This is not to say that I don’t get hungry, but in thinking and meditating on my relationship with food, my body, and my weight, I’ve come to the uncomfortable realization that perhaps I don’t really, truly, know what it’s like to be hungry.   That perhaps what I consider to be, “hunger,” is really just a farcical symptom brought about by my mind and not my body — hence, I eat when I don’t need to, or more than I must when I do.

What does hunger feel like for YOU?   There’s different types that I feel, of course, and many I can identify, ranging in intensity from, “I’m bored” to “I’m going to pass out if you don’t get me something RIGHT NOW.”    But I’d say the typical hunger that I feel is neither of the two.

Just a snack?

When I generally feel hungry, the sensation starts in my mouth, which I think is a great part of the problem.    It’s hard to describe, but it’s like my mouth needs to eat — does that even make sense?   I can feel the sensations of biting, chewing, swallowing, and the tastes and flavors that come along with the process in my mouth.   Not physically, although sometimes it waters or otherwise, but mentally.    I have a mental sensation of needing to physically use a part of my body.   I guess that’s the best description.

That’s the typical hunger and the one that appears at “regular” mealtimes.    It’s what I typically act on, even if my stomach is not sending the, “Uhm…food, please?” message yet.    This may be very problematic.

If I let hunger go long enough, I eventually get to the pain-in-the-tummy sort, that kind of hunger where you feel EMPTY and the ache starts to be so bad that if you don’t do something about it, you’re sure something bad will happen.   It’s that crampy-style of hunger.    That for me is very rare, but I get it occasionally.    What’s even more disturbing is that if I ignore it long enough, it’ll go away, but that doesn’t mean that my body isn’t needing food, it’s just stopped complaining about it.   If I wait too long, I won’t feel hungry, but I’ll get lightheaded, dizzy, aches, etc. until I give in and eat.     How am I supposed to work with this when it isn’t consistent?

Here’s a big problem: I don’t know what’s normal.

That is, we as humans say, “I’m hungry!” but nobody really knows what that means.   I know for my friend Paul, his hunger is insane — when the man’s hungry, he’ll eat the varnish off woodwork.    But I don’t know what his hunger feels like vs. mine — and maybe mine’s not normal.    Maybe at every meal he feels like he’s going to keel over and die if he doesn’t eat Right.  Now.

I need to find out what’s normal.    But how?

Well, I’m hoping for one that you’ll comment and describe what your typical hunger feels like to you, the sort you have when you need to eat a meal on any regular day.   Does it hurt?   Ache?   Where do you feel it, in your belly, in your head, in your mouth?   What other sensations do you have, do you feel dizzy, like you’re going to pass out, or is that only when you get extremely hungry?   How fast does it go away when you finally eat?  What happens if you ignore it?

I’m hoping by exploring this topic that I can try to get a better hold on my own bodily sensations and what they truly mean vs. whatever my mind is concocting at the moment.   In this, maybe I can learn what my body really needs vs. what it just thinks it wants, which is a huge step towards doing the right things for it and me.      Thanks for playing along.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Fortunately for all of us here, Three C Bistro is not an inappropriate moniker.

The outer building is fairly unimpressive, a leftover from the previous owner, but the inside has transformed nicely.   Muted browns, soft reds, blues, and greens surround the eating area, framed by wood and stonework and all in the style of Italian renaissance with some modern flairs.   The seating is generous booths or tables and chairs, neither of which are particularly unique but they fit within the styling around them.   A fountain on one side and muted lighting complete the scene.

I was sat in short order by an eager hostess and attended to by an attentive waiter.    It was lunch, so the menu was smaller; I shall have to stop by for an evening meal.    Basic, standard sandwiches and burgers abided, but there were also higher-style, higher-ticket items such as a Prime Rib sandwich and a crab salad.   Appetizers ran between $4 and $10 and entreés between $7 and $15.   The wine and beer selection were copious although being at work I will have to wait to try those.

Service was quick, uncomplicated, and in short order I had my Reuben with a side of fries.   I always love to get a Reuben at a new location because how they prepare this simple and yet classic sandwich says a lot about their style and approach.    This one was very decent — the swirled rye was fresh and tasty with a slight toast, the corned beef generous and flavorful, the sauerkraut wasn’t nearly as tart as I liked but went fine nonetheless.

The only complaint I derived from it was that the Thousand Island dressing was served on the side and not as a part of the sandwich which, in my eyes, violates the principle of a Reuben.   I was annoyed that I had to spend good-quality eating time spreading sauce on a sandwich that just should have had it.    That being said, the dressing was very nice and went well with the rest.

The fries were large, with skins and seasoned salt, cooked perfectly.  The unsweetened iced tea I had was unremarkable and was probably from a mix, although it was hard to say definitively.    A second arrived before I even finished the first, however, so that’s a huge point in my book.

They have wireless Internet! I cannot emphasize enough how much I value that and how much I think businesses would benefit from providing it.   A simple network but it worked well; thank you!

The check arrived for a bit over $10, it was quickly processed, and I left.    But I shall be back — well done, Three C!  I think you may have actually brought a real, excellent bistro to Iowa.

Rating: 4.5 sammiches out of 5

Three C Bistro
510 Hildreth St
Charles City, IA 50616
641-228-3544
Facebook: Three C Bistro

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I don’t consider myself a food snob; I eat equally well at a fine restaurant as your neighborhood fast food joint because I understand that there are a multitude of reasons why you might choose either one.   There is a time and place for thick, heavy, greasy burgers and a perfect setting for filet mignon with a white wine reduction and asparagus.

This, however, was completely off the scale for me.

In reality, I should have been tipped off by the fact that no good place would label themselves as partaking in multiple, unrelated pursuits in their name as Ryan’s Grill, Buffet & Bakery on Collins Road in Cedar Rapids, IA, but I figured it was probably akin to Bonanza which, while they do indeed serve steak, could not be readily considered to be a steak joint.   Rather, they are a buffet joint that just happens to have sliced and grilled dead steer inside.    They smartly leave this out of their name, however, so one is not misled; you believe you are attending a Bonanza of something.    Exactly what, of course, varies by the night.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a girl who seemed infinitely disappointed that the cash register was not an iPad and struggled to figure out how to ring up one meal + drink for me.   I do suppose this is because, from looking around, she was used to a mom and dad with at least a dozen children in tow, so I’m sure the math was daunting.   Nonetheless, I got approved to descend upon the goods and chose a table.

The first plate off the stack still had food on it.    Had I been a person of delicate character, I might have stopped right there, but I’m realistic — I understand this happens in busy places.   I set it aside, grabbed the second, and went to the islands of steaming goods to pick my wares.

If it takes me more than once around a buffet serving bar to fill up my plate, there’s a problem.   This one took THREE times around before I finally selected a few things I felt brave enough to try:   a horribly over-baked and depressed salmon fillet, some boasted chicken, and mashed potatoes.   I delicately skipped past the dish marked, “beef tips”, which looked like everything out of the reject bucket doused in a slurry of brown gravy.

I ate the first plate and sipped on the brown water that was labeled as being iced tea but bore no resemblance thereof.   Nothing was remarkable, that’s for sure.   About halfway through, in the middle of a mouthful, a teenage boy in an ill-fitted apron suddenly appeared at my elbow and loudly asked, “Do you want a DINNER ROLL?”, while staring off into space.   Shocked, I blinked, swallowed, and said, “uh, no, I’ll be OK, thanks” and he was gone before I finished.

I went for a second plate of grub, by this point feeling a bit off, but figuring it was just hunger.   I grabbed a plate — and it was soiled.   So was the next one.   And the next.   And the next.   Five dirty plates into that stack and I switched stacks.    The next wasn’t dirty, it was greasy, like it had been rinsed in lard.   The entire stack was.     Third stack:  first one was dirty, second was clean AND didn’t feel slick, so I took it.    Got a spoonful of mashed potatoes on it and looked down to see this greasy, fingery smear across the opposite side of the plate.   I stopped, stared for a bit, and then proceeded to put a few more pieces of food (if you can call it that) on my plate and shuffle miserably back to my seat.

I sat.

I stared.

My stomach imitated a Quaker on acid.

