Culinary Concoctions Week Six: The Ingredient

So...math equation for you all:

(Work Stress + Life Stress) (Lack of sleep + Middle-of-the-week Tummy Woes)  = Me cooking, but not writing about it.

I can't believe how I've fallen behind with blogging this week! Dang it!

So...with that, a brief on this week's ingredient, chicory.

Jason and I went to (surprise, surprise) the Hillsdale Farmer's Market on Sunday and raided Ayer Creek Farm's stand, meddling our way in between women stockpiled with parsnips, salad greens and slices of winter squash boasting the boldest orange hue I've ever seen, to pick up a few bunches of chicory.

"I have no idea what to do with these," I confessed to Jason, whose eye was wandering to the one pound bag of ground cornmeal (that yes, he subsequently purchased).

So, come Sunday night, I did my research:

Chicory, a/k/a blue sailors, coffee weed and succory, is a bushy perennial herbaceous plants that's cultivate for salad leaves. However, it's roots are also used, baked then ground and used as a coffee substitute.

In the US, real chicory is often confused as curly endive. They're not one in the same. However, chicory leaves also include raddichio (a/k/a choke lettuce), sugarleaf and Belgian endives.

Ahhhh it all makes sense now.

To really geek out with ingredient research...I found that the chicory plant is one of the earliest plants cited in recorded literature. Horace mentions it in his own diet: "As for me, olives, endives and mallows provide substance." While I loathe olives, at least that gives me a starting point for creating a recipe.

Moreover, Lord Monboddo described the plant in 1779 as the 'chicoree,' which the French cultivated as a pot herb (No, fellow Portlanders, not a pot pot herb). Rather, chicory is, and has been since the Napoleanic Era, used in coffee or as a coffee substitute. And of course, even the Egyptians used it for the same purpose.

Recipe starting point number two...complete.

More about the recipe tomorrow!

Week Five: The Story

Nuts + Food Processor= My new best friend.

I'm not even kidding.

Salt and peppered peppers

Last night's Romesco sauce -- with hazelnuts in lieu of almonds -- was de-lish-us (Yes, that's the phonetic spelling of delicious; don't even get the idea that I'm all-of-a-suddenly spelling words incorrectly. Sheesh!)

I mean, I would have spent HOURS slicing and dicing and mincing to get the kind of consistency that the food processor gave me for the Romesco sauce. Sometimes technology really is a great addition in our lives.

What was supposed to be a lazy Saturday was, well...exactly that. After all, I didn't actually get out of bed until well after ten a.m. and -- believe it or not -- didn't actually caffeinate my body until nearly noon (Which, occurred at Water Avenue coffee --- HANDS DOWN the best latte I've ever had. The aroma...taste...texture...body...rose...all absolutely gorgeous and delicious). Still, despite an ungodly sleep-in, I did manage to gather myself to the grocery store and pick up ingredients for this week's Romesco sauce.

It was (and still is!) fantastic!

Roasted bell peppers!

I, unfortunately, had to recall the list of ingredients from my end-of-the-week mind, which means I totally forgot sherry vinegar. That said, after pureeing all the ingredients up and tasting it's richness, I added a relatively healthy dose of balsamic vinegar for some acidic relief. The roasted red peppers added a great paprika-ish flavor (BTW, make sure when you're roasting bell peppers -- or really, any vegetable for that matter -- to line your baking pan with aluminum foil; it'll save you a couple hours of pan-saving scrubbing) and the hazelnuts...oh man, oh man...they gave the smoky, acidic, peppery base a sweet, garlicky (Because yes, I toasted the hazelnuts for about eight minutes in olive oil and garlic before hand), fatty mouth and flavor that was just...to...die...for.

Seriously, kind of a bitch
to peel. Note: Toast 15 min.

