I Prey for Help Gardening and This is What I Get

"Oh sweet holy Jesus! Fuck fuck fuck!" I leaped away from the tinted glass door of my work and, with speed of a Formula One race car, the fluidity (but not grace) of Mikhail Baryshnikov, and freaked-the-fuck-out squirrel-like terror I escaped from the source of my nightmares with nary a scratch.

Preying mantises and I have a jaded history. Well, jaded for me, possibly satiating for them. A quick debriefing of our battles is necessary:

1990, Age 7: The initial trauma. Finding a large preying mantis on our patio table I decide to watch him. It turns and looks at me. This begins a 15 minute staring match and, being an obstinate child, I am determined to win. The mantis after careful observation, assumes the giant and obviously stupid child is probably food. It then leaps on my face and bites me.

I scream and run into the house crying, blood beginning to slowly pool on the bridge of my nose. A large preying mantis bite strings like crazy. Mom won't believe me when I tell her what happened. She insists I am lying. I am scolded for being dishonest and clumsy.

1996, Age 13: I am at school waiting for my carpool to come and take me home. I pass the time sitting on the curb next to some shrubs reading a book. My head jerks up when I suddenly feel a tickle on my neck. A mantis has decided to jump on me for one reason or another.

It then decides to extend its arms/claws/legs/sharp things of pain to hold me down and tear out a small piece of me. My eyes go wide and I yelp. He continues to bite and "pin me down". It resists my swatting, holding on like some determined cowboy riding a rodeo bull. I eventually get him off. I do not mention what happened to the members of the carpool as I rub the welt on my neck.

2006, Age 23: I am walking back into work after lunch. For no reason a mantis the size of a house cat (perhaps to my perception) jumps onto my ear and bites into me, drawing blood. There are witnesses this time. Everyone is stunned. They then laugh at my pain. Assholes.

2008, Age 25: A preying mantis somehow found its way into my car. He reveals himself while I am actually driving the car. I slowly pull over the car, take off my shoe, and screaming with a barbarian war-cry smash him into a fine paste on my dashboard with my sandal. Cars slow down to watch the scene. A small victory for me, nonetheless.

2008, Age 25: Angered at the death of his brethren, the previous mantis' avenger reveals itself sitting on my car. As I unlock the door it unfurls its wings, raises its arms/claws/legs/sharp things of pain, and makes a threatening pose. It is huge. I freak out and run away. A co-worker catches him and lets him loose. I nearly pee myself.

So hence my freaking to the preying mantis now on the door of my work is understandable. Still, this one is a baby, not even half the length of my pinky finger. I reason that he is still dangerous to me (at the very least, psychologically) but nothing I cannot destroy first. I am the greater animal here after all. God and evolution chose me to be the dominant species and I would prove it by gooshing him into oblivion.
"Don't do that!" a co-worker cries. "He helps people garden."

I paused, waiting for a connection.

"Maybe yours?"

I stopped and put my foot back down away from the mantis. He doesn't move an inch, which is futile as there is no way his little brown self is camouflaged against the black doormat.

Co-worker has a point. Something the last few days has been chomping on my mint with gusto like a cat in a canary house. It's been frustrating as I search the pots fervently to locate the culprit but having no results. Yet every day more mint is eaten. This mantis could prove useful.

The old adage "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," never seemed so applicable.

I go back inside for a plastic water cup and a clipboard. I carefully usher the mantis into the cup, wary should he decide to attack me. I take him out back. I open the cup over the mint, shake it, and run.

The mantis checks out his new home. He crawls under a leaf and makes himself comfortable. I assume he is fine with his strange and supposedly plentiful hunting grounds. I water the mint from the other side of the pot, giving him his space and I leave him be.

Hopefully, we will be able to co-exist together. So far though, the mint is still being eaten and the mantis does not seem to be doing his job. This freeloader owes me the death I hired him for. We'll have to wait and see.

Canning with Apologies

The past few days nothing of exciting or intrigue has happened that's been worth writing about. (Though I did spend a day with a delightful woman named Sheng and her family as they cooked a huge Hmong feast for Elise and I, but that's a story for Edible Sacramento.) I've either been reading, writing, working, and using my few bits of free time in the summer to re-establish my social life and proving to my friends that yes, I can call and, no, I'm not dead.

