5 second rule

Who am I to judge?

The drive down was nothing special -- mostly highway, cars chugging along -- until we hit Morgan Hill, and then things started to slow. By the time we reached Gilroy we were inchworms, easing forward one sigh at a time. This suited me fine. Saturday was clear, music filled the car, and the boys read quietly in the backseat. We passed a burst of sunflowers.

The Gilroy Garlic Festival greeted us first through our noses: scents sweet, pervasive, unmistakable. We paid our cash, and as we wound our way toward the heart of the fairgrounds, we funneled first through an alley of sponsors and vendors -- Foster Farms chicken, Lay's potato chips, a company retrofitting bathtubs with some kind of insert. Their connection to garlic was tenuous to non-existent, but that's just the way these things go.

We wandered around. People happy. Bands played. Everyone ate. Garlic ice cream, garlic sausage, garlic pasta, garlic bread. Lines were long, with no complaints.

The children's area teemed with energy, and three-year-olds ran around, sporting mini Home Depot aprons. Someone must have been handing them out.

We passed a Scope station. I grabbed a sample and tucked it in my purse.

And then we came to a shady area with a canopy and benches. People were sitting, rapt and silent, facing a small stage. Adults, kids, all quiet. Ronald McDonald held court, and the crowd paid attention.

And my pulse quickened, and I felt, I don't know, mad. It was instinctive, and immediate. I didn't even hear what he was saying  -- he could have been discussing the two Bay Area Ronald McDonald houses -- but he made my body tense, and stressed.

I grabbed my camera. Can you believe this? That he's here? Can you believe this?

And then, seconds later, shame washed over me.

For judging strangers. And assuming I knew better. And assuming I was better. For not even hearing what was being said, and thinking in my bones that it was wrong.

It shocked me that this symbol, this clown, mattered to me at all, and in a way so different from how it mattered to everyone else. That I judged this character, and this company, so much more harshly than I judged the bathtub retrofitter, and Home Depot, and Lay's Potato Chips, and Scope. That my reaction was that swift, and physical.

I'm struggling with what it means. I know all about fast food, and obesity, and legislation to stop chains from putting toys in kids' meals. I support these moves. I write about these moves. I know kids recognize logos, and make dietary choices based on who markets to them. I like Jamie Oliver. Long live the food revolution!

But what I don't know, what is bugging with right now, is this:

Who am I to judge these people? Any of them?

Who am I to judge?

Show Me the Whites of Your Eyes.

A recent Bits column in the New York Times titled McDonald's Makes Subtle Play for Children Online opens with these words:

McWorld, a Web site for children sponsored by McDonald’s, offers visitors the chance to create characters, decorate digital treehouses and go on a quest in a virtual world.

French fries, hamburgers and apple pies are nowhere to be seen...

Oh, McDonald's, I beg of you: please bring the French fries, hamburgers, and apple pies back to your advertising! I want them out in the open, where I can keep my eyes on them. I want to see them like I want to see the eyes of the creepy guy who lurks in a dark alley. Because when I see his eyes, I know for sure where he is, and that he's not following me.

As advertising to kids becomes ever subtler, parents will  have an increasingly difficult time teaching their children to be savvy consumers of digital media. It used to be that when a flash ad for Deep-Fried, Sugar-Coated, Highly-Processed Fat Balls appeared on the screen, we could tell our kids, "That's an ad. The Deep-Fried, Sugar-Coated, Highly-Processed Fat Ball Company paid your favorite website a lot of money to try to sell you that product. Just ignore it."

But now, the Deep-Fried, Sugar-Coated, Highly-Processed Fat Balls might appear as colorful balloons, or swollen raindrops in a dreamscape, or even soccer balls in an online tournament.  No longer relegated to the sides of the screen, the images are working their way into the web pages' very essence, and even the most discerning kids may have a difficult time recognizing them as ads.

In his Bits column, writer Joshua Brustein notes that Mark Smale, who works with the company that created the McWorld site,"said in an interview that companies are realizing that, when going online, the best strategy is to forgo immediate sales in order to build lasting emotional relationships with children."