Word of the wise: When you're toasting hazelnuts via saute, make sure to give them a good fifteen minutes; the longer they go, the easier the papery film will be to peel; Jason and I spent a comical twenty minutes trying every which way to peel the outside coating of the toasted hazelnuts --- rubbing them with our fingers, rubbing them in our palms with each other, etc. --- only to have a handful land on the floor (as well as into our mouths; but I mean, who can really resist a toasted hazelnut, especially one who bathed in hot olive oil with slices of fresh garlic, right?).

Dinner! I just wish the sauce
didn't look like cat food

The great thing about this sauce was it's thickness; while I'm sure I needed to add more olive oil (I probably only used 1/4 cup, instead of the called for-1/2 cup, I was really happy with the consistency, which turned out to be more hummus-like and less pesto-ish. I pan-fried the remainder of our New Year's weekend halibut fillet which I plated atop a salad of arugula, avocado, grapefruit and homemade croutons and carefully spooned a heaping tablespoon of Romesco sauce -- okay...Romesco dip -- on top of the lemony halibut for a light, but filling Saturday evening meal.

It really was the perfect way to end a very, VERY lazy Saturday.

Week Five: The Ingredient

I'm steering away from vegetables. Sure, the USDA just came out with new dietary suggestions (again?) that say, surprise surprise, we need to eat more vegetables and less processed food but it's not like I'm saying adios to vegetables all together, just as my current theme of ingredients-yet-to-be-cooked-with.

That prologue aside, I'm happy to pay homage this week to Oregon's state nut (Yes, we have one and yes, we're the only state to claim an official state nut -- not even Hawaii, with its obsession with the Macadamia nut, touts an official state nut): The hazelnut.

Though its also called a cobnut and a hazelnut, the two aliases boast different shapes -- the cobnut rounder; the filbert longer. In our great state of Oregon, we're more used to the filberts. Of French origin, the term filbert refers to both the tree and the nut (Though great debates in the nut world ensue that maybe...just maybe...that's not true). Like many of the great things in Oregon, the French brought the filbert here. In 1981 however (Hundreds of years after the filbert's introduction, of course), the Oregon Filbert Commission (Bet you didn't think that'd exist, eh?) conformed to the rest of the national marketing scheme and renamed the filbert to the hazelnut we now hold near and dear to our hearts.

And why wouldn't we love the hazelnut? Not only is it tasty -- delicious in both desserts and coffee (Though if we're talking Torani hazelnut-flavored syrup, I'll pass, acknowledging my nose stuck snobbily up in the air) -- but it is also ridiculously good for you. Rich in protein and unsaturated fat, the hazelnut is also high in vitamins B1 and B6. With such health benefits, it's no wonder (GAH! "No wonder" = a total AV scripting phrase. Oh well) the Chinese, in 2838 BC, believed the filbert took its place among the five sacred nourishments that God bestowed upon human beings (God, of course, being a term of relativity). What's more, the Greek physician Dioscorodes said of the hazelnut:

"It cures chronic coughing if pounded filbert is eaten with honey. Cooked filbert with black pepper cures the cold. And ointment of mashed burnt filbert shells and suet smeared on a head reverts baldness."

I'm neither bald nor experiencing a cough right now but still, I say, bring on the filbert.

Yes....the bacon caramel latte happened

Warning: This blog post contains adult-language which, undeniably so, is the only way to really, truly describe what you're about to see and what you'll so so so SO want to taste.

While I have yet to be able to try it (Dairy and everything), these are the words I've heard thus far about the bacon-caramel latte:

"Man it's good. Like so fucking good."

"It's sweet, but not too sweet and the bacon so comes through."

"It's a good ass latte."

Okay...so that's all Jason saying that. Whatever. We've got another victim...oh, I can't believe victim is the right word...trying one later on today. Will report after that.

Back to the grind (And no...sadly, not the coffee grind)...

And here's the bacony-caramel macchiato:

Bacon Caramel

I'll admit -- and if you know me and are familiar with most of the cooking I do these days -- using bacon grease in my sweet culinary concoctions isn't unfamiliar territory.

It's far, far from.

What started with smoky molasses cookies quickly morphed into bacon cornbread, bacon pumpkin muffins, bacony no-bake cookies and, as of recently, bacon caramel.

