Killer Bee

Killer Bee, indeed.

Last week, the honeysuckle bloomed sweetly after an evening rainfall. It drew me to it, and I wasn't the only one. I noticed a large bee on the hood of a white car parked nearby, as I picked some still-wet flowers for a home bouquet. It wasn't just any fat and lazy bumblebee either: this was a bad-ass hunter (like my encounter with juvenile dragonfly), with the same "no-moving-me" stance. I got closer to take a few pics, and it clamped down tighter on its' smaller bee meal like any champ would. That's part of the point about this life we lead: we consume other life as is dictated by the demands of our highly evolved physiology. That doesn't mean rampant, unchecked, voracious factory-style consumption, with a violent, vicious, slaughterhouse mentality. We don't need that much meat. 

Humans are omnivores, as adaptable and flexible as life is. We are very successful as a species because of it, after millennium following the animal herds we hunted for sustenance, grazing off locally available plants and nuts, gathering those things around us in the environment that we could carry and use. I'm not advocating some trendy "Neanderthal" diet (see our optimal diet here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_nutrition), because we are no longer those animals. But, I am most certainly arguing for a return to more compassionate farming, based on our ancient recognition that very few animals have the longevity our species Homo sapien* does. In response to these innate gifts, it is your duty as a caretaker of this planet to preserve biodiversity through mindful eating. Really, why would you do anything else? We have advanced based on empathy as one of our core strengths. This is no time to leave it behind. 

http://www.fieldandstream.com/photos/gallery/hunting/2008/10/bull-elk-takes-wolf-pack

Consider this example from the animal kingdom, from the sentient, sophisticated, and highly sensitive species that is Our Brother Wolf (see more about Native beliefs towards animals here: http://www.pantheism.net/paul/history/native-americans.htm). I saw a nature special on public television that followed one pack hunting a herd: suddenly, the fast-running Alpha broke away from the pack with a second-ranking, younger, smaller Omega to hunt an older Elk, also followed by a smaller, younger animal. After the rest of the pack tired of a futile chase, the pack sagely left their pursuits to meet up with the duo that had camped out in the brush to watch the old Elk huff and puff on the ground. Into the night, the pack maintained their vigil, to the amazement of the group filming them in this unprecedented and hereto unobserved animal drama that is the very stuff of life and death.

In the early hours of the morning the old bull died, and after an appropriate amount of time, so feasted a well-rested pack in rank order. It remains one of the greatest iterations of "Thou Shall Not Kill" I've ever seen. We can consume and live within our ecosystem by carefully observing the laws of nature that already exist here on Earth for us to follow. This world was created for your greater glory, as your destiny and birthright. Go for it! You do not have to live in guilt and shame. Learn more about life on earth, and live more. I want better for you, as I do for all life. It's worth it: http://www.uusc.org/ccc-resources-for-organizing-your-congregation-or-community, http://heritagefoodsusa.com/about_us.php, and http://compassionatefarming.org/.

Bigger bee beats smaller bee in the game of life.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homo_sapiens_%28disambiguation%29

Asparagus

Welcome to "The Garden State!"

Local eaters like me eagerly await each new season that brings us back to the foods we love the most. It's kind of like getting a gift every single day, except we shop at our grocery store to feel wonder at our easy access to freshly grown food.

Most folks around the world don't know that every New Jersey license plate reads "The Garden State" underneath the vehicle's registered numbers, because much like New York, they have a lot of bad press to contend with. Ever see "The Sopranos" or "Jersey Shore"? 'Nuff said.

Trees, produce, and family horse farms are a big part of Jersey, too!

For "tri-staters" like me (an urban/suburban/rural area that includes the parts of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut closest to "The City" that needs no other introduction), we also know it as the state the grows most of our most prized and delicious fruits and veggies. 