I want my children to have lasting emotional relationships. I really do.  Just not with multinational corporations that cover the whites of their eyes, making them largely invisible as they try to seduce my children.

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Recipe for Soba Noodle Salad with mixed vegetables, peanuts, and mint

I dream of a world where kids can play online and off, confronted with nothing more sinister than a tangled noodle, a crunchy peanut, or a sharp scallion.

Serves 4

2 bundles (about 5 ounces) soba noodles
3 cups (packed) fresh spinach leaves, rough chopped
2 tablespoons peanut oil
2 tablespoons seasoned rice vinegar
1-1/2 teaspoons (packed) freshly grated ginger
1 garlic clove, minced
1 Persian cucumber, julienned
1 carrot, julienned
2 scallions, finely chopped
1/2 cup chopped peanuts (I use roasted peanuts from Trader Joe's with 50% salt)
Handful fresh mint leaves, cut in chiffonade
Sriracha for serving, optional

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Drop in noodles and cook for 3 minutes. Add spinach and cook with noodles for one minute longer. Drain and rinse under cool water.  Give the spinach a squeeze to remove excess water.

Meanwhile, whisk the oil, vinegar, ginger, and garlic in the bottom of a large salad bowl.  Dump in the noodles and spinach and toss to coat. Add the cucumber, carrots, and scallions, and toss through.

Garnish with the peanuts and mint, and serve room temperature, or even cold, passing a bottle of Sriracha, if desired, alongside.

printable pdf

Confessions of a Cart-Stalker

I wish I could stop time in the grocery store and peer into other people's carts. Is the hot yoga lady buying fat-free yogurt, or frozen mac and cheese? Is the old man buying bran or Trix? Is the mom with the screaming toddler buying wine, and if so, will she suck it down before 5pm?

But then I worry that if time stopped, people would see what was in my cart.  In fact, I often wonder what the checkout folks think when they scan my purchases. Do they get me?  What do they make of the six pounds of butter, the tortilla chips, and the flax? Is it weird that I buy organic eggs but not organic bananas? Is it wrong for one person to buy so much cheese?

I look around to see if any of my friends are in the store. I could always say the Larabars were for someone else, because god knows, I've written enough about not buying convenience foods.  How many articles have I penned about making fruits and vegetables more "grabbable" by prepping them in advance for on-the-go snackage?  What the hell was I doing buying pricey, individually-wrapped bars?  That I kept them in the car for "emergencies" (like boredom) didn't erase the fact that with some more advance planning I could probably do better. I could also walk everywhere, never swear, and stop drinking so much caffeine. 

Happily, I finally did break the Larabar habit, and here's how: My friend Tracy devised her own homemade version, and they're super easy to make.  I took her concept and ran with it, tossing in goji berries, cacao nibs, flax, and toasted oats, and making the portions bite-size so the recipe yields a ton. I refrigerated some and froze the rest.  Now I can grab a nugget any time for a quick snack on the go.

I still cuss, drive, and drink too much caffeine, but if you berate me for it, I'll lob a frozen nibby nugget right at your head.  And trust me: that would smart.

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Recipe for Goji Nibby Nuggets

If you like to snack and need something quick and grabbable, you will absolutely love these.  I readily admit that the raw ingredients aren't cheap -- goji berries and cacao nibs can cost $8-$9 per 4 to 8-ounce bag, and good dates are pricey, too.  (Tip: I buy my dates at a Middle Eastern grocery, where they cost less than half the price of those at the natural foods store.)  Keep in mind that although your upfront costs may seem high, individually wrapped bars will cost you much more. You can also swap out the bits for sunflower seeds, pepitas, or other crunchy tidbits of your choosing.