About this time a roughly 250-p0und 12-year-old girl a few tables away threw a meltdown hissy fit over the fact that her father wouldn’t let her have a 3rd bowl of ice cream.    My stomach lurched, I grabbed my ticket, and I left in a hurry.    The rest of the way home (2.5 hours), my innards did flip-flops and I cursed driving past Panera.

There are probably a few good uses for a place like Ryan’s:     Revenge comes to mind.   Perhaps social experiments in 3rd-world hygiene.    There’s a good chance it’d work better than waterboarding in torture camps.

If, however, you like organs to be intact and non-hemorrhaging at the end of your meal, I highly recommend you avoid stopping at Ryan’s of Cedar Rapids.

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© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

To such ends that I partake of the words of the seer and do my best to explore new-found worlds, I took it upon myself this past week to use his recipe to create my own corned beef. I figured I had little to lose, ultimately, and potentially a lot to gain from the experience. Plus, I’ve always been fond of soaking meat in brines of all sorts because they transform under the pressures of salt and time into new creations.

Two chuck roasts — chosen because they were significantly cheaper than a full brisket and I figured it’s best to ensure I was successful first — were soaked in the prescribed brine solution for six days. I procured some pink salt (sodium nitrite) from an online source for the most-essential preservative portion of the brine and to ensure a good, solid red color throughout.

Six days in the fridge, covered in brine, anchored to the bottom of a pan with a heavy plate. It was a long time to wait and hope that I was creating a marvel and not a fuzzy mold farm. Cooking with old methods like this is most definitely an effort in faith.

Last night I extracted the meat from its bath and rinsed it thoroughly, noting that the feel of it had changed from a pliable, meaty feel to a more solid, waxy touch. The two chunks were then dropped into my large cast iron pot (which you may have when you pry it from my cold, dead hands), covered in water, spices, and a mirepoix, and set to simmer on the stove for about 3 hours.

In the meantime, I busied myself making cabbage to go along, since it seemed like the proper accompaniment to such an iconic meal. Rendered bacon fat and water steamed up a head and a half of cabbage, sprinkled with thyme. I then tossed the bacon back in and sautéed it until the chopped leaves were translucent and golden. A bit of salt here, pepper there, and it was ready to go.

Extracting the corned beef from the pot and slicing it into manageable chunks was nothing less than equivalent to Christmas morning and the promise of untold wonders to be revealed. As the first slices fell away from my knife’s bold statement, this brilliant red, flaky meat burst into view, sending my spirits soaring. As all good chefs do, a personal sample was quick to follow.

When it’s so damned good, it makes me giggle in happiness. And I was a ball of laughter.

I made quick work of the rest, laid it on a suitable platter, piled another high with the cabbage, and with some included buttered fresh bread, the meal was complete. All ate and were satisfied.

To know that I was able to take something that’s been done for years and to make it work in my own kitchen was simply amazing and horribly fulfilling at the same time. If you have the means and the drive, I sincerely hope you will give this a shot — you will be forever grateful that you connected with your food in such an intimate way.

After six days of soaking in brine; note the paler, waxy appearance.

Corned Beef, in pot and ready to cook, pre-water/spices.

The prepared pot with corned beef (hidden), water, spices, and mirepoix.

Cabbage with Bacon, plated and ready to serve.

Corned Beef, plated and ready to serve

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Worth Brewing (@WorthBrewing on Twitter) is situated in the middle of a block of downtown Northwood, an idyllic small-town stop only 7 miles to the east of Interstate 35 located so far north in Iowa that if you sneeze, Minnesota feels the breeze.   Despite the economic times hurting small business owners across the country, Northwood seems to be holding its own in terms of a good selection of small shops and services lining the streets.

The brewery takes its name from the county, Worth, and is owned and run by husband-and-wife team Peter Ausenhus and Margaret Bishop.   Peter has been known for years to be a famous brewmaster and beer judge, winning many contests and working professionally with the well-respected Summit Brewing Company of St. Paul, MN  (one of my top-10 favorite brew companies, hands-down).     Now he is handily carving himself out a niche in pretty Northwood and making a good job of it, too.

From the men's room door...

The tap room itself is only open three days a week but offers its patrons a beautiful, cozy, dark hardwood-lined room with plentiful yet simple wood tables and chairs and a big screen TV from which to catch a game or the news.    The lighting is subdued and calming and the environment is very welcoming and comfortable.    I did not get a chance to talk to either of the owners due to the busy nature of the evening, but they appeared friendly and service was quick and easy.

Brews that I had were in the $3.10 to $3.75 range for a pint which seemed fairly reasonable, although perhaps a bit on the high side depending on which beer you had.   But given that a comparable beer in any store would run you at least in the $1.75 to $2 range it didn’t seem too terrible given the quality and presentation.    Growlers were $12 for any selection on the current menu.

Had I had the time and a place to crawl to and sleep, I would have happily tried everything on the menu; alas, being that I live an hour south of Northwood, I only had the time and liver to try three selections:

Oatmeal Stout — Because I am such a huge lover of dark and thick beers, my first selection was this oh-so-typical stout, arriving in my glass with a healthy head and lovely color.    The nose of it was warm and inviting, hinting perfectly on the edge of roasted grain mixed with just the right amount of hop to balance.   The mouthfeel was soft and creamy but not so think that you would mistake it for a shake.   The flavors mixed very well, the dark malty wintery barley being controlled but not killed by the hops.    If I had twenty of these beers in a row, they would be twenty too few.   By far my favorite selection on the menu.

Dillon Clock Stopper – Next over my tongue was this lager that didn’t really win me over in any categories and yet was nonetheless pleasant.   Light and flavorful, it had a very sweet kick aftertaste that set me off from the first swallow and distracted me through most of the glass.   That being said, it was light enough to keep the sweet from being a downtrodden effect and I did enjoy the glass, but I guess I was looking for more hop-offset than what I got.   There are a great many people out there, however, that would adore this beer if you don’t like straight-up bitter hops.

I.P.A.

India Pale Ale – The last beer to grace my throat was the IPA.   Having been through a rigourous course in IPAs, courtesy of my former collegiate roommates, I’ve had a few and a few more and then a few gallons more IPA in my life and can work my way around the room with one, if you get my drift.    Worth’s version of this brewing standard was a pleasant surprise; it’s so easy to get these zippy ales wrong and they successfully dodged the bullet.   Strong in hops with a nice biting aftertaste, the Worth IPA was simply a lovely glass of beer to drink.   I would have easily gone for more hoppy but it had a great balance and I really can’t complain at all.

Conclusion

So there you have it — Worth Brewing Company in a nutshell.   All in all, if you have the time to stop by and enjoy their warm atmosphere, happy customers, and worthwhile brews, I highly recommend it.   It’s only 7 miles from the Interstate and if you come early enough, you can enjoy some of the (seemingly) plentiful downtown shopping.   If you come later, stop in at the Northwood Theatre which has been restored to near-perfect moviewatching conditions and is a great place to catch a show.   Neither its screen nor the bubbly liquid happiness that awaits you just a block away will leave you disappointed.

Worth Brewing Company
826 Central Ave.
Northwood, IA 50459
641-324-9899

www.worthbrewing.com

Wednesday 5-9pm; Friday 5-11pm, Saturday Noon to 11pm

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I am a huge fan of sour cream and this was such an incredible lack of judgment on my part, I just have to share — to warn and advise.   Mostly to warn.   Strenuously.

Like many of you, I try to be conscious of what’s sliding down my gullet and I’m all about choosing products that are lower in fat, salt, sugar, and anything else determined to be cancer, heart-attack, stroke, or stupid-causing.   I will happily defend my consumption of diet pop, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter (really — it’s not that much of a stretch), and low-salt gravy not in the name of them being exactly like the original products, but close enough proximity that the sacrifice of flavor is more than made up by not coating my insides with lard and corn syrup on a daily basis.

Not so much luck with Lite Sour Cream.

I don’t know why I picked it up — I guess I saw the label, like above, and figured that whatever was lost in the pursuit of something that doesn’t stick to your hips as readily would be acceptable.   Boy, was I mistaken.

Have you SEEN lite sour cream?   It looks like a plastic bucket of cold whale spooge and has the consistency of snot.     Immediately upon opening it up I checked the label to make sure I didn’t accidentally stop by the “Spawn Your Own Salmon” department instead of the dairy case.   I was dubious about it crawling out and throttling me as I stood there, let alone trying to flavor my baked potato.