The list of famous Jersey produce is like a "Who's Who" of the best American crops: sweet corn so good it needs no butter; rich, juicy tomatoes every Italian-American sweats over ("It's the sauce, boss!"), perfectly ripe, juicy peaches that melt in your mouth as the pit falls away from your hand when it's eaten at its' peak...it goes on and on.

Dressed with lemon, Parmesan, and sunflower seeds, pan-seared in butter.

The borderline between New York and New Jersey is less than five minutes away from Rockland County, so my grocery store naturally stocks the best produce that's available. My handy little iPhone app tells me about each month's new growth, and that's backed up by the stock for sale on the shelves, or at the farmer's market. 

Omelet with asparagus, toasted sunflower seeds, and sharp cheddar cheese, with a squeeze of lemon on top.

This week, me and my other media pals reflect the same great taste: http://newyork.cbslocal.com/category/cooking/recipes/ and http://www.producepete.com/shows/asparagus.html.   

Here's to you, "Asparagus".  I hope we did you proud!

The proper way to store it: in the fridge and in water, like fresh cut flowers. Fresh asparagus only has a 2-3 day shelf life.

Linden's

Me and my lunch: a meatball sub and Linden's cookies (with "hat head").

Growing up in New York is really, really weird. I knew the food was great, my grandparents were really fun and cool, and my parents very well-educated. I also knew that our culture is pervasive among t.v., movies, and the radio, but... isn't yours, too? No?! Oh, sorry 'bout that.

My journey has taken me many places, and the more I travel, the more I notice people's reactions to me and my hometown, my unique last name and distinctive looks, my marked speech patterns and my wealth (and breadth) of knowledge. It's a gap that continues to widen out there in the world which is why, like so many of my childhood classmates, we find ourselves drawn back to what is possibly the most famous place on the planet.

Same deal with our food here, and my kind of cooking: the only thing I knew about Linden's cookies as a kid was that we got them for lunch, or as after-school snacks with whole milk, not that it was a small, local, world-power that began at the same time as their friends, the fine makers of "Hellman's Mayonnaise"*, which is the best mayonnaise on Earth. It's so good, I used to eat mayo sandwiches for lunch or right before dinner, if I was starving and the food smelled delicious. 

We can't wait to finally meet you. Bonjour, les amis!

http://www.lindencookies.com/pages/about-lindens

The key to coolness is in the ingredients: no bullshit necessary!

*http://www.hellmanns.com/home/about

Dr. Martin's Mix

Much like my Mom's poor attempts at her half-baked feminism and her angered infrequent bouts of cooking that she rebelled against when I was growing up, (preferring instead to replace them with compulsive cleaning chores like laundry and washing dishes), her recipes also reflect her deluded, fractured sense of self that is so inherent with her disorders and her generation.

Much as I find her "I Hate to Cookbook" a sometimes silly relic of yore that is more akin in tone to old Russian satellites falling out of the sky than it is to reality, I found a family gem among her favorite recipes, as evidenced by the splattered pages of this well-worn recipe for "Dr. Martin's Mix."

Recipe for "Dr. Martin's Mix" from the " 'I Hate to Cook' Book".

My mom was drawn to it because she likes to pretend that she is a doctor (giving herself the name "Dr. Diane" when we were kids, like a commercial advertising a fake character called "Dr. Mom", made for selling cough syrup), given her science background and the many, many hours she is forced to consider her own challenging illnesses that were fed by a constant, steady pop culture diet of t.v. shows about similarly fake doctors popular in her time like "Dr. Kildare", because she also has open crushes on "out" actors like Richard Chamberlain, also a weird reflection of the warped sensibilities of her youth.

It's not real, but the food I make from the collected shards of her self that I put together on my own certainly are, such are the strengths that a "Master of the Arts" has always had, no matter who we are with, or where we are, out there in the larger world.

Hey, what's cookin'? Oh! Yum!!

Blessings and encouragements to you this week as you fight your many, many battles. That's the fun of life on our planet! Enjoy your time here, my peoples, because it goes by so, so fast.