Inspired by the Lemon Date Energy Bars on Shutterbean

Makes 30 pieces

1/2 cup old-fashioned oats
12 ounces pitted dates (I used the deglet noor variety), rough-chopped
1 cup dry roasted, unsalted pistachios
1/2 cup roasted, unsalted cashews
1 tablespoon ground flaxseed
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2 tablespoons almond milk
1/4 cup goji berries
1/4 cup cacao nibs

Toast the oats in a toasted oven or preheated 350 degree oven until slightly browned, shaking the baking pan once or twice to prevent burning, about 3 to 5 minutes.  Cool.

In a food processor, grind the dates, pistachios, cashews, flax, and oats for 30 seconds, or until all ingredients are reduced to a uniform texture.  Add the extract and almond milk and pulse in 1 second bursts.  Add the goji berries and nibs and pulse about 20 times more, or until tiny colorful bits are evenly distributed throughout the "dough" and no large chunks remain (unless you'd like them there).

Line a baking sheet with wax paper or silpat. Using a small scoop, portion out the dough into 30 mounds.  With slightly wet hands (to prevent sticking), carefully press each mound into a nugget. Set on the prepared sheet and refrigerate at least 1 hour, covered lightly with plastic wrap.  The longer you chill them, the firmer they'll be, but they'll never become hard.  Store in the refrigerator, or freeze until solid and then transfer to a zip-top freezer bag.

printable pdf

This is your brain. This is your brain on scrambled eggs.

If I were an egg, I'd like to be poached. To be lowered, gently, into warm, soothing water and then set down with care on some buttery toast. I would be so dainty!

And yet, I'm scrambled. And I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you're scrambled, too. I've met very few poached eggs in my life, and those that I have met are usually hiding something beneath their yolks.

Let's just let that metaphor sit for a while.

I turned in my manuscript yesterday. That was a good time. Working on something for more than a year and then hitting send is like kicking a baby bird out of its nest and watching it freefall. Will it figure out how to fly, or crash to the earth in a spectacular heap? I guess we'll find out in a year.

In the meantime, I'm catching my breath. How've you all been? Made any good egg recipes lately?

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Recipe for Scrambled Eggs in Grilled Portobello Caps

Here's what you make after you've spent all day writing about turnips and cabbage and your brain is fried like a piece of cod.

Yields however many servings you feel like making, depending on your energy level and the number of hungry people who happen to be in your house.

Portobello mushroom cap(s)
Olive oil
Eggs (count on 2 per mushroom)
Salt and pepper
Minced Herbs
Truffle oil, if you've had a hard day and you happen to roll that way

Scrape the gills from your portobello cap(s) and discard. Brush the mushroom(s) on both sides with olive oil and season them with salt and pepper. If you want them to be nice and tender, you may want to use more oil and marinate them in a plastic bag while you do other things, like take a shower or locate lost library books.

Grill your mushroom(s) on both sides until done to your liking and pretty grill marks appear on top.

Make your scrambled eggs, seasoning them well with salt and pepper. I cook mine in olive oil.

Gingerly and with great fanfare, spoon your scrambled eggs into the portobello cap(s), sprinkle with minced herbs, drizzle with truffle oil if you have it, and go eat someplace quiet. Don't come out until you're done.

printable pdf

 

Uncooking

Don't feel like cooking?  No sweat; just cut some stuff up and chuck it towards the table.

I like to cook. I really do.  I'm a big fan of fire, and heat, and sautéing things in olive oil.  I like roasting, love baking, adore composing salads with many layers of vegetable doodads.  I can poach a fish and flip a crepe and scrape the little brown bits off the bottom of a skillet.  But sometimes, I'd rather read a book, or watch TV, or go places.  Sometimes I even like to do nothing, something I do -- can I say this? -- remarkably well.  Basically, sometimes, I like not cooking so much I actually giggle at the joy it brings me.

These not-cooking times vary in frequency and duration, but more often than not they occur on weekends.  Weekend lunches, in particular, are one of my favorite times to practice the art of not cooking.  I've become something of an expert at it. I may even go on tour, just not cooking from city to city, town to town, peddling my skills on street corners and country lanes.  I'll not cook in lots of places.  Under water, on bridges, in museums.