But looks aren’t everything and one shouldn’t judge a book by its…gelatinous appearance…so I proceeded to slop it onto my baked tubers and give it a shot.    To say that it invokes a gag reflex is being kind and gentle, I assure you.

Whether or not it has any flavor besides “disgusting mess” is hard to determine as your tongue backs away from it in a damned hurry.   What little made it down my throat before I decided that starving sounded better had a strong essence of moose spit and rubbing alcohol.   I’m unsure whether or not there is actually any, “cream”, inside and if there is, I’m probably better off not knowing what sort of cream it really is.

Let’s not kid ourselves — sour cream is one of man’s finer culinary creations, right up there with butter, but it’s horrifically hard on your body, what with a ton of fat, calories, and so forth.    But my god it’s tasty and goes perfectly well smothered ontop of any number of food items.     So why wouldn’t we look for something that’s a bit easier on the paunch yet still gets the point across?   I understand the motivation at least.

Lite sour cream, however, is not the answer, unless you are so sadistic that you enjoy self-torture with food products.   Clearly this is one area where a healthier alternative has not been achieved and we would all do better to simply use the real thing in moderation or shrug and ladle on great globs of its creamy, sour whiteness with glee and screw the consequences.

Whatever the outcome, I guarantee you’ll be happier than if you had used something lite-er.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

What a deal!

I went on a coupon shopping trip today.   I armed myself with a fistful of carefully prepared bargains, braced myself for the inevitable waves of dirty miscreants, and entered Wal-Mart with one intention in mind: Savings!

A great deal of you probably have your hands out right now, demanding that I hand my Man Card back in to be unceremoniously recycled into confetti, but hear me out!   Times have changed, technology has progressed, and this ain’t your grandmother’s coupon book anymore.

I can also hear a whole bunch of you saying, “Geez, man, where have you been?   This is old news!”   (Yes, I’m looking at you, Stacey.   Don’t piss me off, lady, I got yer number. So I’m not the first to discover this underutilized resource — shoot me — but suffer me for a moment while I expound on it, eh?

To alleviate the fears of those out there who now envision me, curls in hair, stockings over leggings, smokin’ a Marly and pushing a wobbly cart through the bra section of Wallyworld, let me paint for you the picture I’ve developed for myself on how to do this ‘coupon thing’ and still retain your masculinity in a soccer mom world –

Nathan’s No B.S. Coupon Policy

1.   Don’t screw around trying to get the damned things. — It used to be that in order to come across a plethora of good coupons and deals, the person responsible for the weekly trips to Hell would have to sit for hours at a table, armed with Fiskars, pouring over the Sunday paper and every one in between just to glean a few crappy, “30¢ off a sloppy-beef tostada” coupons before collapsing into a heap and promising to get together with neighbors the next day to swap collections.

These days, a computer, a printer, and a sense of, ‘ah ha!’ is about all you need to successfully make it in the coupon world.  Sites like The Krazy Coupon Lady, Coupons.com, Smartsource, and others make finding and printing these things a cinch. It’s so easy it’s guaranteed you’ll spend more time searching for female celebrities in thin shirts and cold weather than you will for your weekly grocery-run.    Time is money and/or sitting on your ass drinking beer and watching tube.   Keep it in perspective and exploit the tech.

2.  Not every thing that claims it’s a deal really IS a deal. — I don’t mess around with anything less than 50¢ off and it’d better be pretty specific or cheap if I go below $1.   Anything less and I’ve just burned up my time, energy, gas, toner, and sanity trying to squeeze a penny.    Using a coupon on a brand-name item to bring it down to a price that’s still above a comparable generic is also stupid — you’re NOT saving money, you’re just blowing less of it.   Repeat after me, “Most Coupons Are Not Worth It”.   The one part of this that actually does take some work involves winnowing out the chaff and picking out the really sweet, wheat deals that you can be proud of.   But that’s kinda fun.

3.  Having to buy multiples to just use a coupon is almost always a lose-lose. — Sometimes you can make this work to your advantage, but you have to do the math.   For instance, tonight I used a, “Buy 4, get 75¢ off” on some cans that were 60 cents each, so that’s a good deal, and it’s something we use all the time.   But most of the time, once you add in the amount of money you have to spend FIRST to get the item, especially if you won’t use it or won’t use it much, it’s a screw.

4.  Buying stupid, worthless crap because of a coupon is idiotic. — Occasionally I’ll buy something I wouldn’t have normally or upgrade from generic to brand name if I have a coupon, but it’s almost always a trap.   You don’t like kumquats, you wouldn’t have the first faint idea on what to DO with a kumquat, so why waste the $4 just because you have a 2-for-1 coupon?  Don’t be a moron.   Buy what you normally buy and wait for the coupons to appear for those things.

5.  Be Thee Armed and Prepared.  — When you enter the store, have your weapons (coupons) organized by section and ready to check.   Don’t screw around with walking up and down the aisles, seeing what else is on sale — remember, you’re here on a mission.   Avoid distraction.    Don’t spend too much time — if the deal isn’t apparent, move on.   If you have to do calculus to figure out your savings, ditch it.   Be cutthroat and ruthless.

6.  No matter what, coupons are still Marketing; Caveat Emptor. – Remember that stores and manufacturer’s aren’t doing this out of the goodness of their heart.    They are out to get you to buy in some form, fashion, or otherwise, so keep your thinking cap on and your gun cocked because you never know when they’ll try to get sneaky.   You can game the system to your advantage, but you have to stay alert — saving $15 on your bill when you’ve just bought $300 worth of shit means you still paid out $285 for a cartload of crap.   Don’t be a dumbass.

In conclusion, you CAN be a man and still use coupons successfully and without feeling like you’re entering into a world of Better Homes and Garbage.   While printing and cutting out coupons hasn’t made me rich, allowed me to afford a yacht, or paved the way to get laid by a girl made entirely of breasts, it has enabled me to shave off some money on regular items we get and that feels pretty damned good at the end of the register, and when was the last time a bill total made you feel good?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Today I started my very first poolish-style sourdough starter, a preferment for eventual use in baking some sourdough bread.   I’m following the advice and instruction of Jacob Burton over at FreeCulinarySchool.com, a very excellent podcast that I listen to, written and performed by a honest-to-$DEITY professional chef that details everything about gourmet culinary skills from the ground up.   His newest series of podcasts is all about bread making.  If you are a foodie of any level, I highly recommend picking up his show.

For our “homework assignment”, we are to get a sourdough starter up and running so when the next podcast comes out, he can instruct us how to turn that into a great loaf of bread right away.    It sounds horrifically fun, and I adore a good sourdough, so let’s hope this works!

To make the starter, I put 400g of bread flour and 400g of water into a bowl, mixed it thoroughly, which makes a halfway thick better, much like pancake batter.   Next I peeled the skin off of 2 Honeycrisp apples (and ate the rest, which was really hard to do), put the peelings into a cheesecloth and then pushed that into the middle of the batter.

This batter will then sit out on the countertop for 3-5 days before I really start to see anything.   The apple peelings will infuse it with the first shot of naturally-present yeasts and bacteria.   Once the little buggers have taken good hold, I can remove the peelings and it will self-perpetuate.    I’ll have to feed it every 3-7 days depending on how it does, but it should make some terrific bread, or so I hope.

My wife is convinced it’ll kill us all, either through gastrointestinal distress, or we’ll wake up some night in the wee hours to find it standing over our bed with a rolling pin, hard-bent on revenge.   I’ve assured her that this is how sourdough is made, whether at home or at Hardee’s, but she’s traumatized from too many “Amish friendship bread” experiences gone south.

Rotisserie My Ass

I hate, HATE, our “Baby George” Foreman rotisserie oven.   I can never fit a chicken into the bloody thing unless I completely whack it into bits, removing the wings and thigh/legs.   Otherwise, as it rotates, it hits or catches on the burner coils and stops the movement and results in blackened bits that stink up the house.    While the chicken that actually comes out of the oven is moist and lovely, I hate having to trim it all up to make it work.    I suppose on the coasts or a place like Australia where the chickens are the size of pidgeons, this probably works like a charm, but around here, where ours are 5-7 lbs apiece, it just sucks.

