Kiwi Baby Mama, and the Perception of a Bargain

When perusing the produce at Whole Foods, my eye inevitably finds the yellow ‘On Sale’ tags, since- let’s face it- these are often the only items I can afford (get out the skillet, mama’s bringin’ home a whole eggplant tonight!). In my recent wanderings, I came across a little plastic clamshell of what looked like green grapes. The label read “Passion Poppers”, which sounds to me like something you’d find an ad for in the back pages of a magazine, but they were, in fact, baby kiwis. Yup, for only $3.99 you can take home your very own half-pint of ‘kiwi berries’. Before I get too snide about the inflated price tag, I should probably own up to the fact that I bought them- as evidenced by the above picture. This purchase, and its all-too-numerous precedents, demonstrate an interesting phenomenon, of which, I am happy to say, I am not the only victim: perceived bargains. The perception of a bargain, especially for the penny-pinching New Englanders that abound in these parts, is often too enticing for shoppers to resist. When faced with a sale item or ‘special deal’, such factors as need, previous desire, and practicality are forgotten, and taking their place is the simple knowledge that we can buy something today for less than we could buy it yesterday. In this scenario, the price might shoot right back up tomorrow- if it’s even still available tomorrow, that is, since everyone will be clamoring to take advantage of this deal. Is it the fear that others will take advantage while we miss out? Is it the implicit limited window of time that causes rational thought to be thrown to the wind? Or is it simply the notion that we’re being offered a commodity worth more than the asking price? Obviously, the concept that an item’s value is dictated by what one is willing to pay for it would refute this theory, but I think it might be the driving force here. The customer feels like he’s ‘pulling one over’ on the seller; as if he had personally negotiated the price down to a reasonable figure. Perhaps in the frustration of our consumer-driven society, exacerbated by the economic crisis, taking advantage of a perceived bargain at Whole Foods is our cultural equivalent of haggling with vendors in a marketplace somewhere. Since attempting to drive a bargain with the stock boy is not an accepted means of frugality, jumping at the opportunity to save a dollar on apples or eggs will have to suffice. The sad irony is, of course, that if you wouldn’t have paid 4.99 for it, but you’re buying it for 3.99 on sale, you’re (I’m) still a sucker! Hell, I never would have dished out four bucks for a pack of baby kiwis if it wasn’t a ‘special’, (believe it or not, they weren’t on my shopping list), but somehow, I was drawn in. Alas, I found myself in possession of a half-pint of kiwiberries, and since regular kiwis were also on sale, I decided I’d turn my humiliating run as supermarket chump into a golden opportunity for some culinary edification in the form of a good ol’ side-by-side tasting.

So on to the good stuff: the eating of my newly meaningful, shamefully procured little fruits. The first and most apparent difference between the two- besides the obvious size factor- was the absence of the characteristic fuzzy brown skin on the babies. It is this very skin that earned the fruit its well-known moniker, as it was thought to resemble the kiwi bird when the plant was first brought to New Zealand. Originally a native of China, it was previously referred to as a ‘Chinese gooseberry’, and in China as a monkey peach, macaque pear, vine pear, sun peach or wood berry.

Upon cutting open the two fruits, the similarities became more obvious; the cross-section of the baby was a perfect little clone of its more common relative. What is it about a familiar object, scaled down a few sizes, that just makes it so darn cute? Eighteen years ago my American Girl dolls would have had the perfect addition to their tiny plastic lunches. The flesh of the kiwiberry was slightly more vibrant than the mama, leaning towards a punchy Kelly green, as opposed to the more chartreuse translucence of the typical fruit. When given a little love squeeze, the baby oozed a milky-green fluid, more opaque than the juice dripping off my knife after cutting through the fuzz-coated flesh of the mama.

Sniffing the two specimens revealed that the berries- which are also called ‘hardy kiwis’ due to the ability of the dormant vines to withstand temperatures as low as -25 degrees Fahrenheit- have a mild, fresh aroma, and after sucking the flesh out of a few, and then just popping a couple in my mouth whole, I found the meat to be dense, with a slightly chalky texture, and the flavor sweeter, but somehow tangier than the kiwis I was used to. They were decidedly citrusy, with both lemon and lime notes and a pleasant melon undertone. On to the big’un: here, I found the texture to be almost crystalline, as opposed to the creamy flesh of the berries, and it had a pronounced, grassy aroma. The flavor was more delicate overall, and compared to the hardy kiwis was like a tasty but modest Riesling next to a crisp German Auslese in which the sweetness is intense, but balanced by snappy acidity.

