Sesame-crusted seared albacore with maitake, asparagus and soba

I made this during a warm spell we had a week ago. It was the kind of weather we ought to be having right now, but Mother Nature is being a bit of a premenstrual dysphoric bitch right now, dumping buckets of rain and unseasonally cool weather our way. Don't get me wrong, I'm from Portland, and am a dyed-in-the-wool Great Northwest kind of girl. But when I see tender tomato sprouts getting mowed down by gastropods and can't throw my windows open in the middle of May, I get a little bitter.

Nonetheless, New Seasons had gorgeous albacore loins, and the usual supply of feathery maitake mushroom clusters, and the asparagus was looking just as plump and green as all get out. I'm such a slave to this succubine vernality. I had some soba and other Japanese things at home already, so dinner was an easy idea away.

I rubbed the tuna loin in sesame oil and then rolled it in black sesame seeds. I seared it lightly on all sides while I got some dressing going: a good, fat tablespoon of grated ginger, a little finely sliced scallion; a drib each of mirin, rice vinegar and sesame oil; and a nice splash of tamari and shoyu (you can use Chinese soy sauce but for seasoning rare tuna I think it's worth going a little nicer with a good Japanese brand like Takumi, and save the dark stuff for porky noodles).

Pull the loin from the hot pan and break up and stir-fry the maitake until they're slightly softened, then toss in the asparagus (chopped into bite-sized pieces). Sprinkle in some sesame seeds and then dump in some cooked soba. Stir around a bit then add the dressing, then plate. Slice the albacore into thick medallions, top the noodles and sprinkle on some furikake (I just like a little seaweed, sesame and chile on everything).

Serve with a cold Morimoto Soba Ale (seriously, I can't drink enough of this these days) and dreams of sunnier climes.

Cornmeal-crusted trout with mashed root vegetables and crispy leeks

So I was wandering around New Seasons, as is my wont these days, wondering what to make for dinner. It's citrus season again, so I grabbed some blood oranges. Even though they're not particularly sweet, I'm always suckered into buying them for their novelty. It's an orange! That isn't orange! Here, take my money.

I was sort of hankering for seafood, but after a recent flirtation with food poisoning (waited a day to cook fresh mussels, ate one or two, and realized they smelled like ammonia - luckily, came away unscathed) I wanted to play it safe with a nice salmonid. Salmon, steelhead and trout are so ubiquitous in these parts that kids growing up here get a shot at catching their very own at least once. My grandpa used to take me and my brother fishing at Rooster Rock State Park in the Columbia River Gorge when we were little. We'd always giggle at the fact that there was a nude beach at this park, and never caught anything but brown bullhead catfish. My grandpa usually ended up swinging us by the rainbow trout farm at the end of the day so we wouldn't come home empty-handed.

My mom would dutifully dredge the cleaned trout in some cornmeal and fry them up in a cast iron skillet. I think this was the only way I ate fish (or in fish stick form) until I was a teenager. Some wheels need no reinvention, and this is one. That said, I did want to doll up the cornmeal a bit, and so to it, added blood orange zest and fresh thyme.

I got about a half inch of grapeseed oil hot, then tossed in some sliced leeks to get nice and crispy. This is an idea I totally stole from Peter, and it's a good way to use a leek that languishing in the crisper. Also on the verge of going to waste was a bag of parsnips and a few carrots. Feeling the sweet root veg vibe, I simmered these in milk and mashed them with lots of butter. I fried the fillets of Idaho trout in the leek-flavored oil and in only a minute or two, dinner was ready. It was totally worth the mess.

Serve with a Pinot Prosecco and wedges of tart blood orange.

Halibut with tomato-curry cream (Machhli Tamatar)

It always pleases me when I fiddle around with ingredients and find out that it's already a Thing. The curried fish with tomatoes and creamy sauce I was thinking about turned out to be the Indian dish machhli tamatar, fancy that. I've been craving Indian spices - anise, cinnamon, fenugreek, ginger - all traditionally used medicinally for stimulating the appetite and aiding digestion. Plus, I'd picked up some amazing young ginger and fresh turmeric at the Asian grocery over the weekend, and was eager to use it. The halibut at New Seasons looked good, and I had a half pint of cherry tomatoes left in the coffers.