So…my kingdom for a rotisserie that doesn’t blow goats.     All that this one is going to be doing from here on out is the occasional gyros and/or beef roast, but its chicken days are over.

The Slathering Beast

If there is anything better in the world than cold, sliced roast beast on a sandwich and slapped with ketchup, then I don’t want to know.   This is something I’ve had for years and years, starting in my childhood, and there’s just something about the bite of the ketchup that marries with the cold, savory beast that is just…well, it’s a culinary guilty pleasure, that’s what it is.   I’m sure there’s some chef flopping about in his vault right now, but so be it, sometimes my tastebuds dance for the cheap thrill.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

However, when we have guests come over, then there’s a great excuse to actually cook! Tonight I had cooking/cleaning/daddy duty while my wife crafted with our friend, Lea, so I decided a little experimentation was in order.   My culinary bits felt antsy, if you will.   Here are the results:

Caramelized Yellow Onions

Of course, we have to start the night off with some good old garnishes intended to lift the soul and line the arteries, and caramelized onions are a great standard.

Caramelized Button Mushrooms

Quickly to follow on that theme, of course, is the mushrooms!   NOM NOM.

Lemonade Roasted Potatoes

Well, ok, I didn’t actually use lemonade, but that’s what I’m calling them.   My own creation, these were roasted in a 425°F oven in some oil, lemon juice, white sugar, parsley, basil, salt, and pepper.   They turned out lovely, with a great crust and a slight lemony flavor.

Pan-Roasted Asparagus with Bacon and Cabbage

My own creation as well, this is a lovely way to make some asparagus.     Brown some bacon to render the fat, add in chopped cabbage and a chopped garlic clove and cook till wilted, then add in the asparagus and about a half cup of water.    Roast until everything is tender and lovely.   Season with a bit of pepper, a little salt, and some smoked paprika.

Rosemary and Sage Flatiron Grilled Steak

Grind up some rosemary and sage in a mortar and pestle, add in a touch of cayenne, some salt, and some black pepper, and grind to a powder.    Pour in some oil and grind together into a paste.     Place on a screaming-hot grill and paint the top side with the paste, doing the reverse side when you flip it.

Grilled Sugared Pineapple Rings

A nice, light dessert, the pineapple rings are simply dusted in white sugar and placed onto the cleaned grate of the grill after the steak is off.     Above high heat, you let them go until they brown on one side, then flip and get some on the other, and you’re done!   Simple, easy, and perfect when you want a little something sweet but you’ve already stuffed your face.

Sebeka Cabernet Pinotage

The 2007 Sebeka Cabernet Pinotage is a fair wine and it was very drinkable considering it was only $6.99 USD.   It did have some harsher mid-tones in the flavor matrix that I could feel, a bitterness that’d creep down the sides of my tongue during the sip, but it wasn’t like the wine was banging on my head, just lightly tapping, so it was very suitable for a casual night’s dinner.

The Whole Spread

And there you have it!   (including my wife’s scrapping supplies).    A simple meal but something more than just regular-old, standard-old food.     I got to play a bit, the reviews were positive, and everyone left the table feeling happy and full.   A success in my book.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Don’t get me wrong — I like spicy food as much as the next guy, and I’m even fond of “hot” foods from time to time, depending on what it is.    What I cannot stand is the food that is SO hot that you simply cannot taste it because it’s 108% pain and -0.01% flavor.   At that point, my culinary brain throws its hands on its hips and goes, “Ok, this isn’t a food experience, it’s a form of legal and willing torture.   This is supremely idiotic.”

I routinely watch a show on PBS called, “Primal Grill“, hosted by Steve Raichlen who is to grilling as Bob Ross was to painting.   His voice and delivery is smooth and engaging and his hairstyle mostly matches.    The show is all about grilling various foods and he leads you through a wide array of dishes with a seemingly neverending array of barbeques.    The man must have a backyard the size of Montana, because he’ll be like, “Ok, we’re going to put this Southeastern Red-Titted Mongoose on a Number 3 double-wishbone snicker-snak and put it on our German-style ceramic chia pet grill for classic indirect direct grilling with rosewood soaked in Buddha’s sweat for smoke flavor.”     If I had all the implements necessary to make his dishes, I’d get kicked out of the house for taking up all the space.

At any rate, Steve LOVES his hot food.    The phrase that really grabbed me the other day, though, was, “One for mild, two for medium, three for extreme, and four for Primal Grill style.”    In other words, hot enough make lava run off whimpering.

What the hell?   What did those baby backs ever do to you? I just…don’t get it.   I like to taste food when I eat, not think I’m being flayed from the inside out.   Anyone with me on this?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

They're heeeeeeere! Fresh tomatoes from the garden! YAY!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

As it turns out, I quite enjoyably dined on two overly-sautéd (hey, I was nervous, too) yet nonetheless supremely tasty morel mushrooms that I found in my back yard one summers eve, no more than and no less than 2 twilights ago.   Fried in some butter and sprinkled with fresh-ground pepper and sea salt, they were as advertised by the howevermany websites and rumors that eating a morel mushroom in Iowa in the springtime is — well, something terribly natural and wholesome.

WHERE HAVE YOU PEOPLE BEEN HIDING THESE FROM ME?!?

“Flavorful,” seems a too-formal word for the fun I had with these buggers tonight.   Sure, it might have been the Whole Stick of Real Cream Butter they were doused in, but really — wow.   Im-pressive.   More than I thought at first blush would emit from something so…wrinkled.   I would pose the question of, “Perhaps other wrinkled things taste like butter-soaked ‘shrooms?” but you wouldn’t want the visual, so I’ll keep that musing to myself.

Oh, damn.   How do I tell them that because of the unfreezing process I have no inner monologue?  I hope I didn’t say that out loud just now.

It’s my understanding that morels do not typically make their appearance to the visual world in the backyard of a bungalow miles from anything hearkening to the terminology, “forest”, and yet, there they were — one large and one large-challenged, sitting there as though it was customary for their kind to be hanging out in the middle of nowhere.   My guess is that their conversation had taken the path of, “Goddammit, I knew we should have stopped at that last stump to ask for directions!  You NEVER listen to me!”   “Oh, shaddup you wrinkled old hag!”   “HEY!   LOOK IN THE MIRROR MR. BOTOX-LESS!!!”

(one can never be sure of the discussions of fungi)

Despite the unusual manifestation, and after checking numerous online sources to determine that these were really morels (they were) and that they were really non-toxic (they are, but only when cooked) and that they weren’t the much-more-impressively-poisonous “false” morel (they weren’t, but did you know that even those are edible after cooking?  You just can’t take any chances that they aren’t cooked or you end up making your own little mushrooms, if you get my drift), I found a simple recipe (gotta start somewhere) and sliced them into some hot moo-fat and off to the races we went.

Sigh.   Culinary adventures?   Check.    Satisfied my danger quotient?   Check.    Amused the wife?

…

Well, there’s always tomorrow.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

If you know me, this is saying a lot.    Generally speaking, mornings can go shag themselves livid on a sandpaper-wrapped splintered broomstick — does the imagery strike you?

On a rare occasion, my messings-around and screwings-off are subdued to the point where I can sacrifice some minutes to actually cook myself a breakfast instead of slapping something sticky from a jar onto something flat and square from a bag and hoping it won’t get jammed halfway down my throat enroute and cause me to end up blue-faced and dead in a cornfield ditch.

That is — EGGS.

There is a proper way to construct a wonderfully succulent fried egg that will make your nipples curl into corkscrews with glee.    I’ve had these twice in the past week and I felt extremely compelled to share because — we all need twisted anatomy, don’t we?    I heartily recommend them if you have the time, inclination, and have not made any great enemies with fowl of late.

1.   The pan you choose should be as important as the thing you cook in it; nobody makes love in a dumpster, please don’t heat your breakfast in one.    This is one of the areas of culinary excellence where a non-stick pan of some pedigree should be chosen, whether that be cancer-causing Teflon, anodized aluminum, or otherwise.    A sauté pan is recommended for the curved sides; you’ll need some help in flipping later, and I don’t mean your house.   Remember, 30 minutes ago you were under the covers and in the arms of a hot member of the opposite sex eating grapes — don’t overestimate yourself so early in the day.