Of course, there is a caveat: my distinct brand of not cooking still involves pretty good food.  I don't want anyone on my watch to starve.  So I cut things up, nicely, and plop them in piles.  I think about color, texture, flavor. I create an artist's palette, so something as seemingly dull as a cucumber actually looks fun, and sassy!, once it's placed next to a scoop of pomegranate seeds, or the sections of an unpithed clementine. 

And then I call the masses.  "Hey, masses!" I trill. "Eat something."

And they do.  They nibble and nabble.  They pick and they dip.  They pair dried apricots with pita triangles and cucumbers with salami and peaches with brie.  And at the end of the meal, or the unmeal, they walk their plates over to the sink.  And I've got no pans to scrub, no splatters to wipe.  I've just got a knife and a cutting board to give a quick wash, and the freedom to return to my day of doing everything or nothing.

Yes, I suppose, you could go to the drive-thru or get a hot dog from 7-Eleven, but without being too dogmatic, don't. Just expand your definition of the meal.  Break free from the shackles of conformity.  Unsandwich the sandwich, de-compose the salad, and unstew the stew.  After you present the platter, if people wonder where their meal is, slap a white hat on their heads and tell them they're in charge.  "Eat it however you like," you'll say.  "You're the chef.  You're the artist."

And then pull back a chair, sit quietly, and watch them paint. 

Before you know it, Monday will come.  You'll pick up your pots, unearth your pans, and embrace the fine art of cooking once again.

Restraint

There was a time where every single salad known to man had dried cranberries in it.  Maybe it started in the 80s, maybe the 90s, I don't know, but when the trend hit, it exploded, and before you knew it, even fast food restaurants gave out little packets of dried cranberries every time you'd order a salad.  This, as with many things, became annoying, and even though I've got no beef with dried cranberries and would happily take them out for coffee and a chat, I don't think every salad in the known universe needs to be paired with dried fruit.

It is for this reason that I offer up this cranberry-free tomato cherry salad.  Notice how I said tomato cherry and not cherry tomato, and that is because there are no cherry tomatoes in this tomato cherry salad.  Do you follow?

And it's a very, very simple recipe, if you can even call it that. Why?  Because I think we need to be careful when we toss 45 ingredients into a salad.  If I see a salad on a restaurant menu and it's got 45 ingredients, that's essentially the chef telling me, point blank, 'I do not know which produce items play nicely with which other produce items, and therefore I will put every single thing in my kitchen into this salad, along with dried cranberries.'  I'm sorry, but no.  I run screaming from 45 ingredient salads, and I encourage you to do the same.  Just close the menu, place your napkin gently on the table, and bid adieu.  You're better than that, and you deserve more.  Or, less.

So here it is: less.  Take fresh cherries -- go with Bings or another sweet, red variety, plus some golden blushed Rainiers.  Pair them with fresh tomatoes -- mix the colors, and please, if you don't have really good tomatoes near you yet, wait for them.  Just do me this one favor.  Wait. for. the. really. good. tomatoes.  I've got some already, which is why I'm posting this recipe in June.  (Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.)  Hit with balsamic, and some salt, and you are DONE.

And it's only got four ingredients. Score! 

If you absolutely, positively feel you need a fifth ingredient, might I suggest some dried cranberries?

Kidding.  (Except I'm not.  I think they'd be really good.)

(Kidding!)

Actually, I'm not kidding.

...
Recipe for Tomato Cherry Salad

The beauty of this salad lies both in its simplicity and in its somewhat unusual pairing of ripe tomatoes with ripe cherries.  They're natural partners, so long as you don't muck them up with excess adornments.  Restraint!