Still, I've found a bit of fun in jam making recently. It seems to be my auto-escape when it comes to studying. Last spring during finals it was rhubarb and rosemary jelly and this spring I made apricot and Riesling jam. The latest kick to break up summer thesis research has been rhubarb and grapefruit preserves.

I think I turn to canning because it's so multifunctional. I can easily sit on the kitchen counter and stir away while reading a book or taking notes, though it helps that I'm ambidextrous in certain regards and have a good left-right brain split in which to make jam and annotate the Marxist theory simultaneously.

In the end I get experience in jam making. I create something tasty and debatably nutritious for myself. Plus, I enjoy giving these away to friends and family as penance for my being so absent all the time. In fact a lot of these jams will be gifts, not to mention the growing larder I have of liquors, extracts and whatnot. My pantry might resemble to any passerby the workings of some mad scientist developing aromatic and strange biological agents.

The current jam - the rhubarb and grapefruit - is a particular favorite of mine. It comes from Alice Waters' book, Chez Panisse Fruit. I could write out the whole recipe but I can sum it up simply enough:

-2 grapefruit
-2 pounds of rhubrab
-4 cups of sugar

Peel the grapefruit and chop up the peel into little batons. Juice the grapefruit as well. Chop up the rhubarb. Place sugar, rhubarb, grapefruit juice and peel in a tall stainless steel pot and let sit for 2 hours. Place over medium-high heat. Skim off the foam. Cook at a boil for about 25-30 minutes, stirring gently and often to prevent it from sticking to the bottom. Place in sterilized jars.

Simple stuff, right? Plus, the result is a jam with layers of taste and flavor. Both sweet, tart, and tangy the rhubarb offers more texture and a ticklish blush to the preserves, but offers a slight tartness under the sugar. The grapefruit's citrusy zing runs clear throughout but is most prominent when you get a piece of he peel which is simply a jubilant revelation of GRAPEFRUIT in your mouth.

I have it smeared over some bread to go with my Earl Grey tea as I type this. Breakfast of champions who can do more than pour out some cereal.

Still, nothing too intriguing. No jaw dropping run ins with humanity. No cupcakes. No book reviews. Just too busy. However, there is jamming to canning which is delightful in its own right. Hope you'll forgive me.

Extracting Noyaux

Very few acts in cooking allow us to smash things with a hammer. It's sad really. Sure you can bludgeon a piece of veal with a meat tenderizer like some barbarian, but it's not the same as precision strikes with a hammer as its heft sits gingerly in your palm before the gripping, pinpoint blow.

However the production of noyaux from a squillion apricot pits left over from jam making is the perfect excuse to break out the tool kit and work out some frustration. Indeed, it's simply the most efficient way to go about it and get out any pent up rage you might have about some jerkwad dinging the crap out of your car door and not leaving a note the motherf***er.
Anyways, if you aren't familiar noyaux (pronounced NWI-oh) are the pits from stone fruit, primarily from cherries or apricots. Delicious nuggets of nature that with nimble fingers delicately sew into your treats an almond flavor that wears a sweeter veil. The shells posses a less almondy fragrance but shadows of their former fruity overcoats that once embraced them linger.

For the most part noyaux are used for flavoring ice creams, custard, apricot jams, or eau de vie. However, there is some argument that they're harmful. True, the pits have the tiniest amount of prussic acid - you probably know it as hydrogen cyanide - which is poisonous. Given, eating one of these isn't going to kill you. Eating a small mountain of them raw might. A handful might result in a stomachache. Furthermore when you mix prussic acid with water the acid will leach out of the pit and become stronger. Doing a double roasting eliminates the enzymes and makes it safe for use.
Of course, nowadays the pits are being used for studies to help alleviate or cure cancer as the acid is balanced enough in the pit to keep it free from most infections yet stiff function as a source of germination for a tree. Indeed, the acid is thought to be a precursor to amino acids meaning it may be a primary source to the origin of life. Strange for something that we recognize as a substance that snuffs it out.