I carved out a curry paste from fresh curry leaves (in the freezer), a garlic clove, grated ginger and turmeric, mustard and fenugreek seeds, dhana jeera (a ground cumin and coriander blend), a little of my homemade seven-spice and a squirt of lemon juice (pound the shit out of it in the mortar and pestle until a paste forms). I smeared this into salted and peppered halibut fillets and let it marinate for a bit while I got the rice cooking.


I melted some butter and olive oil (instead of ghee) in a hot pan and tossed in sliced onions and the cherry tomatoes (halved). They hissed and sputtered for a bit, then in went the fish. After I flipped the fish (5 minutes or so) I added the tub's last couple of tablespoons of crème fraîche. I think it's more traditional to use yogurt and cream, but I didn't have those and besides, crème fraîche is just another cultured cream product and this worked really well. Top the fish with micro-cilantro from the garden.

I also whipped up a quick chutney of mango, red chili and golden raisins (add a pinch of garam masala or seven-spice, plus a drib of lemon juice and honey) and this was refreshing with some warm naan.


Serve with peppermint sweet tea and basmati rice.

Cardamom-scented Dover sole with orange and braised fennel

I don't know if I can make this look any prettier. It's a lot of monochrome visually, but the flavors were anything but one-note. I half-filled an olive-oiled baking dish with shaved fennel, layered on some milky-fleshed Dover sole filets (they smelled only of the Pacific and made me long for a gray day at the Oregon coast) the zest of an heirloom navel orange and some lightly crushed cardamom pods. Crunchy sea salt and black pepper, top with a protective layer of fennel fronds and into a hot oven. It's done when the translucent fish goes porcelain-opaque.

Serve with a willowy Gewürztraminer and an ort of wit so obviously forced that it may as well be salami.



Hey, so I guess I feel like I've been doing a half-assed job at the blogging these days, and it 75% because I just don't give a shit about food or cooking right now. I could probably eat a burrito or a bowl of noodles from a sketchy Chinese joint alternately and be perfectly happy. I guess part of it is shaking off the last bit of winter (unpredictable weather is causing a bit of learned helplessness) and some of it is the hassle of hobbling around in an orthopedic boot, but I just feel creatively tapped out.

How ironic, then, that I've been getting requests from marketers wanting me to blog about their product that they're delighted to send me for free (chocolates? cheeses? sure, I'll bite), and I've even been contacted a couple times to do a bit of real writing. The validation feels great, but unwarranted. When I feel the most proud of what I do, I feel my talents are being squandered and I'm unappreciated. When I blog through my self-loathing about a fucking grilled cheese sandwich with bacon and a fried egg, my traffic goes through the roof (it's like the fucking Lotka-Volterra predator-prey model from Ecology 101). So I'm faced with an actual conundrum: do I whore myself to the traffic (and the sweet, sweet cash that it funnels into my PayPal account, thank you Foodbuzz), knowing that the people clearly want This Is Why You're Fat SFW pornography? Or do I keep challenging myself creatively, accept that people's eyes will glaze over if they can't immediately relate, and resign myself to obscurity?

These questions don't need your answers. I know the answer: you can't force creativity and bacon fucking tastes good.

Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24: Celebrating Black History Month - African Contributions to American Cuisine

February is Black History Month. Last year, to celebrate, I introduced myself to blogger Courtney Nzeribe from Coco Cooks and interviewed her about her cultural identity, her cooking style and her favorite childhood foods. This year, I chatted a bit with my buddy Donald Orphanidys from Mr. Orph's Kitchen on how being black has influenced his culinary identity (not much), where he learned to love food (his Grandma's house), and how food in Philly differs from food in the South (wildly). His experience growing up on "helpers" (of the hamburger and tuna varieties) and gub'ment cheese are familiar to me, as are the Southern inflections to his cooking that stem from his time spent stationed (and later living) in Atlanta, Georgia.

Like me, Don finds inspiration in many places, and this year, to reflect on the contributions black people have made to American culture, I was inspired to create a celebratory meal, with a soundtrack. And I'm so pleased that our friends at Foodbuzz wanted to support my celebration by accepting my proposal for their February 24, 24, 24 event.