Stick to your ribs food: perfectly filling on a cold, wet winters' day.

“Quiching!”

The perfect hot, bubbly, cracking crust of a quiche.

The grocery store had an amazing special on eggs last week: a full 18 pack with no broken eggs for $1.88 that I couldn't pass up. Would you? Could any halfway decent chef with half a brain walk away from a bargain like that, right in the middle of a really harsh winter? No, and  "%uck no!" So, I did what any respectable artist would do, by brainstorming meal ideas, first at my mom's house with her old feminist cookbook about hating cooking, which she urged on me along with her old taped-together-as-a-binding green cookbook with horribly outdated ideas. Of course, I already knew exactly what newspaper clipping I was looking for in her recipe box, because I remembered it as the essence of simplicity in a recipe, and here it is:

A humble, simply perfect quiche recipe.

Since my days currently revolve around simple as a life concept, I knew right away that this recipe was the basic standby I recalled from my childhood, because it seems like something my grandfather would make. Norman people are not typically fussy, overblown drama queens, nor are our shared recipes.

I gilded the lily (just like you would with any basic template) by adding mushrooms, onions, and good cheddar cheese, poured into an also-simple, easy pie crust from a box that just needed water added to it, with as few ingredients as you can make a pre-made, powdered concoction to be.

The perfectly flaky pie crust that crumbles into layers....from a box!

The result was perfection, and it occurred to me as I sat, stood, bent over, and alternately stooped achingly over a stainless steel bowl of egg whites, that I had just made my quiche into a sport, so athletic are cooking exertions without the messy clutter of stupid gadgets that don't ever work as well as one healthy, talented human being. 
Behold, human! I have made "Quiching" into a sport, and it is good.

I ate three pieces of quiche after it came out of the oven.

Summer Foods

Fried pork chop with onions.

Plated.

Summer pasta with onions and Jersey-fresh green squash.

Angel hair pasta with broccoli, onions, and a light cheese sauce.

Fully plated, with toasted bread on the side.

Oven-roasted chicken, seasoned simply with salt and pepper.

So flavorful and juicy! Hittin' it hard.

Homemade chicken salad with ripe Hudson Valley apple and diced onion.

Eggplant tomato sauce with shells.

Breaded chicken breast with mushroom sauce and side of shells.

Shells with a mushroom and onion sauce.

Pork cutlet breaded with seasoned quinoa oatmeal.

Shells with meat sauce.

Sweet Cherries

My life, in a bag of cherries: 
bilingual, Oneontan, sweet, and always in season.

Macaroni with Broccoli

unc·tu·ous

Readers know that I primarily cook Italian-American at home, though in the interest of full disclosure, I also eat a lot of Cajun, Creole, Acadian, French Canadian, and classically French foods as well, given my ethnicities with those cultural, genetic preferences. Since I typically cook for Italian-American family when I'm at home because it's food I know they'll enjoy, I often find myself going there as comfort food.

Hit that sh*t with bow ties!

This macaroni dish is a huge hit every time I make it, regardless of the type of pasta I use or the condition of the broccoli, because IT'S THAT GOOD. My grandmother made it first and then taught it to my mom, who made it at home for me, thus making it a type of cooking perfection in my family that's been lovingly honed through time and the changing of hands. I've written about the magical powers of Locatelli Romano before, and though I am no food snob, I must warn you once again before you shop for ingredients: only this type of Romano has the content to withstand frying in high heat in oil well. Also, just like with great music and art, timing is key. 

Big stainless steels mixing bowls make me happy.

The cheese cubes have to be removed right before you think they're brown enough, otherwise you've cooked the cheese all the way through, and they'll become hard while drying on paper towels. They should crunch lightly on the outside and still be creamy on the inside: salty cheesy pillows that are highly addictive foodstuffs. I made extra with this batch to eat while I cooked, otherwise (I've learned from experience) the ratio of cheese to other ingredients may be noticeably thin when it finally hits the table.