Serves four as a side, as part of a larger assortment of salads

1 pound ripe summer heirloom tomatoes, mixed colors
3/4 pound assorted sweet cherries, pitted
1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon good balsamic vinegar (break out the thick, syrupy stuff if you've got it)
Pinch coarse salt

Slice the tomatoes into wedges, or cut them into large, irregular chunks, roughly the size of the cherries.  Sprinkle with the balsamic. (Taste, then add more, if desired.)  Season with salt.  Serve immediately, at room temperature.

printable pdf

Nischan

We've been complaining about this for years.  About how the federal government subsidizes corn and soy, making fast food so cheap that fresh food can't compete.  That a huge Coke costs less than a small bottle of water, a box of nuggets half as much as a salad, and a stack of burgers far less than a pound of apples.  We've raised our voices, railed against the injustice of it all -- of the commodities system, and the overflowing corn silos, and the surpluses that make reasonably-priced fresh food seem somehow exorbitant and out of reach.  But this man above, this man, has done something about it.

Meet Michel Nischan. 

Some might recognize him as the chef/owner of The Dressing Room, a restaurant in Westport, Connecticut he cofounded with the late Paul Newman.  But Nischan is also a cookbook author, pioneer, and a warm yet determined sustainable foods advocate committed to turning the whole mess of government subsidies on its head. He and a team of colleagues founded the nonprofit Wholesome Wave Foundation almost three years ago to provide the missing link -- the "roux" as Nischan describes it -- between traditionally underserved neighborhoods without access to fresh, affordable food, and farmers who grow food in local communities, by leveraging existing public and private funds and programs.  "We're trying to link underserved urban communities and underserved rural communities to food, without a middleman," he told me. 

One of the Foundation's most exciting initiatives is the Double Value Coupon Program, which doubles the value of food stamps (now called SNAP benefits) when redeemed for produce at farmers' markets in participating states.  So those who couldn't afford fresh food are better able to. 

Nischan wanted to debunk one fundamentally faulty assumption: that food deserts arose in blighted communities because the demand for healthier options wasn't there.  Not so, he asserts, and Wholesome Wave is currently collecting economic data that shows that when fresher food is more affordable, people will buy it in droves.  In the next phase of data collection, the foundation will study how access plus affordability may translate into measurable health benefits in these same communities.

Two weeks ago, the Obama administration mentioned Wholesome Wave and the Double Value Coupon program in its May 11 "White House Task Force on Childhood Obesity Report to the President." I can understand why.

It has been a long time that big ag lobbies have enjoyed depressed market prices.  By incentivizing fresh fruits and vegetables, Wholesome Wave is leveling the playing field, just a little, at long last.

Burritos

Some food writers are treated to dinner at five-star restaurants, plied with high-end wines, and sent home with luxury gifts from the chef.  Me?  I was sent on assignment to the Taco Bell drive-thru.  (Click over to see how I fared.)

Also, in other happy news, congratulations to Tegan Kaske.  I tasked New Vegetarian author Robin Asbell with handpicking the winner of her cookbook in last week's giveaway. Robin was especially moved by Tegan's description of the salad she shared with her boyfriend in Paris.  

Thanks sincerely to everyone who entered the giveaway.  I loved reading about all your lovely, inspirational salads; they helped get me through a burrito-filled week.

More soon.

Vanish!

Foods I wouldn't mourn were they to suddenly disappear from the planet:

Chili cheese dogs
Sherbet
Mike 'n' ikes
Black licorice
Coke/Pepsi/Mountain Dew/Squirt (?!)
Rockstar energy drink
Prune juice
Funyons
Liverwurst / olive loaf
Kraft Bagelfuls (a frozen bagel filled with cream cheese and 'fruit filling')
Instant coffee
Hi-C/ Hawaiian punch
Crystal light
Anything with the word "froot" in it
Non-dairy creamer
Miracle Whip
Key lime pie flavored yogurt
Tofurky
Deli potato salad or deli macaroni salad (I don't care which deli)
Jelly donuts (sorry!)
Booberry cereal
Toaster strudel
Hot Pockets
Cool Whip
Extra Creamy Cool Whip
Fat-free Cool Whip
Lite Cool Whip
Sugar-Free Cool Whip
Hungry Man Frozen Dinner - Mexican Style Fiesta (ole!)
Salt-water taffy
Bud Light Chelada (beer with tomato & clam juice) (no, i am not kidding)

Man, this was way more fun than I expected.

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