The winner? Both are healthy choices, with hefty doses of vitamin C, and while Chinese folklore does endow kiwifruits with cancer-fighting abilities, one can only assume there’s simply less existing research on the Lilliputian variety. If you have an extreme aversion to fuzzy coatings, the babies have an obvious advantage. Concerned about the use of excess plastics in packaging? Mama’s the clear choice. More bang for your buck? Mama wins again. In retrospect, my 3.99 was justified by the fact that I got a blog post out of it, but in the future, when I feel myself being swayed by the siren song of the yellow sale tag, I’ll pause a moment and consider my motives- perhaps next time I’ll save my dollars for that German Auslese instead…

A Stout Defense of Fall; shorter days, cooler nights, and brews for the equinox.

Arguably the best thing about the onset of crisp fall weather is the foods we have been waiting all summer to eat. Stews, braises, all things hearty and satisfying that just don’t seem quite so alluring when it’s 90 degrees out- who wants stick to your ribs food when your hair is sticking to the back of your neck? The same principle applies to America’s favorite quaff as well- lagers, ales, and hefeweizens dominate the summer bar scene, and patio-sippers are uniformly light in both color and weight, and served ice-cold and in copious quantities.

Although the change is already undeniable, the official start of autumn has not arrived, and I have yet to pull out the Le Creuset for stew or fill up the kitchen with the warmth and spicy-sweet aromas of baking. I haven’t closed my windows yet, either, but the first evening that the air wafting in sent me running for a sweater to wrap around my shoulders felt like the time to start embracing some of the finer flavors of the season- Oktoberfest anyone?

Now, seeing as I always want to try something new, and am seldom in the mood for the same thing two nights in a row, my favorite way to buy beer is in mixed six-packs. Not all places will let you do this, but even if it’s not advertised, it’s always worth asking. Trader Joe’s is great about allowing you to mix and match, and while their selection is not exhaustive, there’s certainly enough for a few go-rounds. When I think of fall beers, I think of dark, heady brews with a thick layer of foam and pungent, bitter aromas. That being said, I am by no means a beer expert, so when I found myself picking out both a stout and a porter from the Sierra Nevada Brewing Company, I knew they both fell well into these parameters, but couldn’t tell you exactly why, or how they differed from each other, for that matter. Thus, with the usual suspects of curiosity and an insatiable hunger for seemingly useless knowledge driving me (plus the need for an excuse to drink two beers at once), I set out to learn a bit about porter and stout, and taste them side-by-side.

Imagine my chagrin when the first fact my research turned up was that the official difference between stout and porter is…nothing. Well screw it, I thought, I’m still drinking them both. Apparently, back in the 1800s, the term ‘stout’ simply meant that a beer was strong, while a weak beer was described as ‘slender’. Under the umbrella of porters, which were all relatively dark, there were ‘brown stouts’, as opposed to ‘true’ porters, which were lighter in style and alcohol. Throughout the years, each brewery developed its own style of porter and stout; often this manifested in the use of chocolate malt versus patent malt, respectively, or roasting the barley for stouts, but none of this was official or regulated in any way. While there is no universally defined difference between the two, they are indeed distinct- otherwise there’d be no money to be made by selling them both. I further focused my exploration on the Sierra Nevada company, since these were the brews which were to characterize my comparison.

Both Sierra Nevada’s porter and stout are made with top-fermenting ale yeast, but the porter is made with a blend of deep-roasted barley malts (Two-row Pale, Munich, Chocolate, and Caramel) and has 32 bitterness units, whereas the stout is made with Caramel and black malts and boasts 50 bitterness units as well as slightly higher alcohol. Mmmmkay, so how the hell does all that translate into the enjoyment of your beverage? That’s where the tasting portion comes in. Pouring both beers into clear glasses, the first thing I noticed was the relative darkness of the stout; it was almost black when the light wasn’t shining through it, and had a frothy head the color of café-au-lait. The porter was a deep russet-brown, with amber highlights emerging in the light, and a creamy head. 