As they have with music, black people have informed the American culinary vernacular by bringing elements and ingredients from their homeland in Africa to the genesis of their tumultuous history in North America. Many ingredients heavily associated with the South - black-eyed peas, watermelon, greens, sweet potatoes, okra and peanuts - were brought directly to the US by slaves. As a German-American, my perspective on African-American culture and cuisine is based almost solely on the experiences of other people, and over the past few months I’ve begun to explore the African roots of some of my favorite foods. I wanted to share my newly-gained insights with some old friends. The menu I created is an attempt at honoring these contributions:

Green Tomato and Watermelon Pickles
Black-eyed Pea and Corn Fritters with Sweet Pepper Chutney
Duck and Shrimp Gumbo “Ya-Ya” with Okra
“Smothered” Pork Chops with Caramelized Onions and Tomato Gravy
Swiss Chard with Braised Pork Hock
Spicy Sweet Potato Fries
Cornbread
Hominy Grits Pudding with Bananas Foster and Peanut Praline

The pickles were fast fridge pickles, in a sharp brine of white and sherry vinegars, shallot, salt and sugar. The watermelon rinds took sweet spices like star anise and fennel seed, while the tomatoes got a little hot chili and coriander. Both were bright and acidic, cutting through the rich, fatty meal and cleansing the palate. Mike (writer and occasional artist of film review blog and occasional webcomic Culture Pulp) kept grazing on them after the meal, plucking juicy spears from the chilly jars, happily crunching and regaling us with stories of Ravioli Day.


The fritters, based on the west African succotash adalu, were simple and delicious: black-eyed peas (also called cowpeas), corn, a couple eggs, S&P and a pinch of sugar, and a dusting of flour to stick the batter together. Fried in a little oil until browned, they were perfect with the sweet pepper chutney (minced yellow and red bell peppers and a cayenne chili slow-sautéed with onions and a pinch of my seven spice, a splash of balsamic vinegar and a little salt and sugar). The Swiss chard was braised in a splash of red onion vinegar (homemade from red onion pickle) with a pork hock, cooked until the greens were tender.

The gumbo is worth a post on its own. Being roux-based, mine is Cajun. I made a roux from duck fat and flour, cooked for two hours until rich caramel-brown and fragrant. I scored the skins on four duck legs and pan-fried skin-side down until the fat was rendered out, then flipped them and roasted them in the oven until tender. Meanwhile, I removed the heads and shells from two pounds of spot prawns and got some stock started. When the duck legs were done, I pulled out the bones, cracked them up and tossed them into the pot of vermilion stock. The next day, I started the gumbo by sautéing the Holy Trinity until glossy, then adding bay leaves, the roux and the stock (stirring to dissolve the roux), a can of chopped tomatoes, lots of chopped garlic and thyme, cayenne and S&P. I tossed in the shredded duck meat and let the whole thing cook low and slow for a couple hours until the duck was nowt but tender, filamentous hunks. When we were all ready to eat, I added the prawns and okra to cook for five minutes. Technically, gumbo yaya doesn't have okra, but I like okra and wanted to enrich the dish with an egg. I poached the eggs in the hot gumbo broth until the whites were set. David (the mastermind behind BadAzz MoFo and writer/director of such cinematic classics as Black Santa's Revenge) was reluctant to try the gumbo - being unfamiliar with some Southern ingredients, he mistook the okra for jalapeños and was getting heartburn just looking at it. It didn't take much convincing to get him to taste it once the confusion had been cleared.

The pork chops (from our quarter hog) were slow-braised in chicken stock amended with crushed tomatoes, caramelized onions and ginger, with a few shots of Maggi sauce and a few spoonfuls of my homemade Berbere spice mix. They braised for about three hours until the meat was falling from the bone.

Awhile back I made the dish kelewele, a spicy fried plantain from Ghana. This time I adapted it to a sweet potato fry, and it definitely translated well. Chopped ginger and Berbere spice, salt and pepper and a massage in some oil, then into the oven until crisped on the edges. This afforded me time to bake some cornbread (baked in cast iron, greased in bacon fat). Tanya (my beautiful, pregnant Scandinavian princess from Madison, WI and the joyful wellness diva behind Recess and frequent diner at Casa de Voodoo and Sauce) had a southern grandpa and was eager to expose her spawn to some of his/her culinary roots. I was happy to oblige.

