We all have our vices.

I can live without coffee, tea is just fine. Dare I say I could live without chocolate? Okay, I won’t go there just yet. But the mangosteen… The sweetest and most velvety of fruits I cannot live without. I decided this in 2005 when I had my first, and what I thought until recently, last taste.

Many have never heard of a mangosteen. The fruit looks like a freakishly juicy garlic in a tough, thick plum exterior. The taste is unbelievable. The flavor is a cross between tangerine, mango and papaya with a texture that is soft butter. It is the caviar of the fruit world. And you will pay near-caviar prices if you can find it outside the tropics.

I met the mangosteen in Shanghai, late August, 2005. I had just turned off Nanjing Road, a main shopping district, “booya-ing” my way through the crowd. (I know this sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I was told “bu” was a form of “no” and “boo-ya” was essentially, “no thank you” or “I don’t want.” As men approached offering to escort me to factories to purchase designer bags and DVDs, I simply droned a continuous stream of “booya” from my lips. I still think it sounds like I was having a plethora of “ah-ha” moments: Ah, booya! That’s what I thought.)

I turned off the main road and saw a man carrying a large basket of what I thought were plums over his shoulders. As he approached, I readied my booya when I noticed these were not plums at all. The fruit had cute little green caps and appeared to be garlic inside. For an unknown reason, I decided to buy the strange fruit. A few steps away I broke it open, frozen as this new sweetness filtered through my senses. I returned to where I had found the fruit vendor, looking to buy more, but he was gone. I returned the next day, and every day until I left, hoping he would return. I searched fruit markets and soon decided it must have all been an illusion. I would never find this fruit again. It did not exist.

Over breakfast one day I discussed this hallucination to some locals. Ah, the mangosteen, they knowingly smiled. But that was all. It was hard to find, I was lucky to find one. I left China with only a hint at this fruit never to find it again. I was lucky to have the name.

When I returned to New York, I scoured the internet seeking outlets for the fruit in my area. Surely, I thought, with such a large local Chinese population I could once again find this fruit smuggled through the lines. I printed a picture of the mangosteen and took to Chinatown, both Manhattan and Queens, on foot at different times of the year, hoping I could turn up the slightest lead or acknowledgment. Nothing. I thought surely I had lost this taste of paradise, only to be had should I return to Asia.

A recent trip to the Queens Chinatown for wonton wrappers turned into an unexpected surprise.

There is a supermarket in this neighborhood I visit that can leave me wandering aisles for hours. I can purchase anything from a wok to fish balls, to full, uncut oxtails to every imaginable ginger candy. It is a day’s excursion into the supermarket. My favorite aisle is the produce section. With a fresh seaweed bar, young ginger, purple potatoes, and more Asian pears than I knew existed, I can always find something fun. I picked up my wonton wrappers, some kimchee, hot bean sauce and rounded into the produce aisle.

I saw them right away. I cannot believe it! I said to my friend, A. There they were, tucked into a corner, 5 nylon sacks, each containing a few purplish orbs. I had found the mangosteen without actually seeking it out. (Although we could argue that all my trips into Chinatown are forever in search of the mangosteen.)

Most often, the best produce at this supermarket is fought over violently. I have been in the middle of a ruckus of senior citizens literally shoving me over for kumquats. Where were the crowds for the mangosteen? Were these people crazy to pass this sacred fruit? As I grabbed my bag, holding it close to my chest expecting a tackle, I noticed the price: $12.99 per pound.

I had to have them. I was an addict awaiting my fix. I waited 3 years for this moment and was not going to let this fruit depart my side.

What is it? A Jewish mango? A asked. Silly man! None for you! I turned wild eyed and raced to checkout.

Just over 2 pounds of my fruit came to $30 for 9 fruit, or $3 per fruit. Priced over a 3 year wait, I paid mere pennies per day for my future moments of joy. What a steal!

Sadly, I just finished my last mangosteen. Already shaking for more, I’m already contemplating going back to buy the remaining bags. Can I really wait another 3 years?

I’ll also mention I understand the huge burden on the environment when we chose imported fruits over local. Anyone who reads this blog regularly should know my stand in the debate. I do not purchase imported fruits on a regular basis, and as I said, this one mangosteen is a vice.

Want to learn more about wine? I have found that right up there with visiting vineyards, wine events can teach a person a great deal about wine.

Sure, read all you want. It will help you understand the history of regions, what grows best where, and how we got the delicious Cabernet Sauvignon grape (a cross of Sauvignon Blanc and Cabernet Franc). But tell me Burgundy’s reds (read: Pinot) have an earthier, more leathery and downright “merde-y” (horse droppings) nose compared with their U.S. west coast sisters, which tend to lean towards cranberries and strawberries, and I’ll have little idea what you’re talking about. More likely, I’ll never taste a Burgundian red for fear of merde.