Right now, I plan to create my own almond extract, or should I say noyaux extract. This means I'm chucking them in a bottle with vodka. I'm throwing a few pieces of the shells in as well in hopes to give the extract a curious tease of apricot - just enough so the taster pauses to question what familiar taste just flitted across their tongue. I'll be sure to update on how it goes as time progresses.

LINKS:
Cherry Pits: Poisonous? Edible? Usable Culinarily? - By Shuna Lydon

Sake Tasting

There's something to be said for the satisfying sound of a hard shot glass slamming onto a table at your favorite sushi bar. The odd tasting but soup like brew that makes up the sake shooter is a slightly disturbing - yet satisfying - concoction.

If you've never had one a sake shooter is composed of hot sake, a quail egg, a slice or two of green onion, a raw oyster, and diced chili peppers. It kinda tastes like soup with that sears your throat with the burn of cheap booze and capsicum. This has been the totality of my sake knowledge up until now.

"Cheap sake is always served warm," Ed Lehrman told me and the others over the phone during our conference call. "It's to cover up the undesirable flavors that develop." It made sense I suppose, I guess it's why most people at the sushi joints order good sake chilled.

"Also, sake in Japan is rarely drank with sushi. Usually with grilled seafood or other meats. More often than not beer is served with sushi."

Ahh, point goes to you Ed.

I was learning a lot over this little tasting session. My homegirl in Florida, Jaden, had been acting as a liazon with Vine Connections (whom Ed is one of the founding partners of) to organize a sake tasting with various other food writers. I was honored to be included with a distinguished group such as Andrea Nguyen, Amy Sherman, Matthew Amster-Burton, Lorna Yee, and Kim O'Donnel. When I first logged into the online conference room I was slightly intimidated as I'm a devout acolyte to their writing and strive to obtain even a slight modicum of their talent. To be in included in an event with them blew my socks off and clear into the washer.

After a few technical difficulties and a quick run upstairs to put my hair up and put a shirt on (no one told me my webcam would automatically be turned on) we were led through a sake tutorial (you can see Jaden's here) along with a a few question and answer sessions. Afterwards we were led through the various types of sake sipping, sniffing and analyzing through chat messages our takes on each proffering a nose of cheese or a taste of banana peel in an attempt to pin down the profile of each sake.

The sakes were each amazing, one in particular called Divine Droplets was particularly impressive. The brewer Takasago Ginga Shizuku builds an igloo every years as a place to press the sake during its final steps in processing in order to keep the sake pure and free of contaminants. It had a distinct nose of slightly stinky cheese, but a flavor that was crisp with notes of apple and pear followed by a pleasantly fermenty funk.

The tasting was assisted by the bottles themselves, the Vine Connections peeps ensure that their label is clear and describes the flavor, grade, type of rice, and so on. All participants were in agreement that wine, tequila, and all liquors should emulate this label model. Clear, simple, and useful.
Just as one might discover with wine or chocolate, sake develops personality based on it's processing mode, the type of rice used, the terroir. The whole tasting was culturally enlightening and gave you an appreciation for the sake brewers who had been dedicated to their task for years and years (one brewing company had been around fro over 800). All this knowledge and the understanding that you were drinking sake that had been carefully crafted using such precise methods bestowed a pleasure that was thought provoking. ...And tipsy. Drinking a bunch of sake at 10 am on a weekday will do that to a guy.

Now, having a tiny frame and a little roommate it was mandatory that I call over friends over to try them as well. After giving them the history of sake and watching Jaden's video on the sake making process we all went around and tried each of the sakes. We laughed and took notes, enjoying the sake and it's ability to bring us all together to enjoy one another's company. I was happy that I given the opportunity to learn about sake and then pass that knowledge on to the people I care about so much.

I'm looking forward to creating some desserts with sake and doing some dessert pairings in the future. Be sure to stay tuned to see what boils up. Another special shout out to Ed, Sarah, Jaden and all the peeps at Vine Connections for their kindness, articulate presentations, and generosity.

Kanpai!