2.  Eggs appear to be a dollar twenty-three a dozen but looks and bulk pricing can be deceiving.    When adding to a box pound cake, whether or not your source hen spent her days roaming the hills of Austria or zip-tied and spread-eagled above a stainless-steel hopper probably matters little, but I guarantee you’ll notice the anguish of your mistake when cooking eggs straight up.   Chip in for the free-range ones, if not the organic, unless you have a local farmer wherein you can extract said food orbs from directly underneath the warm ass of a clucker, whereupon you know you’ve hit the motherlode.   (pun fully intended and appreciated)      A good indicator is yolks that are dark yellow, thick, and well-contained upon entering the pan.

3.  Unsalted butter is the only acceptable lubricant for this endevour.    Margerine is not intended for this sort of cooking (or, really, any cooking), oil is too bland (canola) or uppity (olive), and any other fancy whipped-this or seasoned-that is just a gimmick.     Two to three healthy tablespoons will do nicely in a 8″ pan with 2 – 3 eggs.

4.  Your attention, please!    This is not the time to browse the classifieds or brush the cat; it won’t take you more than 8 minutes or so to cook these, try to hold your enthusiasm for Marmaduke until the end.   A watched pot never boils, but an ignored egg will boink your daughter on the living room couch.

5.  Put your pan on the burner, bring up the heat, and then drop in your butter.   Wait until it is fully dissolved and bubbling merrily before proceeding.   If you have too much unmelted butter when the rest has been bubbling and is starting to brown, you have the heat too high.   The low side of medium high to medium should be your goal for this, but it truly is a feel-and-test sort of thing.

6.  Give each egg a solid whack! on the cooktop to crack it and then split it over the pan.    The purists in the audience will note that at this point, I should be first dumping the insides into a bowl to make sure there isn’t anything funny in there, like a lizard or a pair of pantyhose, but I don’t have time for that.   In a soufflé or pavlova, yes, but for breakfast?  Live a little, people.    A note on the egg white at this point — if your heat is correct, it will go opaque almost instantly along the bottom.   Any delay and your heat is low or the igloo has a draft.

7.  At this time, seasonings should be applied.    For this ultimate fried egg recipe, I shy away from anything but tried and true S&P, but with a new twist, because you want to love these eggs, not just like them.    Liberal amounts of fresh, ground black pepper in the biggest chunks your grinder will create is essential and you would be hard-pressed to apply too much of it.   The pepper has this wonderful property of cutting through the sweetness of the carmelized bits (more on that in a second) and gives a marvelously pungent aroma to the dish.     Finish this with the application of some sea salt granules — just enough to taste and not more than you need.   This is one area where I feel the so-called, “colored”, sea salts have real application as they are both spice and seasoning, but don’t push your luck.

8.  Patience is a virtue as you want to continue to fry the eggs until the surface of the yolks barely start to look dry and you can start to see the very, very edges of the white turn a wonderful brown.    The cook time on this side is about 85% of the total time, so don’t be afraid to go a bit long, but you want to prevent from fully cooking the yolk!    Yes, I know some of you like yours hard, but you are all  strange and odd.   A cooked yolk  means pasty dryness and an overcooked and rubbery white, so avoid trashing a perfectly good egg.   This goes for you, “3 minutes on one side and down the trap” people that prefer it when your food wiggles into your intestines rather than being deposited there.    Creepy.

9.   Cut the eggs apart with your flipper so you have neat packages to flip and then ease them over gently to prevent breaking the yolk.    Remember the admonition to use the sauté pan?   This is the reason why, as gently pushing the egg up the side till it flips back onto your instrument is both a turn-on and terribly handy.

10.   After flipping, count to 20 and turn the heat off; don’t worry, they’ll finish fine.    Let sit for 60 seconds and slide onto a plate.    Grab a fork and try to contain yourself to a ten foot radius of thrashing about as you experience the wonderful joy of — an Excellent Egg.

Bon apetit mes ami.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 14 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The Magic Book of Food

Although our attempts to make it an annual event have not yet come to fruition, the other weekend we got together for the 2nd annual (but not really) meeting of the gourmet chef minds of myself and my friend Lea and tossed together a meal of epic proportions and flavors.    While we usually don’t dump that much money for a single evening of a meal, sometimes you have to splurge for the Good Stuff™.

Herein lies the evidence of the night.   I’m afraid to say that I didn’t get nearly enough photos of the productions of the evening, but there’s a few for you to ‘feast’ your eyes upon.   Click each to make it larger and more lifelike.   Sorry, we have yet to perfect the scratch-’n'-sniff interface, so you’ll have to imagine for now.

Layout of Some Ingredients

We decided upon a combination of Italian and Greek, probably a mix of cultures not done often, but we really both like those cuisines and we have good skill in cooking them, meaning that we’d be able to pull off a nice meal without banging our heads with a saucepan most of the night.

I won’t go through the wines we had, that was covered in my post, Three Wines Meet Liver at Party.

Italian Rye Squares Filling

Appetizer Course

Italian Rye Squares – This is a tried-and-true item that I’ve made many times before.  Grated parmesean cheese, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, kalamata olive oil juice, and Italian seasonings are all mixed together to form a paste.   This is then spread on rye bread squares, topped with your choice of mozzarella or provolone, and then put under a broiler until blissfully melted and warm.    They’re wonderful bite-sized pieces of happiness when done.

Wilting the Spinach for the Spanikopita

Spanikopita Finger Bites – A Lea dish if I ever saw one, which takes the basic spanikopita idea but instead of making it as a dish meal, instead wraps the filling in triangular strips of fillo dough which are brushed with butter and then baked.   The result is a wonderfully rich and flaky outside with a happy, creamy-filled surprise in the middle.

Soup Course

Caramelizing the Onions

Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée – Straight from my Saveur Cooks Authentic French cookbook, this traditional French onion soup is the king of my soupy creation as it is almost impossible to fuck up and always turns out to be this wonderfully sweet and cheesy, fulfilling dish.   If the only french onion soup you’ve tried is from the reconstituted packet, you’re missing out on one of the finer items in life.

Salad Course

Greek Salad

Greek Salad – Nobody makes a wonderful Greek salad like Lea, what with the crunchy lettuce, beautiful tomatoes (she even found cherries, if you can imagine in this freaking wasteland), and the feta — oh god, the feta.   If I die because I ate too much feta in my life, I won’t regret it one single bit.

Italian Pasta Salad

Italian Pasta Salad – My wife’s creation, actually; I can’t take the credit for this one as she did all the work.    Salami, mortadella, provolone, olives, capers, shallots, peas, and pasta, along with a fresh fennel/parsley/basil dressing and you have a light and very approachable salad but lots of flavor to behold.

Main Course

Sliced Gyros Meat

Homemade Gyros – Unlike the meatloafy versions that you normally see, this one actually turned out very much like the “real thing”, spices and all, based on this recipe we found online.   After running a pound of lamb and 2 pounds of ground beef through a hand meat grinder, we combined this with onion and spices and moulded it around the spikes on our Baby George (don’t laugh) rotisserie.    An hour later, we had a juicy, succulent loaf of joy that I cross-sliced into strips and we consumed mightily, complete with lettuce, Greek yoghurt,  and homemade tzatziki sauce.    Amazing.    Spent the rest of the night burping it up, too.

Dessert Course

Just when we thought that our stomachs simply couldn’t hold any more and if we tried stuffing more in, we’d end up in little bits sprayed around the room, we defied all logic and made — DESSERT!

Brown Sugar Bananas

Brown Sugar Bananas – Slightly-fried banana halves doused in a caramelly sauce and sprinkled with pecans — a beautifully happy dish that’s easy to whip up.   The only detractor from the beauty of it was the fact that, while chopping the nuts and having copious amounts of wine, I managed to slice the end of my thumb off and spent the rest of the night with a wad of padding in my hand and my arm above my head to try to staunch the bleeding.    Fortunately, the dessert was saved from needless bloodshed.

Creme Brulee

Cremé Brulée – A “classic” that I had always wanted to make, it came out wonderfully well.     Of course, anything made out of heavy whipping cream, eggs, and sugar, baked slowly in an oven, and then sprinkled with yet MORE sugar and torched to a candied crisp with a propane torch just can’t be wrong.   50,000 calories each and worth every bite.

Other Pictures

Chopped Scallion

Mmm...FETA

Gryos Meat and Onion

Gyros Meat in Rotisserie

Pita Pita

A decanter on every table, and a cap in every ass.