But head to a wine event and you will be more than pleasantly surprised.

When I go searching for a bottle of Pinot at the liquor store, I know to tell the merchant I prefer Burgundian-style Pinots, not the New World style. Meaning what? I can more often find a bottle of reasonably priced wine I will enjoy– even if do not know the producer.

My Pinot lessons came to me in a great flood of red at a wine event called Pinot Days. For two days I subjected myself to drinking copious amounts of delicious Pinot Noir, speaking with wine makers, and sitting through tasting flights to compare regions head-to-head. It was true torture swallowing all that wine, but I survived. I even have a few new favorite vineyards from the experience.

The lessons I picked up at this event and others, have stayed with me more than any book. It is when you drink wine, with someone knowledgeable to guide you, that you can truly retain information (at least that’s how my brain works). After all, it’s in the experience.

If you have the opportunity, and enjoy wine, I implore you to visit an upcoming wine event. Most are open to the public and offer tastings of some fabulous wines you would never pay for on your own. Better still, you will probably walk away with a new favorite style or producer.

Some upcoming wine events in 2007 around the country include:

• Wine Spectator Magazine hosts their New York Wine Experience, October 25-27.
• Head to Kohler, WI for the Kohler Food & Wine Experience, October 26-28.
• The Denver International Wine Festival is November 1-4.
• The next Pinot Days will take place November 9-10 in Chicago, IL.
• Heading to Yosemite, CA November 4-December 6? Check out The Vitner’s Holiday.
• The Food Network hosts their Wine and Food Festival November 16 in NYC.
• Local Wine Events carries smaller listings by cities of upcoming wine functions. Also check local event websites for more area happenings.

This  post was also published on Associated Content.

D and I have returned from an August whirlwind of driving. It all started in upstate NY near the Vermont border with a music gig and a tour of the farm that supplies our grass-fed beef. We had a lovely, though all too short, stay in the country where $2.50 milkshakes could be had nightly at the local ice cream shop! (We thought this to be a great bargain what with the manual labor that goes into milkshakes.) Off to Niagara Falls where we got sprayed by mist and then high-tailed it to Indianapolis for the remainder of our vacation.

This was the vacation of the farm.

I found a great raw milk dairy and farm just outside Indianapolis that offers bi-monthly courses on cheese making, milling grains, breads, jams, canning and more. Our stay happened to fall upon a cheese-making course. D, his family and I sampled a range of fantastically hay-scented cheeses, creams

and spreads while we learned how to make ricotta, sour cream, buttermilk, creme fraiche and more. The farm has a cow share program, offering its raw milk to shareholders. We weren’t able to take home the milk, but we made due with some raw (not for human consumption) butter, fresh eggs (the darkest yolks I have ever seen), grass-fed beef, and fantastically rich chocolate milk from a nearby minimally pasteurized dairy.

The Indiana State Fair, as always, was the highlight. Correction: the Dairy Barn at the Indiana State Fair was the highlight. Double Correction: Pioneer Village is always the highlight, but how can you resist 25 cent milk refills?

I took my share of photos containing signs tooting deep fried edibles (Pepsi being the strangest) and we chatted about how the Fair was now frying in non-hydrogenated oils (recently featured in the NYTimes along with a piece about raw milk a few days after I wrote about it). This year’s Fair was “The Year of

Corn” evident from the Agribusiness-touting signs in front of corn stalks all around the Fairgrounds. There was also a room displaying about 30 (even though there are thousands) products chock full of corn. All hail for mono-cultures…

D and I also decided that we would call our country’s other great monoculture, soy, edamame at the Fair, asking folks what they thought about our nation’s great edamame boom. Unfortunately, “The Year of C

orn” had very little edamame praise around. Maybe next year.

The next day, D and his mother made a purchase of a beautiful blue grill that his mother proceeded to call the “Colt Grill” (after the football team). Later that night we apparently made “Colt burgers” though I

noted we probably don’t want to call everything we make on the grill “Colt X.” Other than the “Colt burgers,” which were really beef steaks. D’s mother also mentioned that she had a fabulously memorable salad at a new restaurant in town that contained peaches. That night, we grilled up some peaches to create our own version of the salad.

The salad was truly the highlight of the meal. It was colorful and full of texture and flavors. From the sour crumble of the blue cheese, the sweet syrupy nature of the peaches to the crisp freshness of the

cucumbers. A hit that will be made again before the summer comes to an end.