Yes, that's caramel made with bacon grease in lieu of butter.

I know, I know; it's not what one would call healthy.

Blame Christmas. Or rather, blame Jason and Clara for shoving Christmas spirit so far down my throat that I went on a baking and holiday cooking frenzy, whipping up my regular batch of cookies plus recipes for hot cocoa, chai tea and caramel.

Now, the caramel didn't begin as bacon caramel. Considering the popular coffee-caramel duo (Not a personal favorite of mine, but I get how the flavor profile works, not to mention the fact that having caramel, thanks to the hefty amount of whipping cream it requires, would make my stomach flip flop like my dad's on a ferris wheel.), I first thought up of coffee flavored caramel, using instant coffee (Real espresso would have been so much better but a girl without an espresso machine has to compromise).

That first batch didn't work out...not so much because of the flavors, but because, when it comes to making caramel (Actually when it comes to making most things), I was too impatient with the sugar (1 1/3 cup sugar and 6 TSBPs water). When making caramel, you've got to really let the sugar (derrrr) caramelize; it takes about 8 or 9 minutes of constant boiling, while occasionally brushing the sides with a wet pastry brush to really get the sugar where you want it.


Not only will its golden color be indicative of its readiness, but when you pour in the cream (2/3 cup) and fat (1/3 cup), it'll bubble up and release lots of steam (My poor right hand is currently ailing from a hefty bout of bacony-caramel steam).

Unfortunately, with that first batch of coffee caramel, I didn't get that bubbling steam. All I got was a little bit of melting...which meant that the caramel didn't thicken up, leaving me with a syrupy coffee-flavored syrup.

Hands on my hips, I realized my mistake and began again...

Yes, that's a 2 cup pyrex of bacon grease

...and that's when I saw it, sitting so complacently and innocently on my counter. Beckoning with its halo of smoky, saturated fat deliciousness...one of three coffee cup containers of bacon grease that Jason had been saving for me.

Cue light bulb in my mind.

Thus bacon caramel was born. Unfortunately, nobody got to actually enjoy that batch, save for a mere finger lick, thanks to a gang of TSA bullies who used their jerk-headed might and big muscles and weapons and super scary threats to confiscate the jar of bacon caramel I made for Jason's parents, wrapped in a nice Christmas ribbon and all, from Jason's death grip vice (He offered to eat it to prove that his girlfriend's Christmas gift to his parents wasn't actually a homemade bomb). All 16 ounces of bacony sweetness into the trash.

Bastards.

The batch that didn't work out. 

But today friends, today was a glooooorious day. As anyone might expect after reading the above prologue, today was bacon caramel-making day. Much like the coffee caramel, I lacked patience with my sugar and ended up with more of a bacon caramel simple syrup that didn't thicken up. Rest assured, it won't go to waste; Jason's taking it to the coffee shop tomorrow with him to experiment with lattes and macchiatos...so for any Portlanders who read my blog and are curious in this concoction, maybe juuuuuuuust maybe you can con him into whipping up a bacon caramel latte.

Okay sidebar: Speaking of new latte flavors, we went to Baker and Spice today after the farmer's market and had a maple latte. They make their own maple, in barrels and everything. Oh man aliiiiiiiive it was delicious. End sidebar.

The batch that did. 

Luckily, rounds two and three of bacon caramel worked out perfectly. Thick, luscious, golden brown caramel. Two batches with a little honey and two batches with a little dark molasses; the latter which is the apex, thus far, of bacony caramel goodness.

My mind's already racking up tweaked recipes....paprika and chili pepper for a smoky spice, the oh-so-loved sea salt, maple sugar, bourbon...

The possibilities are endless. Unfortunately my bacon grease supply is not. And that only means one thing.

Bring on the bacon!

Confession of a One-time Smoker

I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.

I smoked a cigarette.

Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.

I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."

Allow me to explain.

It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.

Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.

I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.

I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.

And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.

Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.

Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.

Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.