The Peerless, Popable, Tart, Sweet Cherry Plum

"Well, the skin is tart," said the woman at the Farmer's Market, her shale colored hair tied back with a piece of leather string.

"Tart?" I replied, eyeing the small baskets of curious fruit, what looked like plums but each no bigger than the masher in a bag of marbles. The sign for "Fresh Cherry Plums" caught my eye, and being an enthusiastic fan of both cherries and plums I was pulled in with near gravitic force.

"Extremely tart. From the tip of your tongue till the moment you swallow tart."

"Really!? I've had a tart plum before, but never a tart plum before."

"Oh well these are tart. Tart skinned that is. Some people like their fruit to have layers of subtley. A million different smells and aromas all competing. Who wants a plum with a hint of cherry with a nose of pineapple mysteriously waiting behind the bush ready to jump you? Not cherry plums though. There are two notes: Tart and Sweet. (With a plum taste of course.) In fact, I would say the skin on these plums stand up and shout, 'I'm tart! I'll make you flinch and squeeze your eyes shut!'"

"That doesn't exactly sound appealing."

"It's appealing because it's sweet," she said in a perspicacious tone that brought a sly bit of color to her somewhat pallor complexion.

"But you said it was tart."

"Yes, but I said it was sweet. The flesh is sweet, like juicy candy that's waiting to tell you the sweetest secret you've ever heard. Except the second you try to tell it to someone else you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Because the juice will dribble down your chin." Obviously. "That's why I suggest you don't try to nibble it and just pop the whole thing in your mouth in a single bite. Swallow the secret, nibbling will just spread it around and make a mess of things like your chin and shirt. The tart will be tart, the sweet will be sweet and that makes it the perfect popable plum."

"A peerless plum! I'm convinced," I said, and handed her a dollar for a basket. Indeed, as I tossed a cherry plum or two in my mouth on the walk back to the car I enjoyed the belligerent tart and the unblemished sweet of the plum, then skillfully spit out the pits with a certain spin, arc and distance that can only be achieved after years of rigorous practice with cherry pits. A peerless plum indeed.

Cookbook Addiction

The Unyielding has come and gone, its wave of destruction come and gone. After the plague I was left with only one or two good cookbooks left (the indomitable Judy Rogers' is stronger than any paper devouring mold). The cookbooks I lost however were mostly pieces of crap - ones where recipes were poorly tested and didn't taste good. The pictures were lies, pretty, well lit, carefully staged lies that didn't accurately represent the dishes. The Unyielding destroyed it all.

However, it may have been a blessing in disguise.

After I posted about it Kalyn - you all know Kalyn, Demeter of the Food Blog Pantheon - read about my plea and sent me a kind gift. A copy of The Joy of Cooking. A culinary tome which I'm ashamed to say I didn't own before her generosity.

As I pulled Joy out of its packaging and opened the new cover with that ever satisfying crack that comes with popping the cherry of a new book binding. I began to pour through the book page after page, chapter after chapter. Recipes for Kwanza. The temperature to fry chicken at. What to look for in a healthy celery root. The proper method for shucking an oyster. How to properly set a table (I knew that one thanks to mom). It had the answers to everything and a delightfully motley mix of recipes from every walk and culture to boot.

Elise told me that the cookbooks I lost was a karmic favor to me. There was no point in owning anything that wasn't helpful. A good cookbook should inspire, enlighten, educate. A good cookbook should be read cover to cover late into the night with your nightstand lamp burning bright into the wee hours and with a flashlight under the covers after your parents tell you it's way past your bedtime.

It only takes one or two good experiences to cause one to develop an addiction. My few quality cookbooks were soon met with new authors. Tannis, Roden, Ong, Daley, Medrich, and Greenspan now sat next to Lebovitz and Waters. I began to pour through them to learn more about the culinary world like how to prepare Italian food with everyday ingredients, learning about the trials of pumpkin farming in Yolo County, and the alimentary practices of Hmong weddings.

Of course I'm doing my best to only pick the cream of the cookbook crop. Ones that have real soul and passion in them, that have an engaging story, cookbooks that transports me to the author's kitchen or where I can hear their voice whispering in my ear, "Sear the beef on every side. Small batches, and don't crowd them. Then add the star anise so they release their oils. You'll know it's done when it becomes aromatic."