A warm bowl of pasta on a cold day = happiness.

After that, it's a breeze. When the water is boiling and the macaroni is cooking (my grandma used ziti, but here I used an open box of Farfalle bow ties), I fried some diced onion in the remaining oil. You can either parboil the broccoli florets, but in the interest of brevity and one pan cooking, I flash-fried the florets with the onions this time. 
  

Yeah, yeah, zoom in on that.

I used a sieved spoon to add just the right amount of macaroni into the bowl with the fried cheese cubes, onions, and broccoli, and I was generous with the seasonings, too: salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, more grated Romano. Some of the reserved pasta water goes in to make it moist, supple, and slightly soupy. A good bowl of pasta should "shine" back happily at you, and mine did. Ah! Fini! It was, dear readers, food magic. My mom, who can be a fussy eater, ate two bowls. So did I ;) Buon appetito.

Bargain Apple Turnovers

My broke ass has been shopping on the cheap ever since I can remember. Hunting through a store for the best deal is something I learned at my grandparents' knees. A Great Depression isn't something one is apt to forget, and I learned those lessons well from their stories about how far a dollar can stretch if one is savvy enough to do it well.

It almost goes without saying that we love food in this town. We have an incredible abundance practically on our doorsteps, prepared by the finest cooks the world has to offer. But that doesn't mean I pay through the nose for it. Oh, I love going out occasionally to savor the slowness of an osso bucco that's been simmering on a back burner for days, made by someone else because I don't have time to prep a meal like that, but I learned how to find food and cook it a long time ago, whether times are lean or fat.

And so I do. When my local store had their brand name biscuits on sale, I bought them in bulk. After my autumn apple adventures began (as detailed here: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-doctor-is-in.html ), I hit that bag hard. Combining apples with pastry for dessert or breakfast is as easy as pie. Buy that tin of biscuits, you know the ones you carefully pop open along the line on the cardboard tube that's been vacuum-sealed like a friggin' MacGyver bomb that explodes scarily and randomly on contact with the edge of the spoon? Yeah, those.

Fill them with a mixture of apples cooked with butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, like the topping we've already covered here on this blog (see link above). Got it? Good. Fold 'em over and crimp them, poke some air holes on the tops so they don't explode like said MacGyver bomb, melt some butter and baste the tops to get golden brown tops. Part of the charm of homemade tarts like these is that they don't look perfect and choosing them based on their shapes is part of the fun. "I'll eat the fucked up looking one first and save the best-looking one for last!" That's how I do it, savoring the sweetness.

When I'm not in training for the sport of MMA, I revert back to my more typical feast or famine mode, like the beastie I am. I can go hours without thinking about food when I'm working on my art, stopping to eat only when my appetite is triggered by someone else's cooking smells, like those from an open window of the apartment next door or the wafting aromas as I climb the stairs past a neighbor's apartment, as it so often happens in the tight city quarters that comprise our communal living style. Or I'll go so long as to actually hear my stomach angrily rumble—then I have to stop working and feed.

We've touched on my Italian-American heritage here on this blog before, as it breaks down mathematically into one very simple easy equation: food=love. I do not understand the sicknesses behind eating disorders, though I do get that it is comprised of certain key factors like a feeling of helplessness that needs to assuaged by a sense of control, but as empathetic as I am, I do not turn away from succulent abundances when I am starving. I do not understand the human creature who cannot or will not eat my grandmother's recipes for meatballs and sauce and macaroni. To this human computer, it does not compute.

So it is with an utter lack of shame that I can relate to all of you now, that on a certain day captured here in photos, somewhere between the hours of 10:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m., I ate an entire batch of apple turnovers that I made, siting down to my repast in white karate pants and black plastic dojo sandals, eating them pleasurably one by one. I ate them all, dear readers. I ate them all.