And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.

I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.

And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.

Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"

And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.

It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"

Crossword Love

Some call it love. Some call it an obsession. I call it an absolute necessity.

The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.

I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.

But I can't help it.

I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.

In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...

"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."

Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.

[Insert commercial break]

My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.

IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.

That being said...

Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).

Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.

I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.

I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.

It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.

The Best Things in Life

The best things in life really are free. I mean sure, you could give them to the birds and the bees and give me money (I can't help that I'm a sucker for cheesy but catchy song lyrics), but for now, while I'm in this phase of survival, I'll take all the free stuff I can get.

Of course, free stuff doesn't typically just fall into my lap. Thanks to some karma god who ensures that I have the worst of luck (There's a solid reason my old cross country coach nicknamed me after Elliot, the blond pseudo-ditsy, incredibly unlucky -- yet ever persevering -- character from the TV show Scrubs), I am on the receiving end of good and free fortune less than the average citizen. I can in fact catalog the most recent instances when unearned SWAG has found its way into my pocket:

1. Sophomore year of high school, homecoming dance. My then-boyfriend and two cross country teammates went bowling after the dance. While exchanging my heels for the oh-so-fashionable bowling loafers, I found a $20 bill hiding underneath the bench.

2. Freshman year of college (That's right; three whole years between freebies), San Francisco's China Town. I was in SF for a journalism conference with three of my colleagues. We went to lunch in Chinatown, stuffing ourselves with dim sum. As we were pulling our debit cards out, a man and his wife who were sitting at the table next to us stopped us and asked to pay for our meal, citing the fact that his daughter was in college on the East Coast and he could only imagine her delight if someone had done the same for her. I only count this freebie as 1/3 of one, considering that two others got in on the action too.

3. Last summer of college; dinner at Murata's. Enough lovey-dovey giggling and schmoozing with a Japanese Intel higher up earned my now-ex boyfriend and I one of the most filling, delicious and expensive meals of raw fish and sake imaginable. It helped that, with my short hair and fair skin, he thought I looked like Princess Di (I still don't see it but if it gets me free toro, I'll put on a crown and practice my white-gloved wave). Kampai!

And honestly, I think that might be it, aside from the occasional "We messed up your drink so the next one's on us" coupon from Starbucks and the once-every-blue-moon free beer from some nice guy I'll decide to strike up a conversation with. What I've learned is that, to really reap the benefits of the freebies, you have to search it out yourself...

...which brings me to yesterday when I went cupping at Stumptown's Annex location on SE Belmont and 34th. Cupping, or coffee tasting, at the Annex is totally free and a super great opportunity to try new coffees AND learn about the drink that makes the world run. Although I have been twice before, yesterday's experience was especially welcoming and enjoyable (perhaps because it was also a date, which is always, always enjoyable). During a cupping at the Annex, tasters get to try six different varietals, ranging in smooth to bold. Each varietal comes from a farm from different regions of the world that Stumptown has direct trade relationships with. The cupping ritual is vital to ensuring that a coffee is not only delicious, but consistent in its taste as well. It's a soothing process, filled with bold aromas (Tasters are to put their noses just centimeters away from the coffee multiple times, including while slowly breaking the oily crust that forms while the coffee is stewing) and bolder tastes that are so damn wonderful they make their way through your entire body and curl your toes (And who doesn't like a good toe-curling experience?).

We got to try coffee from Costa Rica, Kenya, Colombia, Ethiopia and Indonesia. My favorite was the Ethiopian coffee, which carried aromas and flavors of wild berries and cider -- not a spicy cider, but a thick, almost syrupy and molasses cider. If little wood nymph creatures had just tried to make wine by squashing berries with their feet and then decided to stomp out a tribal dance on my palate, that's how the Ethiopian varietal tasted.

The best part, as I mentioned before, is that the cupping was totally, one hundred percent gratis. AND the Annex does it twice a day, at 11 am and 3 pm, every day.

I'm on the lookout for more free stuff this wonderful, unemployed city has to offer.