Next thing I did was poke my sniffer into each glass and take a whiff. In the stout, aromas of coffee, smoke, and molasses hit me right away, while the porter’s more subtle nose layered nutty whole-wheat with grassiness, and a bit of fruit akin to fermented or bruised apple. On the palate, the stout was creamy and full-bodied, loaded with a pleasant bitterness that hit the sides and back of my tongue. The lighter body of the porter made the bubbles more prominent in the mouth, and accentuated by the bright acid, the overall effect was crispness, with smooth caramel in the background.

The consensus: different? Definitely. Equally good? While I enjoyed- and finished- them both, I found myself saving the stout for my last sip. Anything with bitterness and smoky tones gets a pass in my book, and I felt that the overall depth and rich textures just made for a more complex beer. That being said, I’ve enjoyed pretty much everything I’ve tasted from this brewery, and would probably even *gasp* buy a whole six-pack of either one of these offerings- if I happened to find myself in an establishment that forbade my beloved mixing and matching, that is.

So until we take the turn into full-on shank-braisin’, pie-bakin’, frost-bitten New England autumn once again, celebrate this fleeting period of limbo, when a sweater makes open windows possible, and a cold beer still seems appropriate, but leave your summer swills behind and embrace the swarthier side of beer. You can’t go wrong with a stout or a porter- hell, have both and you might not even need that sweater.

The Heart of the Matter; how I came across an intriguing homonym and an unfortunate homophone on my plate.

No organ in the human body is more romanticized or poeticized than the heart; we have imbued it with the ability to love, to choose, and to guide us, despite the fact that the first descriptor listed in the word’s definition is ‘hollow’. So why is this hollow organ, this glorified pump, such an emotionally charged part of our anatomy? Might word play be responsible? Perhaps the heart that everyone from Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson has waxed eloquent about is not the cardiac muscle of which we speak, but its homonym; “one’s innermost character, feelings, or inclinations”; “the essential or most vital part of something”.

Why am I contemplating such seemingly heavy subject matter on a food and wine blog, one might ask. The experience of eating offal- in addition to grossing many people out- is bound to inspire such considerations. While there are those opposed to eating meat of any kind, most of us just see it as ‘food’. Yes, meat is muscle, but not only are the muscles of quadrupeds and fowl quite distinct from those of our own species, but they are usually broken down into smaller cuts- a burger, say, or a chicken breast hardly accentuates the fact that we’re ingesting fellow mammals. When we enter the realm of offal, which for us foodies is a sacred realm indeed, things get a little sticky. Not only are organs recognizable to us in theory, but often times when they appear on our plate they are- quite literally- recognizable. Yes, we all have a liver, a pancreas, kidneys, a stomach, glands and a heart, but we all have muscles, too. Is it specificity that breeds this moral ambiguity, or the recognition of commonality?

Whatever it is, and however much it makes me think, it didn’t seem to get in the way of me finding myself at Eastern Standard popping rabbit hearts into my mouth. For me, offal is an unfortunate homophone, and I relish every chance I get to sample new and different ‘animal parts’. At Eastern Standard, the menu tempts the adventurous eater by listing ‘Today’s Offal’ under appetizers, and after learning that rabbit hearts were on offer, resistance was futile. They looked innocent enough as they arrived: perfectly bite-sized, dark in color, slightly oblong in shape, and- upon forking one for closer inspection- quite unmistakably heart-shaped. And just so as not to get caught up in grammar again, I don’t mean heart as in a valentine. The flavor had that distinct ‘organy’ thing going on- not quite metallic, not quite gamey, but…for lack a better word, very ‘animal’. It’s certainly not for everyone, but there’s something almost feral tasting about these meats; there’s no disguising the fact that you’re eating a ‘being’ (I’m starting to feel a little Hannibal here…). In texture there was a fair amount of chew to them, but not in a disagreeable way, more to the effect of density and richness. Served sautéed along with similarly shaped and sized baby Brussels sprouts, atop a bed of buttery quinoa and faro, it was both restrained and decadent; the curious juxtaposition of the consummate carnivore fare and stereotypically ‘hippie/health’ foods in one dish was as unexpected and delightful as finding Cruella De Vil in bed with a PETA activist.