The dessert was a new creation, fudged on the fly. My friend Eric (a doughy Jewish kid from Maryland) told me about grits pudding he'd had once, and I wanted to figure out what that should taste like, and how to make it. I started by making basic grits, whisking stone-ground cornmeal into simmering cream (to which I'd added sugar and homemade bourbon vanilla). When it had set up moderately well, I added two whisked eggs (tempered to avoid an omelet) and spooned it into a buttered souffle dish. I baked this for awhile, covered, at 350, until the edges were set up and slightly browned. I spooned it into little serving dishes and topped it with sliced bananas (browned in a hot pan with butter and brown sugar, flambeed with bourbon), vanilla whipped cream and some crushed peanut praline. I guess it worked pretty well, but next time I'll add more eggs to and bake it in a shallower pan to get more of a spoonbread consistency.


I'm having a hard time concluding this post. I've been away awhile on a conference and a broken toe, and two days of cooking is exhausting. So I hope you enjoy this special food-based mixtape I made for you in lieu of a proper closer. It consists of R&B and jazz greats of the 1940s and 50s, and like with food, proves that pretty much everything good about America is because of black people.

Fideos in saffron-pimentón broth with mussels and linguiça

This is a variation on a dish I made awhile back, and though breaking up capellini to make a version of fideos seems more legit, I think the clams were a better addition than mussels. The problem with mussels (always) is that their thin shells buckle under the weight of their neighbors, and a good handful seem to be broken right out of the bag (this time, the nice fella at New Seasons even inspected each handful, but missed 6 or 7 that had little hairline cracks). Buttery littlenecks are just tougher. Oh well.

I sliced up the linguiça and some onions and browned them up in a little olive oil with some minced garlic. I threw in the broken capellini-as-fideos and stirred them around the savory, orange oil as one would for a risotto, then added about a cup of white wine, a crumbly pinch of saffron threads and a fingertip-sized bump of pimentón, a few pinches of kosher salt and some cracks of pepper. Dumped in the last jar of my home-canned Dr. Wyches Yellow orange heirloom toms and a rinse-out jarful of water, then covered and simmered for about 15 minutes. When the fideos were al dente, I tossed in the scrubbed and de-bearded mussels and reapplied the lid. Sprinkle copious chopped parsley and break open some baguette for soppage.

Serve with tiny tumblersful of cheap Tempranillo and the old tango records that you got for fifty cents at a yard sale years ago, yet are just now listening to for the first time.

Spaghetti alla Bottarga with Meyer lemon and parsley

I was going to call it "Spaghetti alla Bottarga con Limone e Prezzemolo" but that seemed too fussy, so I broke half of it into English. That way I can confuse the Italians and English-speakers who find me accidentally through Google. Plus I don't know how to say "Meyer lemon" in Italian.

So, I got some bottarga. Color me smug. I didn't win any during that auction last Christmas, but was able to procure some anyways through a combination of whining and extremely good fortune. A generous Floridian fisherman took pity on me and sent a little sunshine my way, and I didn't even have to show him my tits.

Bottarga is a sun-dried, salt-cured mullet roe sac (though tuna is also used in Sardinia). This stuff is intensely flavorful, and little shaving is all you need. It's like the flavor of Mother Ocean and rich egg yolk fecundity concentrated down to a briny little ochrecake, and begs for citrus, olive oil and minerally herbs (I'm also interested in tasting it as karasumi to enjoy with cold sesame soba and premium sake but that's another day).

This hot little bitch doesn't play second fiddle to anyone (the bottarga, not me). I merely shaved it over some fresh spaghetti that I'd tossed aglio e olio with the zest and juice of a Meyer lemon, some chopped parsley and lots of good, crunchy sea salt. I warmed the garlic and lemon zest/juice in the olive oil before tossing it together to volatilize the fragrant essence, but other than boiling pasta, I didn't even have to cook to do this dish proper justice.

Serve with a chewy French batard (to sponge up the crumbles and drips) and humble indenture (thank you, Robert).

Idaho trout with macque choux and Meyer lemon beurre blanc

Since I split a half a pig with Matt, I had to pull a lot of shit out of the freezer to make room. Miraculously, my already-packed freezer could fit a quarter hog. Must be my mad Tetris skills.

I always buy seafood several pieces at a time, when the hankering hits hard, but then I cook one piece (or don't) and the rest has to go to the freezer. This time, one had to come out. This little brown paper package contained two trout fillets.