The next day we witnessed cow milking and some real free-range chickens at a farm that was part agri-tainment. We headed to the farmer’s market on-site where D’s mother proclaimed we needed some meat to make our Colt burgers for the night.

“Uhhh… she’s talking about the football team, we’ll just take some pork chops.”

“You guys must really like football.”

We headed home and relaxed for our last night together, grilling up the last of the season’s “Colt burgers.”

Grilled Peach Salad
Serving Size= 4. Active Time= 15 minutes.
2 ripe peaches (or nectarines)
1 medium-sized head red leaf lettuce (or other lettuce)
1/2 cucumber
1 ripe Hass avocado
1/2 cup crumbled blue cheese (or like cheese)
1/4 cup mixed (or Kalamata olives) optional
juice of 1 lemon
3 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons olive oil
salt/ pepper to taste

1) Ready gas or charcoal grill. While grill is warming, prepare salad:
2) Slice peaches into 8 segments. Carefully pull apart each segment and brush all sides with the 2 tablespoons olive oil, set aside.
3) Wash and drain the lettuce, add it to the salad bowl. Slice the cucumber, avocado, crumble the blue cheese and add them to the lettuce. Top with olives, sprinkle lemon juice and remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil over salad. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4) Grill the two meat sides of the peaches until blackened, about 3 minutes each side. Careful when transporting peaches to the salad bowl as they will be juicy and can easily fall apart. The sugars will have caramelized adding a fabulous color and scent to the peaches.
Note: No grill? Mimic the grill in your broiler! Broil your fruit about 3 minutes each side, until blackened for a similar great taste!

D has a gig upstate mid-August and I’m prepping for the journey. We joke that I seek out all the dairies, pick-your-owns and county fairs along the way, while D finds all the historical homes to visit. I’m getting an early jump on this one…

A few weeks back D and I went to Artisanal for a cheese course with Mateo Kehler, cheese maker at Jasper Hill Farm in Vermont. (Mateo also graces the cover of the current Art of Eating quarterly.) We ate his cheese and fell in love with the beauty of raw milk. Then Mateo slammed down the ultimate question:

“Have you ever had fresh milk? Right out of the cow? It’s warm and sweet like melted ice cream.”

I don’t know who you think you are but that sounds good– And I don’t even like melted ice cream! I eat it quickly just so it won’t melt on me!

Other than this cheese tasting, my CSA pairs with some farms that offer raw milk cheese. The cheeses have a nuttier, creamier texture that I have come to love. Even the hard cheeses seem to just melt in the mouth. But that is just more raw milk cheese. We’re looking for fresh milk.

Well heck! Where do you find a cow’s teet for fresh milk in NYC?! I should have taken my chance when I was about 5 and my class spent a day on a Wisconsin farm– I even milked a cow myself. If they had told me then that the milk in that red bucket tasted like ice cream I probably never would have left the farm.

And now, while I’m ever farther from a farm… Maybe, I suppose, I could settle on raw milk.

A search uncovered that only farms with state-issued permits can sell raw milk direct (from the farm). That’s a hard thing to find in NYC. So now I’m looking into farms that might be along our journey to find raw milk. Still… even better if I can find a bucket of fresh milk….

Photo taken from the Jasper Hill Farm website.

My good friend, DR, married his love, L, last weekend. Despite the fact that the couple lives only a few blocks from us here in NYC, they decided a California wedding was in order (L is from the SF area). D and I flew out for the affair and added some wine tasting, visitations of friends and relatives, camping, mud baths and canoeing into the mix– not to mention some delicious food– nothing too extravagant.

We started the journey in San Francisco with one of my best of friends, A. I met A when I met DR and we’ve remained close through the years. I’ve travelled to Egypt and Lebanon with her and then she up and left me for grad school way out west. Such is life.

D and I arrived with visions of tacos on our mind. Instead, A had a feast of lentils prepared. All I could think of was D and his “weird girly mush” qualms. We ate the mush, which was truly delicious mush, then headed out to Baker Beach, up a 5-story (if not longer) sand ladder and took in the views. Later that night we met up with some folks at a local Mission district bookstore that is BYO as you browse (nothing like a little beer to loosen up your purchasing decisions). Post-book buying we grew hungry for tacos and ended at the sun-bright venue, Cancun, along Mission (convenient since A lives steps away).

I got a carnitas (slow cooked pork) super taco (super comes with sour cream and avocado slices). There is something about California Mexican food. It is too delicious. Is it their seasoning? Maybe it is the freshness of the ingredients, the closeness to home? Maybe it’s the water? The tacos out there are definitely good. Downed with a Pacifico and lime– A perfect end to the night.