Fire! Fire! Hehheh.

Yours truly, already a bit red-faced, caught in deep thought...or the middle of a fart, it's hard to tell.

Lea! Lea Lea!

My god, it smarted.

Holy hell that’s a lot of food, looking back on it!   But what a night spent with good food, great friends, memorable wine, and a maimed hand.   Here’s to next year’s gathering of the spoons!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Not being one to keep things well and proper to myself, I present to you here the three better wines for your consideration at your next event or evening of mindless debauchery.

2006 Ecco Domani 60/40 Chardonnay/Pinot Grigio

2006 Ecco Domani 60/40 Chardonnay/Pinot Grigio (Italy), $10/750mL

It has been a few years since I had supped of the E.D. and I recalled it as a fine wine that ran down the middle of the road in terms of balance of taste, but I do have to say I was surprised with this bottle.   Normally I despise anything sweet; the stronger it bites me back and more my tongue longs for the cool waters of hydration, the happier I am, but the mouthfeel of this wine was very fun.    Fun like a party consisting of a lot of party hats, confetti, and a few half-soused adults giggling on the couch because someone said, “penis”.

I was also wary of the 60/40 mix, as any wine advertising itself as, “mixed”, usually is anologous to, “crap”, but that was not the case here.    The mix was done well; properties from both grape varieties shone through but danced that sexy tango together without stepping on too many toes.

I was impressed; this wine was lightly fruity, delicate on the sweetness, and incredibly easy to drink.   We used it as one of our “cooking” wines — IE:, we drank it while cooking and conversing, but it would go well with any group of people content on sipping a light wine and snorting at witty topical references.

2007 Alice White Shiraz

2007 Alice White Shiraz (South Australia), $5.95 for 750mL

I’ve always been a big fan of South Australian wines, and of shirazes (shirazi?) in particular, and I have to say that this is no exception to the rule.    The Alice White is a shiraz wine of amazingly smooth flavor and palate; I was really rather blown away by how easily it slid down my gullet without stopping to zing any taste buds in particularly loud notes.    Usually in the shirazi I’ve tasted before, there are quite a few loud chords that stick out; this is not always necessarily bad, but it does cause your mouth to pause a bit and consider what they’re trying to say.

In this case, the message was clear — ‘Drink and Enjoy!’   And so we did, as this was our second “cooking” wine (you know, you have to keep the cooks happy) and it was a very warming progression upwards from “fun” wine drinking into serious consumption.   With just the slightest hint of a woodiness to it, this extremely mellow-flavored wine just felt right in my mouth and even better in my belly.

2007 Banrock Station Merlot

2007 Banrock Station Merlot (South Australia), $6.95/750mL

In Australia, the term, “station”, usually means, “ranch” or “estate” and conjours up images of myriads of sheep and rolling hills covered in their caretakers mounted on wild mustang ATVs.   One might assume that a “Station” wine from such a place would taste a bit, well, farmy.   You’d be incorrect, at least as far as this merlot goes.

We’ve worked our way up now, past the happy, fun wines and the smooth, gullet-pleasing sort, and now we’ve arrived at the Serious Business(tm) of the solid, pronounced merlot, and it is at this point that I excuse myself and go have a cigarrette, because — this, folks — is my orgasmic wine of choice.

It’s fair to say that while I’m not a wine slut by any means, I’ve had a fair whack of merlots in my day ever since I discovered their capacity to dance in my mouth and make me happy (in more ways than one).  I’ve been down the bumpy road, from $4 a bottle el-cheapo budget variety to the  $14-a-glass sort while in San Diego.   At just shy of $7 a bottle and coming from (*gasp*) Wal-mart of all places, you’d bet it’d be a gamble.

The bet paid off, fortunately, and over an amazing dinner of fresh, homemade, spicy gyros, we supped this wine and held some good conversation.   Mr. Banrock Station held its own end of the discussion, coming in nicely behind the extremely strong-flavored meal with a solid face and supportive finish.   This is no time for wimps (especially against that much garlic) and this one didn’t back down from a good fight.

That being said, it cannot be held guilty for being too rough and rowdy.    There are some merlots that not only jump into the ring but grab the nearest folding chair and beat the shit out of the announcer.    This was not the case with this one so, while it was a strong player, it was not a psychotic one and would probably be equally lovely on its own.   It filled my mouth with a nice woody texture and flavor, drawing on tones approaching almost meaty and yet married with a late-summer fruitbasket of tones.   This particular year scored very high on every review I read online and for once, I completely agree.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Although no longer picked by monkeys, this Monkey-Picked Oolong from Teavana’s store of happy stories is one of the top oolong teas you can buy these days, and for a pretty price.   Nicely enough, my kind step-sister&brother got me 2 ounces of it for Christmas.    I tried it for the first time tonight — AMAZING.

I didn’t know about Teavana until my wife and I were wandering around Jordan Creek Mall in Des Moines and happened upon the store while simply browsing around.   The idea of tea enticed me (I’ve always been fond of green tea in particular) and so I went in to take a look at the pots and offerings.   Little did we know that we would spend the next 45 minutes while the saleswoman, a lovely person, spent a huge amount of time explaining all of the different pots, infusers, cups, and teas.    I think she probably let us smell 30 different containers before we finally made our selection, which was only about $34 worth of tea in the end.    A wonderful employee and equally wonderful tea.   We’re now fully biased against regular old tea bags for just about anything.

(I have no connection to Teavana nor am I getting compensation for this; I simply like their product, that’s all!)

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

At its root, it’s so very simple — flour, water, yeast. Various modifiers exist to enhance flavor, texture, and presentation, but those are the basics. With a little simple science involving the gluten proteins in the flour, our soggy lump of wet ground wheat turns into a fluffy, soft, spongy, and utterly delectable concoction.

Simpler foods exist — heck, most fruits involve far less labor and toil, and don’t require any modification to the way they come off the plant in order to eat them.   For bread to be viable, you have to harvest the grain, separate it from the rest of the plant, dry it, grind it to a flour, mix it with water, yeast, and other ingredients, kneed it, let it rise, kneed it again, form it, and bake it.

Despite all this, it still remains one of our biggest staples.    What a curious thing to choose, I think.

I bit the bullet and made some homemade bread the other night, since my son is allergic to milk and soy, I was able to make a good loaf without any of those items and I turned out two of them.    I have new appreciation for the effort involved, as it took probably 3 hours of time and plenty of elbow grease, but there’s nothing quite liek the texture of good bread when done — and the smell!   Well, let’s just say, the candle makers haven’t gotten that one correct yet.

As you can see in these photos, the loaves turned out well, and Keston had a great time watching daddy be a baker.

So, dear reader — what’s your thoughts on this primal and universal of foods?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 13 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The Good Bacon Fairy (thanks, Dad!) recently blessed us with two packages of the finest, homegrown pickled pork which we only let rest in the freezer for a day before the allure overcame us and we construed to toss together a brace of pancakes just to bolster the excuse that we were having, “breakfast for supper,” when in reality we didn’t want to have it look like we had a meal entirely consisting of carved swine belly.

This was Keston’s first foray into this delicacy and, despite the fact that the poor sod was horrifically berift with a cold, still had a great time mowing down on America’s favorite morning meat.   (We gave him only the lean bits, I assure you.)  I think he has a bright future in the breakfast food department.

See below for the evidence that a good time was had by all, even the meat itself, as it bubbled merrily on the griddle.    I am particularly fond of Yolanda’s, “Mmmm….bacon” face, which I think she does marvelously.

 

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Until now, that is. Maybe the perils of age come with a few pearls of glory.

My father came over with his overpowered tiller on Sunday afternoon and proceeded to beat the tar out of the soil that had lain dormant over the long winter, cussing slightly because I had thought it best to drown it in a few inches of compost, leaves, and grass clippings for good measure. But the old bear of a tiller was the victor in the long run, slapping it into submission, and by evening I had a good plot going.

Normally I would let it sit there for a few days, but I thought I should get a jump on it and tossed handfuls of seeds into hoed trenches, all the while attempting to space them correctly but not so accurately that I would be chagrined for being a pompous anal git.