Some astute readers will notice my flagrant substitution of fingerling potatoes for bell peppers, making this a mountebank macque choux, but don't hate. I didn't think to call this macque choux until I got to writing it up. Besides, macque choux literally translates as "brakes cabbages", making potatoes the least of this dish's problems. I don't know (I've been saying that a lot lately, haven't I). I just kind of knew how this was supposed to taste and named it later.

I sliced these giant banana fingerling potatoes and gave them a hot water bath to parcook, then drained and pan-fried them with minced shallot in olive and rendered bacon (the first taste of the pig, and it's good). When they started to brown up on the edges, I tossed in a cup of frozen white corn and halved grape tomatoes. Then a squonch of chopped thyme and Meyer lemon zest, crunches of flaky sea salt and black pepper. Let it get brown and crusty, and then pull everything out of that pan, turn off the heat and deglaze with half the lemon's juice and a splash of white wine. Whisk in a couple knobs of butter until creamy-dreamy. That's your sauce, baby.

Now just rinse and pat dry the trout fillets, and salt and pepper the flesh side. Get the pan pretty hot (not quite rippin', but hot), and lay the fillets in skin-side down. Now the most important step: walk away from the pan for a few minutes and don't fuck with it. It'll take all of your strength to not poke it or try to move it, but you gotta just leave that shit be.

Okay now you can flip it. Turn off the pan (the pan is still hot enough to cook the other side of the fish, so don't freak out). Stir a sexy little wad of crème fraîche into the macque choux, then stir in the beurre blanc and a few fatty pinches of chopped parsley. Top the wee piles of sweet-crunchy/dense-crusty/tangy-juicy with a crispy trout fillet.

You know you're dying to, so go ahead and throw some crunchy pinches of sea salt at it.

Serve with a bright chard and smug self-satisfaction.

Salade Niçoise on Belgian endive

I picked up these beautiful little quail eggs at Fubonn. I was thinking of what little appie I could bring over to Carolyn's house that wasn't crackers and dip (she was making Amy Sedaris' Lil' Smoky Cheese Ball) or something that would require heating in situ, so I thought about mini deviled eggs (excellent idea, but way too cumbersome) or a little salad of some type served on endive leaves. I know, 1989 called and wants its hors doeuvres back. Fucking sue me. Greta had given me some gorgeous albacore that she canned, and I had some lemons and olives, so this seemed like a no-brainer. And after all the holiday stodge, a crisp, citrusy salad sounded perfect.

This is the difference between starting your photography at 3:00 and finishing at 3:30. Night and day, innit? It gets dark early, and all of the shots of the salads in natural light were migraine-inducing blurry (I really should get in the habit of using my tripod, but like I need one more thing in my kitchen), so I had to resort to my new lights (thank you, darling husband!). Unfortunately, I broke the reflector umbrella when opening it so I've been directing the eye-piercing lamp directly at the food to simulate daylight, but it's just harsh and red and obvious, even after shopping the fuck out of it. Look at the size of those shadows. Okay, stop looking.


I blanched and slivered haricots verts, cut a brunoise of olives and home-made pickles (sharp as cornichons, they are, but from full-size Persian cukes), and finely diced a boiled red potato. I added these, with minced shallot and parsley, to the flaked albacore. I loaded the whole mix up with lemon zest, and a vinaigrette of olive oil, red wine vinegar, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, anchovies and S&P. I added extra luxuriant crunches of Maldon over the top for flourish.

I forked a little of the mixture onto each endive leaf and then topped with a little softboiled quail egg. I wasn't trying to be stingy, it was just such an extreme pain in my ass to peel each of these wee eggs and I was in a hurry (and the whole thing was getting to be waaaay too precious), so I opted to quarter the eggs instead of serving halves. This ended up being the perfect amount of egg anyway.

Tomorrow night I'm making tiny Scotch eggs and Boddington's-battered halibut fish and chips (fagging pub grub up a little more with sweet potato fries and a savoy slaw with a creamy lemon vinaigrette).

Misoyaki Maki

We'd been invited to a champagne-tasting party, to which we were instructed to bring an appie or somesuch. Easy, right? Except that I totally procrastinated, and it started snowing. Hard. I didn't want to press my luck and brave a drive to the store for flour (I really wanted to make little empanadas, but couldn't make dough - who the fuck runs out of flour? Pioneers?), so I had to really wrack my brain. What in the hell could I scrape together? I didn't even have something fake to cook and sauce up. Like that one time when all I had was some quince jelly in the freezer and a thawed-out boneless leg of lamb, and hastily threw together "ooh, how 'bout some Moroccan-spiced lamb kebab with cardamom-quince glaze" that were doled out onto a platter with toothpicks and greedily devoured. Turns out a lot of people did their part, thought ahead and brought hummus to that party. A lot of different hummus, and my one platter of spicy, last-minute meat.