And what did we drink with this plateful of contradiction? No, not a Chianti (but thank you for the suggestion, monsieur Lecter). Instead we chose a wine as unique as the fare: a red from the Piemontese region Vallée d'Aoste called ‘La Kiuva’. The seventy-five percent Nebbiolo, in the form of the regional clone Picatendro gave deep cherry fruit, spiciness, and just enough tannin to stand up to the hearts, while the pinot noir blended in lent a smoothness and bright acidity. Overall, it was the ideal mate for the dish; both were rustic and carnal, yet elegant, and, as this entry proves, memorable enough to warrant a second thought, and perhaps a little contemplation…

Potatoes and Amore; a love story

When gnocchi and I first met, it was the vacuum-packed, store bought kind; each one a perfectly formed, uniformly sized little nubbin, with machine-made ridges running down its side like cartoon washboard abs. With all due respect to my mother and her myriad culinary skills, handmade gnocchi were simply not in her repertoire. Understandably underwhelmed by what I tasted, in the subsequent decade or so gnocchi and I crossed paths a handful of times, but I never sought her out, never longed for her.

Years later, while studying the food and beverage chapter in my college Italian class, my signora uttered her name, and asked for an English translation. I thought “Translation? Gnocchi means…gnocchi…” But alas, I had been wrong; it turns out I had only known half of her identity until that point. While most of us know that her heritage is Italian, we have so completely assimilated her name into our language that we forget its not our own invention (SO unlike us Americans to do that, huh?). What most of us think of as gnocchi is only one manifestation- and a pallid one at that- of what actually translates into ‘dumplings’.

Yet another misconception, us Americans hear ‘dumpling’ and think Chinese, not Italian, but it is a word with far more breadth than most if us imagine. In fact, almost every culture has some version of a dumpling in their culinary inventory. According to The Food Lover’s Companion, dumplings can be sweet or savory, and simply consist of “small or large mounds of dough that are usually dropped into a liquid mixture (such as soup or stew) and cooked until done. Some are stuffed with meat or cheese mixtures.” Oh, the possibilities…

Tuscany c1570

Though not yet showing signs of age on her doughy little face, gnocchi is centuries old. One of the oldest records is a cookbook from the 1300s written in Tuscan dialect, and roughly translating to “If you want gnocchi, take some cheese and mash it, then take some flour and mix with egg yolks like if you make dough. Place on the fire a pot of water and when starts boiling place the mixture on a board and slide them in the pot with a spoon. And when they are cooked place them on the plates and top them with a lot of grated cheese.” Alright, sounds easy enough, but if you were paying attention you would note that not once was potato mentioned. Hmmm, it seems her most common guise today is a far cry from her humble beginnings. Potato is by far the most prevalent modern adaptation of gnocchi, but anything that can be incorporated into a workable dough can be utilized: squash, sweet potatoes, breadcrumbs, semolina, ricotta…the list goes on. Yes, she is an accommodating mistress, and will seldom turn down a worthy suitor, the only caveat being you must choose the best ingredients, and you must handle her right. If potato is your weapon of choice, give her starch- a floury russet potato will make her purr, but she’ll turn up her nose at a waxy Yukon gold, knowing it will turn her gummy and heavy- quite unladylike. Don’t handle her too much, just enough to work the flour into the potato, and- just like a real woman- there is no definite rule or guideline; the ratio of potato to flour will depend on the moisture in the potato, the humidity in the air, and the temperature, so follow your instincts, and if you err at first, just trust that with time and practice, you’ll learn her wily ways.

 

At this point, you may be wondering why I am devoting such energy to uncovering the delicate beauty of gnocchi, when I began by articulating my indifference. Therefore, I must confess that after a recent tryst she has won another admirer, and left me agog in her wake, longing for just one more taste. During a trip to Erbaluce in Bosont’s Bay Village, I was fortunate enough to try chef Charles Draghi’s signature gnocchi. It sounded simple enough on the menu- served with braised Berkshire pork- but when execution is impeccable, simplicity is just the ticket. The dumplings were irregular in shape and size and unridged; beautiful in their imperfection in the way of all things handcrafted. Chef Draghi explained that the potatoes are roasted in pancetta and prosciutto fat with sprigs of thyme and rosemary, left to sit overnight, and then formed into gnocchi the next day. The sensation of eating one is almost aberrational; so rich in flavor, so present in your mouth, yet so light that it feels as if it’s blown up with air. Each bite virtually melted on my tongue, prompting me to equate it with eating cotton candy (minus the artificial flavor, sticky hands, and pesky sensation that you’re ingesting fiberglass insulation). Now, I usually have tunnel vision when there are pig products on my plate, so the fact that I haven’t even mentioned the pork yet speaks volumes. The aforementioned Berkshire pork was braised to succulent tenderness, and along with a white mirepoix of parsnip, celeriac, and fennel, hunks of it mingled with the gnocchi in a sauce that made its presence known, but in its subtlety showed deference to the obvious star of the plate, the gnocchi.