The next morning we headed south along a fog heavy Highway 1 towards the vineyards of SCM– otherwise known as Santa Cruz Mountain Appellation. Turning off Highway 1, we headed down windy mountain roads and made our first stop of the day at Bonny Doon. Their wines are fun, interesting, and best of all, affordable. Highlight was the Monferrato, a blend of ruche, barbera and syrah. It had an intense rose petal nose, was round and fruity and a good price to boot. We bought a few bottles and headed to Hallcrest Vineyard and then to David Bruce (closed for restocking).

After driving those crazy roads we were ready to relax (at least our stomachs were). D and I headed out to meet my grandma, aunt and uncle for some beers at a local pub in Santa Cruz that brews their own. On to Marieanne’s for some of their top notch homemade ice cream after that. I tried the horchata ice cream (horchata is a cinnamon infused Mexican rice drink), but went with a scoop of Mexican Chocolate, also chock full of cinnamon. We slept happy with all that wine, beer and ice cream in our bellies…

Breakfast Latvian style was in order the following day. My grandmother whipped out her fresh apricot jam for her special apple pancakes and everyone dug in. These pancakes are everyday breakfast pancakes, slightly sweeter and with a little more elasticity than your regular American fare. The recipe lives in my grandmother’s head, she tastes as she goes until the recipe is “just right,” only she really knows.

My uncle happily showed off his garden, especially his “smart worms” who are on their way “to college” in Santa Cruz, but SCU apparently keeps killing his worms there and he keeps giving them more. We headed up his backyard hill and battled with the dogs as we picked and ate blackberries, warm and sweet, right off the bush. But the morning ended as we were on our way to a sunset wedding. A beautiful affair, but still, D and I had wine on our minds…

A few days later D and I departed the SF area, north on Highway 1, to our campground along the Russian River, just past Korbel. That night, we hit Gary Farrel, Davis Bynum, Belvedere and Rochioli. The two times we passed by my buddies at Arista they were closed. Arista makes a great pinot with some tobacco and wet leather in there. I was excited to stop by and check out their facility, but I guess that will have to happen next time. Rochioli and Farrel were disappointments, especially after all the accolades we’ve heard. I suppose Rochioli is more for their club members and they are not pouring their tasty bottles for passerbyers– why bother when you have a 7 year wait list for regular members? What they were pouring seemed to scream “members only.” Despite all this, Farrel did have the best tasting room views of the week.

Belvedere took great joy in their visitors. With Jazz on Saturdays, comfortable outdoor space, a down-to-earth demeanor, and heavy pours, they really welcome guests. Their Alexander Valley Sauv-Blanc was tropical and fun. Their Russian River Chardonnay had a great gravel nose with hints of oak.

At Davis Bynum we passed up the freebies for a flight of their pinot noirs. Highly enjoyable and each one grew more complex with deeper nose characteristics as the tasting progressed.

July 4th we made our first stop at Simi. Our friend M turned us on to the joy of Simi just over a year ago with a bottle of their Chardonnay and we have happily consumed more wine than we can afford from that day forward. It was then that we realized that not all California Chardonnays oaked so much that they produce a gag reflex. Simi is thick caramel on the nose, honeysuckle on the tongue, and pure joy all around. With that, we passed the freebie tasting and headed for a flight of their delicious Chardonnay.

From there, a surprisingly empty Ridge in Dry Creek Valley found our company. This didn’t stop us from diving right into their Zinfandels. The Lytton Springs was big and fruity and full of delicious berry complexity. I’m still a fan of their 3 Valley, but if I’m in the mood to put down some money, I’ll definitely spring for some of their higher priced bottles. I’m also on the lookout for their Ponzo, not on the tasting, but at a reasonable price, I’d be willing to try it. There Zins are solid and a great pairing for BBQ (or just a good steak).

We swung south on our journey into Napa and received a pleasant surprise and friendly welcome at Alexander Valley Vineyards. So much so that D and I are considering joining up as members (though I still feel vineyard membership is only worth it if you live in California or have the money to really spend on wine). Regardless, their Zins are delicious in taste and name. We especially enjoyed their Sin Zin and the Redemption Zin. The Cyrus blend also won us over. We polished off their Redemption with filet mignon over our campfire grill that night. True heaven.

We entered Napa more than overwhelmed at the Disneyfication of it all. Especially having come from the quieter off the road locations of the day before. Even on the off day (July 4th) with less people, we were still struck by the gaudiness of all the vineyards along Route 29. We attempted to stick to offroads as much as possible (but found most of the vineyards closed).

