hate My Farm Share".

At the end of the season, we were asked to fill out a questionnaire.  One of the suggestions I made was, "Could there possibly be an option for HALF a dozen eggs?"

I was happy to discover that this season they took my advice.  Half a dozen is now an option.  I would have enjoyed this small victory in my life, but last summer was like Nam.

Nam with eggs.

Not quite napalm or a scene from Apocalypse Now.  But I was mentally scarred by the experience.  Over the winter, I began buying my eggs from the "grass-fed, pastured" butcher shop in Harlem---Harlem Shambles.

I'm very happy with these eggs.  They're from Autumn's Harvest Farm in Romulus, NY.

It's possibly the only egg carton in the world with a review from the NY Times on the carton:

"For eggs from chickens that live in the sort of utopia conveyed by the images on most egg cartons, look for 'Animal Welfare Approved'." 

Okay---it's not a review of those particular eggs.  Just eggs in general.  I'm a savvy enough consumer to get that.  But the eggs are fresh and perfect and I can get them Uptown without trekking all the way down to the Union Square farmer's market. 

Down there is a guy who REALLY loves and takes wonderful care of his chickens.  He only sells eggs.  Occasionally, people ask if he can supply them with a whole, fresh chicken?

Well...of course, he can; but...

That's like saying to someone, "Wow.  You take such great care of your dog.  You cook homemade organic meals for him and he gets veterinary care and you take him to the dog park to exercise so he can just 'be a dog in his natural environment'.  And I can tell that you really love and care about him a lot.

Could we eat him for dinner?"

I mean, the guy realizes that it's a chicken.  And that people eat chicken every day.  And even he's had chicken for dinner, but I'm sure he's also wondering...

Who ARE you?

You show up at my booth with your hemp bag and your "Eat More Kale" t-shirt and want me to decapitate Henny Penny so you can look like "wife-and-mother material" for guy you met last week on JDate?

Who is this Mr. Big, anyway?

And why isn't he here with you?

Exactly how solid is the foundation of this relationship?

Could I...maybe meet him?  I mean, if he's going to be eating one of my pets...

Okay, I'm fully aware that I'm making up this conversation in my head.  But that's the kind of devotion this man has towards his chickens.

So this summer, I passed on the egg share----even with the half dozen option.

I just create too much inner dialogue between man-and-chicken to justify the stress caused by too many farm fresh eggs.

I signed up for the dried heirloom bean option instead.  If I don't have time to get to the dried beans...  Well, they're dried beans.  They keep for a long time.  And I have yet to extend my anthropomorphic tendencies to dehydrated legumes.

Not yet, anyway.   

The biggest piece of advice I have about a farm share (or even just a day at the farmer's market) is that once you get your goodies home---wash and prep them right away!

First off, this stuff is organic.  That means no pesticides.  Get where I'm going with this?

Last week I found a ladybug in my spinach.  Granted, who doesn't want a ladybug in their home?

A ladybug in the home means good luck.  I have a particular fondness for them.  If I were a painter, I think I would paint them with as much passion as Georgia O'Keeffe painted irises.  Of course, they wouldn't look like vaginas, so they probably wouldn't sell too much in the galleries.  But I was thrilled when the little guy crawled onto my finger.  I watched him for a few moments, and then I took him outside and let him go.  He took off flying the instant he hit the fresh air.

Every time they do that, I feel like a kid who just lost their balloon for the first time.  Because the first time little children lose their balloons to gravity, they don't cry.  They're too magnetized by the fantastic idea that something that was JUST in their hands is now flying up towards the clouds.  

It's not a loss; it's a wondrous mystery.

But I highly recommend that you wash everything.  Even if you don't actually SEE bugs, their eggs may be on the produce.  I haven't had anything like those stories of hundreds of baby spiders flying out of a bunch of Ecuadorian bananas.

But I've seen some larvae. 

Yes.  Larvae.  

I don't know what they turned into, because I took them outside.

I've released my share of "inchworms" to no longer have any regret that I never got the plastic riding toy of my dreams---The Inchworm from Romper Room.  Only Coca-Cola's "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing" was a catchier commercial tune than the one with the little blond-haired girl twerking on a worm across a pedophile's grassy knoll as the Emmylou Harris knock-off sang, "Inchworm, inchworm.  I love you." 

Root vegetables that are still attached to their tops may look pretty and poetic in your fridge, but the tops will suck the life out of the roots in a day or two.  You'll have gorgeous carrot tops, but mushy carrots.  Same with beets.  You'll notice that parsnips never come with the tops attached.  Why?  Parsnip tops are toxic.  This week I got kohlrabi (which sounds Japanese, but is actually a German root vegetable).  It looks so gorgeous and perfect; you hate to break it up.  But Brad and Jen both seem to be doing a-okay these days.  So stop putting your hopes and dreams into vegetables you don't even know.  Sometimes it's just not meant to be.  Let them live their own separate lives and just mind your own business.

My final word---eat this stuff!!!!

To make eating it all even easier, the first thing you do when you get your bounty home...

Okay, well...  If you're a total dork like me, the first thing you do is arrange your vegetables on a velvet bedspread and take some glamour shots.

But if you're not that much of a geek---clean them, chop them up, cook them, freeze them, can them, make soup...  

Anything!

They're not there to look pretty.  They're there to eat. 

Outside of living on an actual farm, a farm share is the closest you can come to how people ate from the land for thousands of years---only the Native Americans didn't have blenders and freezers to make a fruit smoothie.

A farm share forces you to be creative and adventurous and push yourself to new culinary heights!!!

Or to just eat more lettuce.

So join a CSA today!

(Psst---watch out for the eggs.)