I am, if nothing else, the Queen of Pulling One Out of Her Ass. I looked through the cupboards. Nothing. Some fucking cans of fish and tomatoes, a can of lychee and coconut milk, and a can of mock abalone. Gross. Look again, see the jars of starch lined up all soldierlike: cous cous, bulgur wheat, barley, lentils, some aged jau mein (that's ay-jed, not to be confused with the savory patina of proper storage), arborio rice and calrose rice. Sigh. Look again. Grab cans of smoked black cod and sturgeon (from local waters), jar of calrose, then shuffle across the kitchen to the "Asienne" cabinet and grab the teriyaki-flavored nori sheets, the black sesame seeds, tamari and sesame oil, some sake and mirin and gochujang. To the fridge for shiro miso, some scallion and young ginger.

I was going to make mini onigiri, it turned out. With misoyaki filling. I forgot about the jar of umeboshi in the fridge, evidently. I cooked the rice on the stovetop, and then pulled it off to cool in the snow. I chopped together the drained fish, and blobs or glugs of everything else until it was perfectly seasoned and gingery. I sprinkled in some togarashi to give that proper umami, and then we mashed up little fish-filled rice balls until the rice was all gone, wrapping a little fingertip sheet of nori over each. Half the fish was still left. The party loved it, and the hostess even proclaimed it better than the onigiri in Tokyo. It worked well with the champagne, which cut through the rich, salty smoke of the misoyaki, the effervescence pushing past the huge starch molecules on its way into the tickly cilia of the olfactory system.

The next day, while Scott nursed a wicked champagne hangover (I never knew those even existed), I twisted up a fatty nori maki from the last remaining regular sheet of nori in our cupboard, with freshly cooked sushi rice (stirred and fanned with a pinch of sugar and salt, and a splash of rice vinegar). It was a tasty and quiet lunch, and a great way to pat myself on the back for thinking on my feet. It's good to be Queen.

Smoky maple-glazed salmon with potato-maitake hash and curry cream

The other day New Seasons had some divine Alaskan sockeye – supple, cadmium flesh – man, their seafood is so good lately. They have it all open to the air now, too, and you honestly can’t detect a single molecule of fishy amine. I totally forgive them for all those bunk clams they sold me way back when.

After tasting that sexy alder-smoked salt that Stacy gifted me, I think I was really craving salmon and maple – flavors so symbiotic and undeniably American. Salmon takes to a glaze like a dream, and it came together so effortlessly, like intuition. Hot brown mustard and a small glug of maple syrup made sweet music, and the crushed, smoky salt and black pepper consummated the relationship.

I had some puce baby potatoes, all iridescent skin and lilac pulp. I always pick out the tiniest pearls from the bin, so each one can be steamed intact and eaten in one bite. After steaming to a billowy interior, I tossed them into a hot pan with butter and broken petals of maitake; minced fire-roasted jalapeño, yellow pear tomatoes and a chiff of rainbow chard from the garden; and sliced onion and garlic. I tippled in a heaping tablespoon of hot curry powder and a splash of cream, and it sizzled into sauce with the melted tomatoes.

I brushed the salmon with the glaze a few times while it roasted, then dished up with some soft naan and curry okra and green tomato pickle.

Albacore tuna melt with dill havarti

Today was the first weekend day that Scott and I didn't go out to eat in I don't know how long. Yesterday we failed at our mushroom foray - that's what I get for trying a new spot. Next weekend we'll go to Old Faithful, I guess. Today, though, I decided to make the most of another day of sunshine autumn perfection. I threw open the kitchen windows, put on my old checkered apron and rolled up my sleeves to can all of my tomatoes into sauce (red and yellow tomato sauce and some Bolognese) and green tom pickles, some roasted red bell peppers in olive oil, and 2 gallons of good, rich chicken stock.