Right now my current read is Andrea Nguyen's Into the Vietnamese Kitchen, a riveting book where every recipe has filled my kitchen with sweet smells of perky lemongrass and air heavy with the sticky scent of palm sugar, the smell luring my roommate down from her room for a helping of whatever perfumed dish I've made. In fact I have some chuck steak marinating right now for her recipe for beef stew with tomatoes, lemongrass, and star anise. Expect a review later on after I try a few more recipes out and finish reading it.

So is there any cookbook you love that I absolutely must check out?
By the way, there is a new post (of sorts) over at The Rhetoric of Rhubarb. Feel free to learn about the Balkan myth of vampire watermelons.

1000 Beans

A picture (of beans) is worth a thousand words (probably about beans).
Picked up at the Sac Farmer's Market under the freeway from a wonderful Hmong family. The purple ones actually cook green for bio-chemical reasons I am unaware of. Very tasty when steamed with some red garlic then sloshed in a bit of butter, salt and black pepper. Three dollars bought enough to feed me a hearty helping every single day this week.

Pits

I stopped just as the red stained cherry pit flew past my knees, through the legs of other shoppers and then struck the pavement rolling away out of sight. It was a close call, but nothing to be upset about. A rogue cherry pit or two is simply one of the risks you take at a mid-Spring Farmer's Market.

I looked over to see a woman and her friend sitting on the curb cheerfully punishing a bag of very ripe and nearly black cherries. I could smell the fruit from where I was standing, but had decided to buy a small flat of blueberries and enough plums to last through the apocalypse and still have enough left over for sorbet. There's only so much fruit a single person can go through after all.

Next to the pit spitters was one of my favorite Hmong stands which I frequent every week. As I moved over to the side, avoiding the bitter melons I began to peruse over a new type of chili I had never seen before. They were medium length, verdant and gnarled like the fingers of some fairytale crone.

I was encouraged to bite into one and found it sweet and palatable, something that would do well in a stir-fry with shallots and thai peppers. I would tell you the name but I am unaware how to type the phonemes necessary - not that I know them or the spelling - and even then I'm not sure Blogger can even type them.

I grabbed a handful and popped them in the bag. The lady behind the counter weighed it and told me the price. I began to get out my money when suddenly I felt a something small and wet strike the back of my neck with the tiniest thud that only I could hear. The object then tumbeled into my shirt collar and I could feel the tiny missile roll down my back leaving a small juicy trail until it fell out at the bottom. I looked and between my feet was a small cherry pit coming to a rolling stop.

A small look of horror and disgust crossed my face. I turned towards my attackers. The woman with the bag of cherries looked at me horrified for only a split second then turned her head, shying away from eye contact. If I did not see her face, I could not possibly blame her, I suppose was her theory. Her friend was blushing out of embarrassment that comes with association.

"Augh, god! You nasty bitch!"

It was then my turn to be horrified as it dawned on me that I had apparently yelled that loud enough to stop everyone near me dead in their tracks. Given, I'm not one to yell such things at total strangers. In fact, it's just damn right out of character for me - but when someone spits on you, well, all bets are off. I blame the show True Blood where I heard the phrase and now had started using it with gusto. I quickly followed up on my outburst to convince the surrounding populous that it was, indeed, appropriate.

"You spit a cherry pit at my head and it rolled down my shirt! That's just vile! Spit them at the ground or back into your bag!" I smacked the back of my neck with my hand and slowly pulled it across feeling the slime streak across my palm. I looked at it and saw the inky red juice had made a short smear. I could feel my lip curl with complete revulsion. I then showed it to the woman who looked at it, cringed, and apologized.

As I slowly wiped off my back and apologized myself for the "nasty bitch" comment and I told her that I understood it was an accident but to watch where she spat her pits.

I walked back to the car pissed that I had just done my laundry the other day. Cherry juice stains like hell on a good cotton shirt. A shudder went through my body. "Ugh... gross," as I wiped my neck again.