We finally swung into the organic and biodynamic Grgich Hills. A stellar panel of Chardonnays. I was pleasantly surprised with their Fume Blanc, a term Cali growers coined out of peoples’ negative reaction to Sauv-Blanc. When I see Fume I usually turn around running, but our tasting guide assured us this one was a winner. It was. Slightly oaked, it had a powerful grapefruit aspect that was totally mindblowing, without getting in the way. Their Old Vine Zin was great, stick anything with “Old Vine” in front of me and I’ll probably swoon. Winner of the day was the 2000 Cab Sauv. Complex, full and fruity. Compared to the 2003 we tasted first, you can really tell these wines want aging, even their Chardonnay.

We blew threw Mondavi just to get a look at a mega-producer and ran screaming.

Next stop, Peju, if only because our newlywed friends are members. I felt the atmosphere to be a little industrial, them carting us around in groups, but D said he didn’t mind it and half expected and appreciated it to keep order in the Napa craziness. The most interesting taste was their Provence, a red and white blend. Not a rose, but red wine actually blended with white wine. Different and fun and a good summer drink decision maker of the old, “oh, I can’t decide, red or white?”

We barely dragged ourselves into Stag’s Leap from there. A disappointment after all our friendly tasters of the day to be met with one tracking the last minutes of the day on his watch and busy scoring points on two drunk girls next to us. He was too busy working them over to really care to answer our questions. A horrible ending with a high price tag at $15 for a tasting. I wanted to enjoy their wines, but just couldn’t.

It’s amazing to to see that one negative part of a tasting room experience can really set you off from a wine. Have a great experience and heck, become members of the vineyard.

Vineyards we attempted to visit that were closed: Davis Family, Fritz, Jordan, Pride, Frank Family. All will have to happen in the next tour.

We spent our last day in true California style with a 10 mile canoe adventure down the Russian River, a quick visit and purchase at Korbel, a late lunch (with “champagne”) in the Redwoods and then mudbaths and massages in Calistoga.

A winey good time was had and we will definitely make it back for more, hopefully in the near future. How can you not when that California climate is all too perfect?

Just Braise was on vacation this past week. Until order returns, here is one of my pieces published in the Queens Chronicle while I was away:

Summer BBQ Season w/ rub recipe

I can’t seem to find the other piece online. It was a short review about the boys over at Wine Cellar Sorbets. If you see them in your area, give the sorbet a try. It’s some interesting stuff they’re doing.

Drink Local this summer…

Did you know that every U.S. state has vineyards producing wine? California, Washington and Oregon are the top three producers, but trailing close behind is New York State’s wine industry followed by Virginia, Texas, Ohio and Idaho (not necessarily in that order). Amazing, right?

D and I have been doing our share to help our local wine industry this year– we try to buy at least one bottle of New York State vino every week. We’re also on our way to visit the vineyards of Long Island tomorrow. If you cannot make it out to the vineyards, you can start by reading my latest piece for the Queens Chronicle:

Queens Chronicle, Local Wines for Mom. May 10, 2007. (Queens-wide)

D and I had a short stay in Chicago this past week. Herewith, a quick and dirty foodie roundup.

The purpose of the trip was to spend a day in the kitchen of Charlie Trotter.

You read correct. My mother, being so generous, happened to attend a silent auction. There she spied, as she likes to call it, the perfect “target gift” for my upcoming birthday (next Wednesday, ehem). A bidding war broke out and she lost. Still, I spent a fabulously hectic day at CT’s. Other delicious adventures ensued, making this one packed week:

It began with dinner at Rick Bayless’s, Frontera Grill. Those of us without cable may know Rick from his PBS cooking show. Inventive margaritas, savory sauces and I must admit, disappointing guacamole. Rick emerged from the kitchen, tan after two weeks with his staff researching cuisine in Mexico (a nice employee perk). I bought his first cookbook and got it signed. Some delicious Mexican cuisine in the future is guaranteed.

The next tres gourmet stop was to Hot Doug’s for his famous Duck Fat Fries (only served Fridays and Saturdays). We met Sir Doug, on his way with fiancée (or was it wife or girlfriend?) to see Tom Jones in Vegas (or as he called it, to do inventory for the restaurant– “all those mustard packets must be counted you know”). The special hot dogs of the week were delicious, intriguing combinations, a Tuscan wild boar with smoked mozzarella and a garlic beef dog with a garlic sauce. Still, the favorite was the original char dog (with that neon green relish, half a tomato, pickle, mustard and onion).

D and I assume that if you live in Chicago you feel the need to break from perfection. The Duck Fat Fries were deliciously fatty good. Not that they tasted “ducky” or “gamey,” more so they were pure. I also reason that because they are made with a natural fat and not partially hydrogenated bits, they are better for me than other partially hydrogenated fries and I should eat them more often.