So in answer to why I am writing this, I too am showing deference to those little morsels, which have plagued my mind with their perfection ever since that fateful night. One of these days I might try my hand at this venerable culinary tradition, but with direct knowledge of her abhorrent nature when handled incorrectly, the task is daunting. So for now I’ll just accept that while I’ve spent many satisfied years immune to the charms of gnocchi, under a beguiling cloak of cheese and tomato she made her way into my heart- just like a true Italian.

The Making of a Memory

Does food taste different based on where it’s eaten? Can the same mouthful, the same morsel, the very same bivalve from the same ocean be charged with new flavors? Not flavors inherent in the flesh or the sauce, but flavors projected upon it by just the right circumstances…

I think so. I think the experience of food is so much more than the scientific makeup of what we put in our mouths; it’s the cumulative experience of that food and that day and that moment, and once in a while, they come together to produce a sensual memory. And I don’t mean sensual in the fleshy, carnal way, I mean sensual as in truly 'of the senses'; a memory more of the body than of the mind, and one that will sooner be evoked by a taste or a sound than a cerebral recall.

I remember a scene in the original Parent Trap movie where Hayley Mills meets her grandfather for the first time and immediately starts sniffing his lapel. Her explanation: “I’m making a memory”. She goes on to explain that from that moment forward she will always remember her grandfather, and how he smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco. I think the reason I recall this scene so well- besides the fact that I’ve seen that particular movie more times than I’d like to admit- is the universality of that feeling; the sense of a moment in time being so precious that we must take it all in, account for every stimulus at that split second in time before it is whisked away. The very transient nature of such a moment makes it poignant, and I think the very futility of holding on to it is what makes us try so hard.

I was lucky enough to make one of these ‘culinary memories’ this weekend: sitting on the end of the patio at a local seafood joint with an enviable dinner companion, boats puttering around the docks, the sounds of seagulls mingling with fellow diners’ revelries, the sun starting to go down behind me. It sounds cliché- and it was. My writing this is not an altruistic attempt to make you feel what I felt in that moment- that would be a waste of words. Instead, I hope to add another facet to my memory, which for today is fresh on my senses. Selfish? Perhaps- but it is my memory.

Now, I’ve had oysters before; but I swear they’ve never tasted brinier, fresher, more perfect. There’s no doubt that these were some fine oysters- dressed with a squeeze of lemon, the tang of mignonette, each one sliding down followed by a sip of cold beer. But it was more than all this…was it the water lapping right under our table, the sun nearing the horizon in a very fitting parallel to the evanescence of the experience, the summer approaching its end, the shiver of cool air meeting bare skin, tingling from the cumulative effects of the day’s sun, sand, and salt…I’d like to think so.

Save the Pineberries

Are you troubled by this photo of strawberry-like fruit?

It may look odd since the strawberry we know is red with white seeds but vice versa? It is called Pineberry and is a hybrid of Fragaria chiloensis(native of South America)and Fragaria virginiana (native of North America).

The genetic composition of Pineberry is same as regular strawberry but with a slight pineapple flavor and the fruit becomes white and seeds turn deep red as it ripens.

Save the Pineberries!

The reason you've never seen Pineberry is because it was nearly extinct until 2003, then a group of Dutch farmers got together to save it. They obtained the original source material from France but it was so weak yielding 1-2 berries per plant. In order to solve this problem, they spent 6 years taking cuttings and growing hundreds of plants to carefully select the healthy ones to make it available on a commercial basis. And I decided to join them to save the Pineberries.




I went online: http://www.thestrawberrystore.com/ (amazing site for those who are obsessed with growing unique strawberries)
and ordered varieties called "White Carolina" and "White D" and planted them along with my collection of 10+ different kinds of Alpine and Musk Strawberries.

I cannot wait the day I get to see this unusual looking uncommon berry in my garden and taste it.