In this pursuit I discovered a wonderful invention — seed tape. For the uninitiated (as I was, prior to this season), seed tape is where they take something very similar to toilet paper and lay the small seeds of some unfortunate plant (a lettuce mix in this case) between the layers, pre-spaced and pre-mixed for your pleasure. And pleasure I did as it took a ton of frustration out of the process and instead replaced it with maniacal glee at the prospect of planting an entire row of lettuce in 30 seconds or less.

In total, I laid down 4 rows of peas, 3 of yellow onions, 2 of lettuce salad mix, 2 of parsnip, 1 of peanuts, and 3 of green beans. For markers I tried something new, hacking foot-and-a-half lengths of 1/2″ PVC pipe with a saw and hammering them into the ground at the head of each row. That took up about half of the length of the garden.

For the rest, I was planning on planting our usual OMG array of tomato plants. We found out the first year that the red fruit grows extremely well in our soil and, since we love doing things with them, they are our typical “bumper crop” item. However, we buy plants, not seeds, and I had yet to obtain them.

Tuesday evening after work, I decided to find a greenhouse I had seen advertised in Charles City where I work. Since the alternative was either Wal*Mart or a local greenhouse about 15 minutes from home, I thought it couldn’t hurt to check it out.

I tell ya, I’ve found my new favorite greenhouse.

The place is immaculate with this huge array of absolutely gorgeous flowers that makes me want to terraform my entire backyard and house into perpetual flowerbeds. I wandered up and down the aisle just taking in the flood of colors and scents, pure candy to the eyes.

The vegetable section was small, but the quality was not diminished and I was able to pick up 32 tomato plants of 3 different varieties, pay my $17.50 for them, and head on home. Upon arriving home, I checked the darkening sky and radar and decided that I could make a run for it. Over the next half hour I ran, sweated, dug, shoved, planted, and covered all of the plants and still had 5 minutes to stand and watch the sky before the floodgates opened and dumped one of the most gorgeous rains ontop of us.

I love rains like those…start in the evening, done by morning, and a steady yet full downpour that really soaks and settles the ground, cleans the air, and generally makes everything go from simply greenish to GREEN.

And, for the first time, my garden was completely in the ground, leaves and dreams turned towards the skies, taking in that first deep soaking. I smiled to myself as I exited the house this morning, glancing towards my well-saturated garden, and internally patted myself on the back for figuring out the game like the gardeners that I admired. I might not have it all figured out, and the weeds are just as likely to grow this year as any, but I’ve won the first round. Bring on the summer!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 7 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

A couple of days ago, I managed to gather that Jessica Seinfeld, wife of famed and funny Jerry, was on Her Majesty’s program to promote her new cookbook about how to hide vegetables within foods that children have naturally found easy to stuff down their maws in large quantities, thus avoiding a task that most parents have found to be unpleasant at best. As many have found, broccoli would go down a lot easier in the younger generation if it was coated with frosting, carbonated, and deep fried in a rich, caramel sauce.

So, Jessica’s method of circumnavigating this parental mountain is to simply whip all manner of plant material into the consistency of Slim-Fast and incorporate it in the mix for any number of foods that are more acceptable to the refined and delicate palates of children. Ha-HA! Take that, ye denizens of culinary hell, we have you pegged now! Enjoy those chicken nuggets, but beware — they’re chock-full of nutrition! Naturally, Oprah loves this shit and presented it as God’s own nectar and the saviour of cooking-frustrated parents everywhere. The rash of people showing up at Wal*mart that afternoon to purchase a Cuisinart must have been impressive.

Does anyone else besides me see a problem with this entire idea? The consuming of various vegetables may not be the most memorable experience for a child, but it certainly isn’t an event that should be traumatic or detrimental to their development as a human being. The show had some parents and children on there that threw huge tantrums about eating veggies and the exasperated parental units lamented that their days were filled with the screams of their tortured offspring who were being crippled by the carrots, bled dry by the beets, and ostracized by
the onions!ostracized by the onions!

Give me a break.

All this points to is a lack of boot-in-ass-itis, and the children are both infected and carriers of the disease. Eating vegetables, as well as other foods of varying types, is part of learning to be a discerning human being who has the ability to try and experiment with any number of culinary creations and to not be rude about ones that don’t appeal to them. Saying, “I don’t prefer these” is a skill to be developed, not avoided. Giving in to immature refusals and resorting to trickery seems to me to be a bad parenting technique. What are you going to do when they don’t want to do chores, take laundry to the pool, toss it into the water, and encourage kiddo to play “sink-the-bra”?

Mrs. Seinfeld’s ideas aren’t completely out of whack, of course. The idea of incorporating more healthy ingredients into any recipe is encouraged and smart. However, there are limits to how far you should go to combat what is, in most cases, a lack of parental effort in discipline and instruction, not a crisis of creativity. Of course, this goes for a lot of things, not just food creations.

I do, however, have to wonder about Jessica herself, because she seems a bit too involved in this entire, “puréeing”, thing. A quote for you, to demonstrate: “This is a secret that most people don’t know about me…I love puréeing and packaging,” she says. “I used to just have like one or two purées, but this has changed my purée paradigm.”

Purée paradigm?

Oh, sweetie, you have serious problems, and I’m not talking about mathematics.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 10 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Don’t get me wrong — I like it well enough. It’s horribly lean, tastes reasonably good, and is fairly cheap. It comes in pretty little green plastic tubes, frozen, and fits conveniently in my freezer. I can eat one without feeling guilty, and in a pinch, the frozen packages double as hammers.

It still disturbs the hell out of me, though.

It’s the idea of a turkey, that golden-plump bird sitting nestled in the middle of a silver platter, juices glistening on the crispy skin, the succulent flesh letting off slight puffs of steam as it waits, anticipating the first glorious slice of the cleaver, ready to fall apart into moist slices of happiness for the clamoring crowd at the table — now reduced to a ground-up meatpaste in a plastic tube.

The same aversion could be said for cows, but we’re rather used to consuming beef in the ground-up format. Nobody says, “Yeah, I’m having the family over. I went to the store and lugged home a 1,200 pound steer, I hope it’s enough,” and then tries to serve it with stuffing. We’re pretty much O.K. with the idea of a large animal like that converted to a more portable and moldable state, but something like a turkey, a duck, or a chicken is supposed to stay whole and recognizable.

Of course, this is because we don’t like chickens or turkeys, because they’re not cute. When you bake a chicken to perfection, it looks 183% nicer in its cooked, basted state than it ever did as an adult chicken, and turkeys aren’t
exactly
winning prom datesturkeys aren’t exactly winning prom dates left and right, either. Render them naked, baked, and stuffed with dried bread, though, and boy howdy — have we got a looker. You’ll hear people walk around for days after Thanksgiving going, “Good lord, did you see the turkey Aunt Betty cooked up? I could have taken that bird to bed with me it looked so good.”

Rabbits, pheasant, deer, kangaroo, and other animals, however, we feel necessary to render unrecognizable, not so much for their size, but because they’re good-looking beasts. Nobody wants cooked rabbit to look like a rabbit, that fuzzy little bunny out in the lawn chewing madly on your carrot tops — no, make it look like CHICKEN, because then we feel better about eating an ugly animal that, clearly, had it coming anyway. I think this is also why manufacturers do not put cute cartoon characters of the animals on the packages of meat, as they’re afraid of upstaging the product by accident. “I think I’ll skip the, ‘Kuddly Kanga Ground Roo’, for now, thanks.”

And face it…Bambi scarred all of us as kids. You just couldn’t bring yourself to slice up a hot, steamy flank of doe-eyed deer on Christmas, not after losing his mother like that. Make it into jerky or sausage, though, and we’ll gnaw on it for weeks. For that matter, sausage takes any animal and any part of that animal and makes it into an attractive dish, as we are all well-aware of, but refuse to think about as we’re browsing for some wienies at the store.

So, as long as our food, as prepared, looks better than it did when it was alive, we’re ok; our food consumption is primarily based on the ignorance of its content anyway (preservatives, anyone?), so why not make it look attractive?

Turkey burger still freaks me out, though, but not enough to skip it.

*Gobble*

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 7 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Well, ok, not really, but my subconscious apparently likes the idea.

RR’s daytime cooking show is a regular staple on our bedroom TiVo, and we watched it so much that several months ago I had this dream that my wife and Rachael got “involved” and us two couples formed a sort of triangular love alliance. (Yolanda & I, Rachael & Yolanda, Rachael and her hubby — no male/male interaction, thanks.)