Charlie was next. (Abriged)

I arrived prompt at 2pm to find most of the staff already present and accounted for. I received an apron, jacket and hat and was ready to go.

CT’s offers juice pairings with their meals. I made a carrot-kohlrabi juice under the guidance of Mary (or Molly?). A small but peppery CIA graduate with burn and cut marks up her arms. Next, I shucked oysters with another sous chef (name forgotten). Then I cleaned them. Mid-cleaning I began to hint that the innards we were tossing away were really much more delicious than the speck of meat I was retrieving.

We broke for a communal lunch of hamburgers. Mind you, these hamburgers were “whatever meat was leftover” from previous meals. Meaning they were more like veal-Kobe beef-pork feet-3-inch thick-6-inch diameter-burgers with organic tomatoes, fresh cheese, hot sauce on top and perfectly seasoned fingerling potatoes on the side. Mine tasted slightly of oysters.

Back to cleaning oysters. Staff meeting at 3:30 where I found which table had a proposal, which was allergic to shellfish, and which former employee would dine with us that evening. Oysters.

Sliced a root vegetable (name tk) that looks like a muddy stick but once peeled resembles a parsnip.

Made a green apple and fresh wasabi sauce to top the Hamachi. Was told how expensive fresh wasabi was. Tasted it. Spied a bucket of black truffles and a baseball sized white truffle. Threatened to steal all.

They served me champagne and wine.

Seating began. I helped plating the appetizers with Big Mike (only name remembered because it had Big in front. There also seemed to be at least five “Chefs”). I was good. No action photos because I had celeriac juice up to my elbows as I was busy making veal heart ravioli, tasting my marinating oysters, devouring spoonfuls of buttered truffles and snatching bits of Kobe hot off the grill.

As the dinner progressed to main courses I platted and dressed sherbets and caramels.

I left the kitchen around 9:30 to sit and dine with the family. Work has never gone so quickly. Still I didn’t realize how tired I was until I sat down.

Every diner receives a tour of the kitchen where D was kind enough to snap some photos for the viewer as the staff was scrubbing the beautiful (imported) stove clean.

The disappointment of the night: Charlie was apparently present but I never met him because I was too involved with my tasks. We share a high school alma mater. We should have met.

I promise I have food to discuss, but I give a quick and dirty roundup of a recent exciting first for me. While it has to do with food, it falters the line of my normal musings, though it does explain some of my latest absences.

D and I took a quick late summer journey to the city of my birth (Chicago) as well as a border crossing to his grandmother’s home for a State Fair. While D has joined me in Chicago in the past, he has never been witness to the golden summer that makes Chicago the pride of many (myself included). I would say, you never experience this city until you have walked its’ dazzling skyscraper shoreline in the heat of summer.

It was a voyage of firsts: D had his first deep dish pizza as well as his first taste of a true Chicago-style all-beef Vienna hot dog. The winner? It must be the hot dog because one week later D complained about being hungry after work: “if I was in Chicago I could just grab a hot dog anywhere.”
“But you’re in New York, there are hot dog vendors on every corner?!”
“It’s not Vienna– It’s not as good.”

True enough. Those all-beef dogs in natural casings, 2 pickles, neon relish and a large fresh slice of tomato make my mouth water any day (and I’m usually not a hot dog fan). We would leave Chicago for Indiana and the State Fair– my turn as newbie.

I love Indiana and spending time with D’s grandmother (and family in general). If it wasn’t for a not-to-be-mentioned altercation with a canoe and some rapids, the time we spend in Indianapolis is always pleasant (play. even the rapids). This time, we would attend the State Fair. My first State Fair ever.

State Fairs are a fabulous event. They bring the community together and (in the Midwest at least) really make one realize the breadth and hold that agriculture still has on this country (which is essentially forgotten if you live in or near a city). My minor “problem” with the State Fair? That the pork food tent is within smelling distance of the swine show barn, the lamb food tent is a sniff away from the lamb show barn, cows near the beef food tent, poultry near the poultry, etc.

Funny that when I started vocalizing my hankering for some bunny on a stick in the poultry and rabbit barn people gave me the evil eye—I could smell bacon frying up while contemplating the birth of 13 piglets! Isn’t that wrong?! No worries, there was plenty of chicken, but no rabbit (or bunny) for sale at the food tent.

We caught a few shows in the lamb barn. Spoke to the people who told us how judging was done, but couldn’t really explain what was being judged. Watching sheering right before these animals headed off to show was a good time in itself. Many beautiful animals– and even spoke with a man who raises Shetland Sheep. As we left the distinct smell of lamb kebabs filtered into the arena.