All that work makes a girl hungry! But when the kitchen is in a fucking state, all I can usually muster is a tuna sammich. That, however, does not mean I'm gonna eat some mushy "chicken of the sea". Au contraire. I had a fresh loaf of organic French batard, a can of good albacore and the last of my wedge of local dill Havarti. Some chopped capers and the tenderest white celery (I love the center ribs), a swab of mayo and spicy brown mustard and lunch is on.

I love tuna salad. Are you fucking kidding me? It's the best sammich. Well, the tuna melt is the best sammich. But even plain old, cold tuna salad with chopped celery and onion is a great lunch. Scott doesn't like raw onion in anything (I think he might be a supertaster - he also dislikes many crucifers), because it blasts out his palate and he'll taste nowt else. Hot mustard and wasabi do the same to him. They're also crucifers, for what it's worth.

Oh, but a tuna melt. Thick slab of soft bread, adorned with heavy forkfuls of sumptuous tuna salad and grated dill Havarti on top. Into the toaster oven - in the middle rack for three minutes to warm through and get melty, then move it to the bottom for one minute so the bread can get really toasty. It's not in the picture, but in addition to the spicy pickle, serve with salt and vinegar potato chips and a frosty glass of lemonade. Good times.

Then get my ass back to work. Day of rest, my ass!

Edit: I'm sending this over to Amy and Jonny at We Are Never Full for Weekend Herb Blogging. It's finally their turn to host!

Onigiri is filled with Mother Love

I love onigiri. They're like Japanese arancini. The first time I had it, I was at my friend Kayoko's house. She was my first exposure to real Japanese culture (hentai notwithstanding), and she would frequently host informal dinner parties for her friends and Portland International School co-workers. I was one of the few, fortunate gaijin invited to these events. Sometimes, when the fillings for nori-maki would run out, she and her Japanese friends would just use up the remaining sushi rice with spoonfuls of miso, or umeboshi from the jar in her fridge to slap together some onigiri, which would get passed around on a large plate like some kind of umami brownie.

When Scott and I visited Tokyo a year ago, we struggled to adjust to the time change. We'd wake up at around 4:30am Tokyo time, starving and needing caffeine (the hotel didn't start serving "koh-hee" until like 7:00 or 8:00). Unfortunately, the only thing open that early was the 7-11, which was where we obtained our breakfast every morning. An ice-cold can of Boss cafè au lait and a couple of onigiri triangles from the cold deli case, pull up a curb and eat your breakfast. If it weren't strange enough to be shorts and flip flops-clad, tattooed white people, add 1) being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at a bird's hour and 2) eating whilst seated at a curb, which is never done (eating outdoors or while walking is somewhat unusual in Tokyo). Fortunately, the only people up early enough to gawk were the taxi drivers and convenience store clerks, and I'm sure they've seen worse.

But those 100 円 (~$1) onigiri were the best! Since I'm illiterate in katakana, it was always a surprise what flavor I was going to get. Sometimes it'd be salmon, sometimes miso, sometimes egg. I loved nibbling through the nori and rice into the interior, and trying to figure out what it was. I tried to make mental notes of what I was tasting, for when we got home.

I make misoyaki quite often - it's such a simple way to enjoy fish, if you keep a tub of miso in your fridge (and a few other common Japanese ingredients in your cupboard). We always have a little leftover, and once in awhile, I end up with enough to warrant re-use. Usually, I'll just nuke it and eat it straight from the tupperware, but this time, I used the leftover shiro maguro (albacore) and the genmai (Japanese brown rice) to pat a few onigiri into a meal.

Just flake the fish with a fork and sprinkle with sesame seeds and a pinch of salt. Then take a ball of rice (cold or warm) into wet hands, flatten slightly with your fingertips, and place a spoonful of filling in the center. Put another pinch of rice on top and form into a ball (covering the filling with the rice). Pat it into a slightly flattened triangle (the usual shape, but you can make any shape you want, really). Then wrap a piece of nori around the outside so that the onigiri may be taken from a plate without the rice sticking to your fingers.

I keep a tub of these teriyaki-flavored nori strips in my pantry. I bought them on a whim, but they're not substantial enough for just snacking. Sometimes I cut them into very thin strips with scissors to sprinkle on rice, but I've decided that their true calling is wrapping onigiri. Instead of making triangles, I formed rounded squares and made a criss-cross with the nori strips. These were neat little packages of umami, ready for a light dinner or a bento lunch.