I’ve always thought that Rachael is terribly cute, despite her random moments of bubble-yum blondness. She’s got a great smile, a good, fun personality, makes some pretty decent, normal food, and has cute…uhm…assets. The woman is popular for many reasons, mostly because she has a very engaging manner while on the tube, tries not to take herself too seriously, and generally sounds like the sort of person you’d sit down with in a cafe and crack jokes over a latte.

There are definitely some non-flattering photos of her, especially on the boxes and signs advertising her cookware. What is with that? She looks completely fake with caked-on makeup and a totally uncharacteristic expression on her face. They would sell more, I think, if they had a picture of her in PJs on the front, rampant bedhead looking like a wounded badger attempting to make off with a pillow.

So, in general, she’s a nice person and has good looks. I had no idea, however, that she had done a photo shoot for FHM Magazine in 2004. FHM, for those not in the know, is a men’s magazine that features, among other things, tastefully-clad women of various sorts. It’s not porn, it’s more of an appreciative review of the female form. It is to pretty women what a car rag is to hotrods, if you will.

Now….Rachel’s cute enough when she’s on her show, flinging salt in all directions and bantering with celebrities, but what do you think about these photos — is it hot in this kitchen or is it just me?

Bet you never saw Julia Child do anything like that.

Ok, now I’m going to have to go shower that thought out of my head while, “The Crying Game” plays in the background.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

But the thing we waited most for was after the mixing, and the pouring or shaping, because that was when the utensils, still glistening with the syrupy stickiness of the leftover recipe, were offered up as an offering to the sugar deities with a casual invocation of, “Now…who wants to lick the spoon???”

Stampeding rabid buffalo in heat couldn’t have kept us from the glory of that privilege. “ME! MEEEE!!!!”

Sometimes there was more than one spoon available and we each got one…sometimes it was winner-take-all. I did notice that many times, Mom used two spoons to mix the cookie dough. That seemed a little wasteful. Also, I suspect that she failed to remove quite all of the cake mix from the beaters before handing them to us kids to clean off. I’m sure that was just because she was distracted…baking takes a lot of mental power, ya know.

We’d fall upon them with all the gusto of a vulture on Roadkill Appreciation Day. Quick work was made of whatever concoction had been rendered and the thoroughly-cleaned apparatus were returned to the sink for some washing, although I think by the time we got done, not even microcellular organisms existed on those spoons and beaters.

Nowadays, I often use a spatula to clean out jars and cans of various substances and, if it is a particularly sweet thing, I’ll find myself saying out loud, “Now…look at that. Isn’t that a shame? I got pie filling all over the spatula, down the handle, and covering my hand. Well, we can’t put that into the pie, can we? The food surgeon general wouldn’t approve. Might poison someone. Hrm…well, only one thing to do!” And I fulfill my civic duty by putting myself in the line of danger and removing all food product from the utensil with my tongue.

Hey…it’s tough work protecting the public from such threats. Very *burp!* tough work.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

My wife, my friend Brett, and I had decided to grab some much-needed sustenance after barbershop rehearsal, so we headed to the local Perkins restaurant in Mason City which serves a dearth of both evening-type foods and breakfast goodies around the clock.

As we walk in, we notice that it’s rather bare, but that’s not too surprising at 10:50pm, so we hang out at the counter for a bit. The waitress comes trotting up with a look of disgust on her face.

“We close in 10 minutes.” What? Not even a, ‘hello’ or ‘Welcome to Perkins’? Ooooookaaaaay….

“So, we can’t get any food?”

“Well, yeah, for the next 10 minutes.” As her facial expression is screaming, ‘Please, God, NO!’

“But you’ll be pissed.”

“No. It’s just that the cook has already turned off half his grill, and…” Survey says: ‘Yes, I’ll be pissed, and you’ll get completely shitty service out of me.’

“Uhm….ok.” Me flabbergasted by this point at this obvious display of, ‘Go awayness’. “I guess we’ll….uh….just leave then…” and I start wandering away towards the restrooms to collect my wife.

“Well, you can stay and order something, but only for the next 10 minutes.” Half-hearted attempt at, ‘Maybe I’ve fucked up here.’

By this time, I’m in no mood to parley. “NO, that’s ok, we’re leaving.” Wife exits the restroom. “We’re leaving.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?” she says. “Yes.”

We head towards the door, and the cute blonde hostess behind the counter tries calling after us, “Really, we’re open for another 10 minutes, you can order something!”

“No,” I reply, not even turning around, “we’re clearly not wanted,” and walked out.

Incredible, isn’t it? The sheer *gall* that people have today. I understand that they close in 10 minutes, and if I come in and sit down and order something, I’m going to be 30 minutes at least, because I don’t like inhaling my food and then sprinting out. Tough shit if you’ve had a long day and don’t feel like customers staying past closing time, that’s how your business works. You don’t kick anyone ELSE out at the stroke of 11, do you? Then why are you so cranky about someone showing up at 10:50? I understand, I’ve been there, and I know what it’s like to be at the end of your day and customers just keep interrupting your plans to go home, and that sucks. But that doesn’t matter — you still have to be professional, smile, greet them, and act like they’re important, even if inside your head you are saying, “Thanks for showing up just before closing, jackass.” Absolutely unbelievable.

In the end, we decided that it wasn’t worth our time because they’d probably spit in our food anyway, so….best to go somewhere else. We caught some greasy food at Denny’s and all was ok.

Man…and all I wanted was some pancakes.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Green tea, ginseng, fingfing, lizard tongue, extract of newt — you’re pretty sure that you’ve been transported to a small village in the middle of fartfairy nowhere and the local medicine man is shoving a dusty bottle into your hand, telling you to take a couple of slugs and call him in the morning — if you make it.

Really — these are the visions of my childhood, made real in the crappy, 12 frame-per-second illustrations of a half-lit Saturday morning at the boob tube. I imagine that Lipton consists of a bunch of green-faced, cranky old ladies with gigantic cast iron tubs in front of them over a flame and mumbling, “Bubble, bubble, boil and trouble.”, all the while fondly caressing their flying cleaning devices and sipping Snapple.

But, at any rate, why did these suddenly appear? I can’t imagine that these various plants have been hidden all this time and people have suddenly decided that they make something good to chug after a run around the block. It has definitely become a popularity contest, except that, unlike in 5th grade when it was a challenge to see who would eat the nastiest thing, it is now, “Who will buy a drink made with the juice of an X?”

I want to be one of those researchers who discover ingredients for these things.    I’ll bet they get very nice trips (first class, of course) to remote locations where a tour guide named, “Fantot”, leads them to the top of a hill to show them the native flora.   The researcher then spends an hour or two looking at the strangest plants in the vicinity and saying to himself, “Sure, it kills all flies that land on it and looks like the ass-end of a squirrel, but can I squeeze it and make people drink it?”

The slogans and claims are even better.    We’ve gone far beyond the mundane and everyday, “refreshing”, beverage — now they must do something for you.    “Fold laundry faster!     Pave roads quicker!”   Anything and everything can be written on the side of these cans and bottles, and the funny thing is — people really go for it.

Here’s some translations for you all who are wondering what the latest terms really mean:

“Greater mental clarity!” — The air is so pretty, I could just snort it.

“More energy! Greater stamina!” — And you’ll be up all night, hovering over your bed, because you’re hyped on smack.

“Burns calories!” — Well, of course it does.   It also causes cracks in the concrete from your knee bouncing like a guitar string on speed.

“Mellowing”  — If you mean bringing you up to a speed where you’re shaking so fast that your vision clears, then yes.

All of these products are clearly marketed to the teen to 35 year old group, because they all look like you could slap four Goodyears on them and have yourself a race-worthy vehicle — when all you’re really getting is a Dodge Caravan with spinning hubcaps.    You could probably zip open the can, flatten it, and use it to decorate a disco afterwards — and with the boost in energy, who needs a hammer to pound in the nails when your own fingertips work fine?

So, head on over to your local store and slug back a few of these “wonder drinks”.   Just when you think life couldn’t get more hectic, we’ve now invented a way to make it go faster.   Just nevermind the powdered teeth in the morning, eh?  

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS