5 second rule

Oil me up.

Sometimes I wonder if I were weaned directly onto olives.  If puttanesca, tapenade, and cream cheese and olive sandwiches are as much a part of my DNA as hazel eyes and willful hair.  

Then there's olive oil. Remember that moment in the 1990s when the Mediterranean diet captured headlines here in the U.S.? When all of a sudden we were told that dousing our pasta with olive oil was not only chic, but good for our health? I brimmed with sophisticated thoughts at that moment. Thoughts like: Wait, WHAT?!? 

Olive oil and I have been friends ever since.

Happily, when I was in Israel, I had the chance to visit a family-owned olive press called Rish Lakish. Our visit took place during the fall harvest festival known as Olive Branch Days. According to Dr. Adi Naali of the Israeli Olive Oil Division, about 30 producers participate in this annual celebration. (There are 110 high-quality olive oil producers in Israel as a whole.) My profile of Rish Lakish, and the family that runs it, just went live on the Etsy blog. I hope you'll click over to read it there.

As an added bonus, here's some expert advice from Rish Lakish's Ayala Noy Meir, pictured above (that's her father Micha in the lead photo), on how to purchase and store olive oil: 

1. When possible, buy oil in cans or green glass bottles. Some clear plastic bottles may contain colorants that mask poor quality oil. 

2. Store olive oil in a cool, dark spot, away from both light and heat.

3. For everyday cooking, use small containers of olive oil. Oxygen is olive oil's enemy, and every time you open a large bottle the oil degrades. So transfer the contents of larger bottles into smaller ones, and cook daily from the smaller vessels.

4. Always check the production date. Ayala says good olive oil has a shelf life of about two years. Mass-produced factory oil lasts about one year.

5. Expect to pay for quality. Cheap olive oil should trigger alarm bells. NPR recently ran a story that revealed just how rampant the mislabeling of cheap, imported olive oil really is.

As an incentive to check out the Etsy piece, you'll get to see in the final photo that Hugh Acheson has a potential future career as a hand-model in the unlikely event that the whole chef/restaurateur/TV thing falls through for him.

It's always good to have a back-up plan.

(Mine is to be a prima ballerina.)

You say she writes like that? Well, I write like this.

If I read one more treatise on the best way to be a writer, I'm going to blow. 

Here are the ways the universe tells me to write:

1. Every day.
2. Before the sun rises.
3. In an uncluttered space.
4. With a view of the mountains/ocean/garden/hilltop.
5. With a cup of coffee.
6. Whether I want to or not.
7. With classical music.
8. With a daily word count.
9. With no internet access.
10. Without reading what I've written.

Here's how I write:

1. Every day, mostly, but sometimes I cook instead.
2. After the sun rises, but before it sets. I'm neither a Knight Rider, nor a night writer.
3. On a catastrophically cluttered desk. Seriously, my desk is so messy small animals probably lie dead under all the papers, magazines, moleskins, and folders.
4. With a view of a wall. Classy.
5. With a cup of tea, or a bowl of cereal, or a dish of almonds, or a crumbly piece of toast that's dried out by the time I eat it.
6. When I feel driven, and motivated, and inspired. I get a tightness in my chest; so far it hasn't been a heart attack. 
7. In complete silence.
8. With no daily word count.
9. With internet access dangling her seductive tresses in my face at every possible turn.
10. With constant self-editing. 

But cooking, that's different. Here's how I cook:

1. Every day, several times a day, except on vacation, when I'm a lazy bum.
2. After the sun rises, and after I've drunk a cup of tea so strong it jangles my eyeballs.
3. In a kitchen that starts out clean, then looks like it was hit by a Mac truck trailing a meteor hitched to a cyclone.
4. With a view of my table and its syrup spills, and the scratchy spot where I scraped off the menorah wax with a knife. (Don't do this.)
5. With lots of nibble breaks, and more tea, and then tea, and then nibbles. 
6. Whether or not I feel like cooking, though honestly, I usually do, because it's a great change from writing and being seduced by the internet's hair.
7. With noise. NPR, or loud radio. If a mattress commercial comes on, I yell at people who aren't there.
8. Three meals a day, plus work recipes, plus snacky things for the boys who call my house home.
9. With internet access, so I can beam pictures of my snacky things into space. I need help.
10. With constant editing. More salt, squeeze of lemon, kick of pepper, grate of cheese, zest of lime. 

So the next time someone passes around a link to a profile of some writer who works in spartan, idealized circumstances, or some cook in a beautiful, pristine kitchen, you can just click over here and feel better about yourself. Because I'm a writer, and a cook, and I pretty much do everything wrong.

... 

Recipe for Honey-Glazed Almonds with candied fennel

If you like sweet/crunchy snacky things with a mysterious edge, these are for you. Bonus: fennel seeds help freshen breath, so find someone to breathe on when you're done snacking.

Makes 2-1/4 cups

2 cups raw whole almonds

1 tablespoon fennel seeds
2 tablespoons honey
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon black pepper
3 tablespoons candied fennel (available at Indian markets)

Set almonds on a rimmed baking sheet. Toast in a preheated 350 oven, 5 to 8 minutes, until one shade darker. Cool.

Meanwhile, in a small, dry saucepan (large enough to eventually hold the almonds), toast the fennel seeds over medium heat until fragrant and beginning to darken slightly, shaking the pan constantly, about 2 minutes. Reduce heat to low, add honey, sea salt, and pepper. Stir vigorously with a heatproof spatula until honey foams and liquefies, about 1 minute. Remove from heat. 

Add almonds, and stir quickly to coat. Scrape onto a silpat- or parchment-lined baking sheet, nudging the nuts into a single layer. Cool completely.

Break the glazed almonds into small clusters or individual pieces, toss with the candied fennel, and serve. Store leftovers airtight.

printable pdf

Don't sit on my lap.

I'm still on tomatoes.

Apples can wait.

There's time, later, for sweaters, cool breezes, red leaves, and damp fog. 

But not yet. Not yet.

My house is quiet. Where's the boy laughter? No one needs snacks? Hello? 

A writer craves peace. Unfettered headspace for thought, planning, creative endeavor. Silence, unmoored, for words to flow, crash, tumble, and loop. Time, above all, so ideas can barge in, look around, and find a nice comfy chair in the corner.

But she's a fickle mistress, that quiet. She teases and taunts, tempts and withdraws. All summer long she prances, laughing, just out of reach, all beckoning curves and sweet-smelling hair.

Suddenly, the air shifts.

September.

She approaches, once and for all, that quiet. Eyes wide, and soft. She cuddles in, right there on my lap.

And I want nothing to do with her.

So, yes, I'm still on tomatoes.

Apples can wait.

...

Details on upcoming events. (Paulette will be with me in San Francisco and Berkeley. Join us.)

Are we thought-leaders, or trend-followers?

Certain words grate. They're the popcorn kernels that park in your throat mid-film -- the ones just annoying enough to distract you from the screen but not so stuck that they cause you to choke and die.

"Trend" is this word for me. It's a minor but persistent annoyance, and our relationship is strained.

I don't dress artsy. I don't create new paradigms or dye my hair blue or invent things. I don't risk it all. I am a trend follower in many ways -- in how I present myself, how I move in society, how I exist. I'm the person you don't notice in a crowd. I'm camouflage.

But in my head, I strive for more. I want to think outside the box, and push the needle forward. I don't want to mirror what's around me, especially if it's mediocre. I want to create. Produce. Improve.

I want to delight.

Look above. That reflection is flawed. The beauty of what's real, at bottom, is marred when it's mirrored up top. The window is dirty, and you can see the outline of the flower pot and garden outside. The top image is gray, imperfect, overcast.

Last year, I pitched an article to a website about Passover food. Big site, wide national audience. I'd written for them before, had a good relationship with the editor. Her response was appropriate from a business standpoint, but it was that popcorn kernel in my throat all over again.

"As much as I’d love to have more Jewish holiday content on the site, the traffic potential is low and it’s hard to get the powers that be to approve."

You want to know why the traffic potential is low? Because Jewish people don't find articles about Jewish holiday food on your site. Because you're not sticking your neck out. Because you're giving people what they've always had, and not willing to offer something new. 

It's a vicious-circle, this publishing world, and that's why we see so much recycled content, celebrity diet bs, sensationalized nothing, and food articles as deep as a puddle. Yes, I'm generalizing, and no, not all media is like this. I am giddy and grateful for those that surprise me. I want to read them, and write for them. I want to link arms with them and chant and bring them flowers. 

Am I suggesting food media has to be serious to refresh? Hell, no. We can have fun, be lighthearted, and play. We can tout whimsy. 

Look, I'm going to re-commit myself to bucking trends. To moving the needle forward, a bit at a time, until it sits just a groove or two ahead of where it sat before. Until, slowly, we can step away from the mirror, away from that dirty window, and start to see not what's in it, but what sits beyond the pane. 

...

I have been overwhelmed by the warm responses -- emails, Facebook posts, tweets -- of so many of you to my IACP win on Monday night. I am still processing how to thank you properly, but in the mean time, please know that you have moved me deeply.

...

Pay Attention to the Quiet Girl in the Corner.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner. 
Who may have trouble meeting your gaze.
Who's more comfortable in the classroom than on the stage.
Who prefers a small band of friends to shapeless crowds.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner.
Who must repeat herself to be heard.
Who takes a while to warm up.
Who opens slowly, like a bud.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner.
Who percolates in fits and starts.
Who rushes forward, springs back, then tiptoes along the high wire
Arms outstretched
Not daring to look down
Determined to proceed 
One foot in front of the other.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner.
Knock her down, then watch her rise.
Pass her over, freeze her out, turn your nose up, reward another.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner.
While she's alone, she hones her steel, sharpens her instincts, chisels her skills.

Pay attention to the quiet girl in the corner.
She has something to say.

And she's almost ready to speak. 

Words taste good if you learn how to cook them.

A lot of food writing is wonderful. It's lyrical, and evocative. It makes me think and feel and dream and relate in a way other types of writing don't. That's a big part of why I chose this professional path.

But some food writing makes me groan. It’s tired, obvious, and overwrought. It's just so terribly easy to go overboard, to be cutesy, to employ excessive and unwarranted punctuation (!!!), to rely on cliche, and to assume, always, that more is better. More descriptors. More sensory cues. More obscure references to people -- without fleshing out who they are. Why should we care about your aunt's ragù or your neighbor's avgolemono? Who are these people? The key is to paint a picture, and then to step back and make sure the lines and colors and swirls all make sense from afar.

These are the things I tell myself when I sit down to write. And then I still use too many exclamation points.

Words have power, and it takes time, and effort, to choose which ones best represent a meal or, I don’t know, a melon. Sure, I can call it delicious. I can call it luscious.  I can call it “the most amazing melon I’ve ever tasted.”  Yawn.  Why not call it something else entirely? Why not call it a melon whose slippery softness evoked the sweetness of my first kiss, a kiss stolen from the boy who worked in the law library of my father's office in 1985?

Restaurants hire consultants to help them craft menu language to make dishes move faster and maximize profit. There’s a whole science behind the cues people respond to, and while you don’t need an advanced degree to be a food writer, you can employ a few simple tricks to grab someone's attention. You can also train yourself to ferret out awkward phrasing and clunky descriptors.

Think, first, about what words turn you on.  Linguistic resonance is highly personal, so it’s unlikely that your list and mine will be the same. And that's fine. It's good, actually.

For me, the words I'm drawn to come in a rush: warm, soft, soothing, comforting, simple, rustic, caramelized, sweet, hot, cool, melting, refreshing, relaxing, light, creamy, thick, fat, crisp, shocking, clear, clean, blanket, smother, suffocate, dribble, kiss, nestle, cling.

Words I try to avoid: delectable, yummy, amazing, fantastic, delicious, scrumptious, sooooo, great, the best, decadent, phenomenal. I'm sure you can find these words in my writing -- I'm no more perfect than you -- but I think they're a bit lazy. And while lazy's fine every now and again, I don't really want to spend my entire life on the couch in my jammies. (For more on this topic, check out food writing expert Dianne Jacob's post titled "The Worst Food Writing Words.")

Another good tip is to be aware of your pulse. This sounds ridiculous, but hear me out: when I read a beautiful turn of phrase, or a creative simile, or a line of prose that leaps rhythmically off the page without tripping on its own cleverness, my heart flutters. Only a bit, and only for a second, but something happens to my body and I feel, instinctively, that I've hit on something good. That's when I know -- as a writer and a reader -- that the word choice is right. 

Finally, good writing, once consumed, should inspire a moment of quiet reflection. When I finish reading something that moves me, something so well-crafted it forces me to sit completely still in my chair, I know I've hit pay dirt. I may even read it again to drink it in more fully. I want to bathe in good writing, and leave a layer of it on me as I move throughout my day. I'm not talking about my own writing, obviously, but any writing that shimmers with meaning, resonance, beauty, and craft. If I sit there for a minute or two, quietly, without clicking away or turning the page, then the writer's words have found me, reached me, moved me, and left a quiet mark.

Strive for this in your own work, as I do in mine. We may never get there (is there even a there?), but if we both keep trying, the world will continue to swell with beautiful words.

Food aphorisms to close out your year.

The year’s almost up, and I have more to tell you.

*Butter is good. Brown butter is better. Burnt butter is bad. Burnt caramel (ice cream) is good. Salted caramel is good. Salted butter is bad, except when it’s good. Salted pasta water is good. Salt water taffy has never been good, and will therefore always be bad.

*You don’t need an avocado peeler, strawberry huller, corn cob scraper, corn silk remover, peach defuzzer, pineapple slicer, or herb mill. You do, however, need a fondue fork, if you’ve got dried wax in your menorah.

*The only reason not to make chicken stock after you’ve eaten a roast chicken is because you’re lazy, you’ll have to stay up late, and you’ll spill it when transferring it to smaller containers. Do it anyway, for your future self, who is a better person than you will ever be.

*An egg is a miracle. If you’re not a vegan, or allergic, or a chicken, learn to cook a proper egg.

*Call me if you run out of sundried tomatoes. In a moment of weakness, I bought a jar at Costco that’s bigger than Minnesota. 

*For a cool $7, you can buy a rubber mallet at the hardware store. Use it to tap your knife into hard squash (butternut, kabocha, carnival). This tip will save your knife, and possibly your digits. (Thanks, Elise.)

*If ricotta and honey had a baby, I would adopt it.

*Life is too short for bad tea, bad cheese, and bad bagels. Bad cake is okay, though.

*In a pinch, you can save a boring bowl of soup by blanketing it with Gruyère and blasting it with a kitchen torch. When you’re done, use the torch to make crème brûlée, preferably for me.

*Stale panko smells like a warehouse in a sketchy part of town. Throw it out.

*Cookies on a plate are dull. Cookies in a jar are better. Cookies in a bucket are adorable. You should not tie cookies up with ribbon, however, because if you’re that dexterous, you should apply your considerable talents to something more meaningful, like knitting a sweater for the poor, or unknotting the tangled necklaces in my jewelry box.

Happy New Year to you and those in your life. Let's hang out even more in 2012.

Pots of lentils, glasses of tea.

I can't help it. I just like words. I like the way they look. And I like the way they taste.

Words melt on my tongue like an ice cube, or a chocolate pastille.  I like searching for words, like reaching for them, like calling them forth from the depths of my brain.  And sometimes I can.  But sometimes they hide there for hours.  Dormant, dusty, shrouded, hidden, sometimes words are that itch between my shoulder blades, that spot I can't reach no matter how hard I stretch.

So I pick another, temporarily.  But when a word's wrong, it's just wrong.  It's an off-key note.  It’s milk gone sour.  It’s mildew.

Of course, someday, in a decade -- two? three? -- finding the right word will be hard, daily.  Harder than finding a tiny stone in a pot of lentils.  You'll know it’s there because you saw it, once, reflecting the light. So you spill the contents of that pot through your fingers again and again and again, like sand, sifting and straining, looking for that one shiny pebble, and you think you see it, but no, and after a while you give up, realizing hours have passed, and all you have is a wasted day.

This time will come, eventually. It does for all of us.

When words don't come, I'll read but not write. I'll hear but not compose. I'll eat but not cook.  When words don't come, I'll drink in others' words instead, like so much sweet tea, remembering a time when I, too, knew how to brew a sentence with just the right mix of balance and strength, in three to five minutes, flat.