Next, it was on to the draft horse barn. No worries– no glue or meat was being grilled up outside this barn (the only one), but there was plenty of overpriced beer.

The above-mentioned poultry and rabbit barn followed. The loudest barn by far, I can see where all the phrases come from: “Hen party,” “louder than a hen house.” I could picture them all plopping their eggs away, knitting little bonnets and gaggling on about what Suzy over in pen A did— can you believe?! But really, it’s amazing to see the variety of chickens. Some of them are truly spectacular. Once I get enough land, neighbors be warned, I’m getting a hen house for fresh eggs! And did you know, hens with red earlobes produce brown eggs and hens with white earlobes produce white eggs? At least that’s what I was told. Interesting if true.

A quick stop (of many) to the diary barn for milkshakes, some real whole milk extra thick chocolate milk, and a few other treats. Then, it was off to the Pioneer Village. Here, I finally met with my corn meal lady (mentioned here). Face to names, we’re b-f-f. I also met with my Sorghum man (been ordering from him too lately)—if anyone would like these numbers, please email me direct and I will provide them to you. Of course, I was soon informed, any trip to Pioneer Village is not complete without yer’ cracklins’ (pictured above).

Wound down to the 4-H agro barn for the results to a few other competitions: best honey, largest gourds and best hay bale. Learned a thing or two about honey, picked some up from the local apiary. Found the largest cheddar cheese construction (2,400 pounds) which made me never want to eat cheddar cheese again (and I love cheese!). We eventually left the State Fair by way of the old time pharmacy. I was pretty much born forty years too late– or a city girl instead of a farm girl.

Tags: travel, farms, hot dog, Chicago pizza.

Below is a post I stuck up back in November 2005. It was one of my first posts. Two years ago, about this time, I went with a friend to Lebanon. Not to turn this into a political blog space or anything, but the events of the past two weeks have been on my mind (about 8 years ago I was in Israel and have a similar fondness for the country and people, Lebanon is just a little closer to memory now).

I guess because this has all been on my mind I made some baba ganoush tonight. It is a recipe a half-Lebanonese friend gave to me. This, along with her hummus, Lebanonese potatoes and Fol I make often. Maybe more will be made in the coming days…

Although I would like to make a few changes/ additions here and there, I think it’s best to keep it unaltered. This is the Lebanon I remember two years ago. It will not be the same. Here is the original post:
————————————————–
November 2005

As the weather turns toward the worst, and gray days become a common thread, I cannot help but linger on the past, warm and fresh.

In the 1940’s, France withdrew from Lebanon. To this day, it is in a summersault between old and new world– reinventing and revamping its character. Walking down the streets, signs still read in French and Arabic (or Arabic and English). Fruit stands on every corner press fresh juice to order, and pistachio pastries laced with honey waft towards the nose. Out of the city, vineyards can be found on hillsides that neighbor crosses mounted high on a village church. It is a country that still understands hospitality, where no meeting between friends is able to last under two hours, and where you will always be offered a bottomless cup of fresh Arabic coffee, laden with cardamom.

Between 1975-1991, civil war tore through Beirut and its surrounds. From above, the city’s white stone buildings are iridescent in the sun and the mountains roll away reflecting the cerulean Mediterranean. Salt is ripe in the air and mingles with trees as lizards dash through legs of a traveler to the safety of a forgotten bullet hole in a nearby structure. Roam the streets and notice wires crisscross overhead in a forgotten and haphazard desperation of gaining electricity during the war– still in-use. Or suddenly come upon a blocked-off road, where the ground is yet to be re-stabilized. Inside bombed-out-building-carcasses, families create wall-less homes on top floors that overlook city lights. The new hottest club is constructed beneath sacred ground, and luxury high-rise buildings blossom around Roman and Phoenician ruins; barely visible and utter surprises to stumble upon amongst the ever –present cleansing and rebuilding. This is the crazy struggle between tradition and modernity.

The Muslim call for prayer rings out. It is a subtle undulation that flows off the salt air notifying the beach bums to rotate their tanning. Women walk the streets fully veiled or deeply bronzed in mini-skirts flaunting the latest fashions. Saudi oil heirs on vacation take to the corniche with their wives to find groups of men smoking nargeela, (Lebanese sheesha or flavored tobacco) lounging in home-brought plastic chairs while others fish in the sea where boys swim. Along this walk, the smell of cardamom is thick with Arabic coffee vendors hocking their product amidst others that grill and sell corn.

Food is fresh and fabulous. From cheeses, olives and fresh flat breads at breakfast, to the sweet fruits that complete every meal: fresh figs, dates, melons and mangoes. You dine on what is in season—not what is an able import. Flavors are intensified by this freshness of seasonality. The weather is perfect– not too dry, and the peach-hued sunsets over the sea make up for any humidity that may linger.