Next time you have some leftover fish (or any other salty food) and rice, why not try your hand at onigiri? Heck, it's worth cooking rice and fish just to make them. Ittadakimasu!

Happy as a Clam v. 2.0

When clams are fresh, as are these littlenecks that we picked up on our way from the beach yesterday, all they need is a quick steam over a bath of white wine, shallot and garlic...

...and a loaf of crusty baguette with good Danish butter.


Some lemon zest and chopped parsley to finish, and you're laughin'. Serve with copious amounts of Sauvignon Blanc (we had Brander 2006 Early Release - acidic, lemon juice on a paper cut, with a hug and kiss-it-make-it-better of sweetpea florals and quince).

...and still no pussy jokes. Sorry, Syd.

So I made my five posts this week. Yay for me! I made coffee ice cream today, and I might save it for next week or I might go ahead and post it this weekend. Dunno.

Happy as a Clam

I am, but not because we ate here.

Let me back up. We went to the beach today, as is our wont on 100+-degree days. Today, by some twist of full moon Twilight Zone disturbia, it took us about three hours to make the 80 mile drive to Seaside, or the "Coney Island of the Oregon Coast", as I like to call it. When we crested the bluffs that overlook the mouth of the mighty Columbia and crossed Youngs Bay to make our way south from Astoria, we were met with cold, gray fog. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I mused that it was suddenly perfect weather for clam chowder. And clam chowder we sought.

But not before I got my sweet tooth on.

Decisions, decisions. I settled for some flavor called Moose..something. Moosefoot?

Ooh, it was so good and drippy and fudgy! Not the least bit moosy.

This store also boasts the largest selection of specialty sodas in the Universe, for better or worse. I love root beer ever so much, but many of these ones were too sweet and lacked the crisp sassafras bite. Did you know that while the root of Sassafras spp. is used for flavoring the beverage (hence, "root" beer), the ground, dried leaves are used to make filé, which is used as an alternative to roux for thickening gumbo.

Candy apples and chocolate-covered twinkies. Is there any better anti-depressant? This kid was so cute, pink cheeked and eager to please. He gave me a free sample of rocky road fudge (my favorite) after I asked if I could photograph him for my blog. If I were 15 years younger I would have such a huge crush on him. Teenagers having summer jobs in candy stores is a good vibe.


The friendly beach town is also the source of many nightmares. Creepy/unintentionally hilarious window displays are pretty much par for the course. The richly-embroidered hats were for sale in the Freedom Sportswear store. This store also had giant, fluorescent yellow sweatshirts that said the oddly specific "Seaside, OR Summer 2008", or just had a silk-screened image of the holy crucifix. Flo yellow is not Jesus' color. He's more of an autumn, really.

Anyways, so we did end up getting some chowder and crab cakes at the Happy Clam.

After tasting samples of the clam and seafood chowders, I opted for the tangier seafood chowder, which included bay shrimp, chopped scallops and cod, in addition to clams (not sure if they were razor or littleneck). The waitress insisted there was no cheese in the soup, but there was definitely something about this chowder. Beer? Mustard powder? It tasted like a good cheddar and beer soup with seafood. The clam chowder was passable - nothing wrong with it, but not stellar.

This photo is a testament to the power of a well-composed shot. Not that I'm bragging. But this this is a handsome-looking plate of food, right? You're drooling a little, I can see it from here. Unfortunately, looks are all it has going for it. The "crab cakes" were a complete travesty, a bastardization of a perfect food, and a disrespect to my Cancer brethren. The insult was that crab had been overworked and diluted with far too much breading. The injury was that the cakes were left for dead in a deep fryer until they turned to leaden pucks of MDF.

The food was really the least of the Happy Clam's worries, though. When you come in, you first notice that the only people here are the two staff and one very young woman (probably the daughter of the waitress?) with her infant in a stroller. The walls are mostly bare, except for some sad-looking paint-by-numbers of broken boats and moorage, a neon Pabst sign and some fake houseplants. There are flies smacking into each other and the window. You just get the sense that this place is poor.

It did, however, provide us with a seat, a view, a beer and some chowder, without having to wait for a table. If you're interested, their menu's (sic) are available at their unsurprisingly design-challenged website, which actually does a much better job of summarizing the Happy Clam experience than any snarky blog post from an uppity city bitch .

The Happy Clam
21 N. Columbia
Seaside, OR
503.717.8900