Travel beyond the beach bum days and clubbing nights of Beirut. Hire a private driver and take the road to Balbaak and Ksara in the east, near Syria (easily done in one day). Some of the oldest ruins are found at Balbaak with an ancient population that continued to build upon what was already there, allowing centuries upon centuries of ruins almost indecipherable from the previous. In Ksara, cooling caves under a mountain vineyard, are host to wine tastings.

South near Saida, a soap factory is hidden in the old souq, where soap is still made “the ancient way”– with boiled olive oil and ash. The juices and kebabs in the souq are the freshest I have tasted (fresh grapes taste like rose water, we are told “it’s the sea you taste”)—some of the best shwarma can be found here too. Continuing south, there are generations-old glass blowing studios on the way to the beaches and ruins of Tyre (a port town a stone’s throw from the Israeli border). This city, once a major trade route between Israel and Egypt, as well as the rest of the Mediterranean, has since been left in disrepair from civil war days, retaining its beauty.

North in Byblos we find where the written word began and paper spread throughout the world. Mountain peaks overtake the eyes where (surprise) temperatures dip low enough for skiing in the winter. It is difficult to leave such a paradise that is a true Eden.

If you cannot make it to this beautiful Garden, I beg of you to taste it in the home. These below recommendations are quick, easy, and require minimal cooking:

Gather some fresh Lebanese olives, feta, tahini (sesame seed paste) and flat bread (or pita) from a middle-eastern market (most groceries will carry these products as well). Ask for zataar (a thyme-based herb mixture with oregano and sesame) and lebne (a yogurt-like cheese). You will also need 1 large eggplant, extra-virgin olive oil, a lemon, garlic, plain yogurt (optional) and a selection of your favorite seasonal fruits. (When I eat these meals, I like to use the feta pictured at right. It reminds me of what I bought in Lebanon)

Place the olives in a dish to eat as-is. Do the same for the feta. Put the lebne on a separate plate, sprinkle with zataar and pour about 1 Tbl ev olive oil over the lebne. Serve with baba ganoush (recipe below), flat bread, and your favorite salad. Use the flat bread as a spoon to scoop up the baba and cheeses. (A popular great-tasting snack is to brush olive oil on a piece of flat bread and dust with zataar; pictured. Toast until lighly browned in a toaster oven. It tastes great with the lebne and feta seasoned this way).

Below, a family recipe for Baba Ganoush (thank you A for your Lebanese wisdom):

BABA GANOUSH. (10 min cook,15 min setting time, 5 min prep). This recipe has a great smoky flavor. Recipe is the same for hummus (with only about 10 min prep– minus the eggplant and flames, everything else is the same. Just buy a can of garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drain the liquid, and use a blender instead of a potato masher).
———————–
1 large eggplant
2 Tbl tahini
juice of 1 lemon
4 Tbl olive oil.
1-2 cloves garlic, crushed (or to taste)
1/2 cup plain yogurt (Optional, this gives the Baba a creamier consistency. Without it, you
may need a few more Tbl olive oil to cut the Baba’s thickness)
fresh pepper (to taste)
sea salt (to taste)
brown paper bag
potato masher
large bowl
———————-
1. Brush the eggplant with olive oil. On a stove’s open flame, cook eggplant. Rotate periodically (easy with long tongs) until all sides are crisp from flame and eggplant wilts thoroughly. The eggplant will also become saturated and heavy with juices (some of which may leak onto stovetop). For a large eggplant, this process should take about 10 min. (This method gives the Baba its smoky flavor. Another option is to wrap in foil and bake the eggplant for about 30 min. I have never done it this way, and cannot guarantee the smoky flavor, but I assume it would cut back on juices flowing onto the stovetop).

2. Place eggplant in brown paper bag and sit the bag in the large bowl (eggplant will continue to leak juice). This continues the cooking process of the inside of the eggplant and begins to cool it. Leave in bag 15 min.

3. Open bag, peel and discard as much of the eggplant’s purple skin as possible. Cut off and discard vine head. Place remaining meat (with seeds) into large bowl.

4. Mash with potato masher (you are left with a better consistency than using a blender which can destroy the seeds and turn the Baba pasty).

4. Add remainder of ingredients, mix.

5. Top off with another Tablespoon of olive oil and maybe some paprika or parsley for color.

NOTE: A Palestinian friend of mine dices and de-seeds a ripe vine-tomato and stirs it into the Baba. An Egyptian friend swears tomato is wrong and one can never have too much garlic in Baba adding at least 5 cloves to her recipe. Both these are optional, tasty additions.