Kitchen Wench

The first time I visited DC’s Chinatown, I thought I was going to cry. Or maybe puke. In either case, it was an adverse reaction. “Chinatown” is a joke–a bunch of chain stores and restaurants with Chinese characters tacked on their neon signage. Most of the translations are purely phonetic (Clyde’s Restaurant is “ke si lai”, etc.) and in traditional characters, probably because someone on a city planning committee thought it looked more “Chinese” than simplified characters. This, of course, does not bode well for the state of Chinese food in DC. This fact has been a source of major disappointment on multiple personal and gastronomic levels.

Commercialization aside, there are still a handful of Chinese restaurants in Chinatown, including the much fabled Eat First. For some reason, white people think “Eat First” is a funny or clever name. The cranky Sinophile in me would like to point out that it’s actually a very common thing to say in Chinese, a culture that is so food-centered that the common greeting is not “How are you?” but “Have you eaten yet?” But I digress. Last week, Lee and I decided to meet up after work to try Eat First, which has been consistently ranked on various best bargain and best ethnic restaurant lists around town. Read the rest of this entry »

One of the first things I ever baked myself was a deep-dish peach pie. I was probably 12 or so, and I think I got some help from my grandma. I was pretty disappointed with the outcome, not because it tasted bad, but because I hadn’t realized deep-dish meant no bottom crust. I know some people eat pie for the fruit, but I’m willing to wager that most of us put up with mushy and/or artificially gooey filling as a vehicle for flaky, buttery pastry crust. However, I blame my real fascination with pie crust on Martha Stewart.

For the past ten years, I have been holding on to a copy of Martha Stewart Living because it contained one of my favorite recipes for a pate brisee or all butter pie crust. In her Pie Crust 101 feature, Martha (or her team of magical food styling elves) crafted some of the most amazing crusts I had ever seen - purple mincemeat peeking through a hundred tiny little holes, apples steaming under a bed of carefully sculpted autumn leaves, and cherries topped with perfectly symmetrical lattice work. It was at that moment that I decided I wanted to be Martha. And, like Martha, I started making pate brisee pie crusts, by hand. Read the rest of this entry »

A Guide by the Men of Park Road:

1. Hang out. All the time. You too can find yourself a working woman to support your loitering habit if you stand near a Metro station or bus stop during rush hour.
2. Chicks dig it when you say “Hola” without looking them in the face.
3. You must master the fine art of uttering pick up lines while riding your bicycle on an uneven sidewalk. Nearly falling off your bike while grinning lasciviously is so last summer.
4. The canned soup aisle in Giant is a great place to snag a Friday night date: “Hi sweetie, wanna come over for a bowl of Campbell’s Chunky clam chowder?”
5. Upgrading to a truck or car will allow you to slowly follow women down the street while blowing kisses at them out the window. This is not creepy at all.
6. Elevator eyes are gaining social acceptance these days. Also, as long as her back is turned, you are free bend over and peer critically at her ass.
7. Mumbling inappropriate phrases in Spanish is a perfectly acceptable conversation starter.
8. Unwashed hair = hotttt.

Well, at least in Alicia’s world. And if you inhabit that world, you know that I love those little cheese and potato filled dumplings native to Russia, Poland, and probably several other post-Soviet nations. Simple, filing, and delicious with a side of fried onions and sour cream.

However, the neighborhood I live in is short on Poles and heavy on Salvadoran immigrants, who make something called a “pupusa.” Pupusas are little doughy pancakes filled with cheese and/or meat, fried, and served with a side of vinegary cabbage slaw (called curtido). Aside from bearing a striking similarity to a pierogie (cheese, dough, chewy, fried, comes with side of vegetable matter), pupusas are cheap: $1.50 - $1.75 a piece. Two or three pupusas make a for a very filling meal; it’s doubtful that you could eat any cheaper in this totally overpriced city.

There are at least five or six restaurants within spitting distance of my underground bunker English basement apartment. Though I have not sampled them all (my digestive tract can only handle so much cheese and oil), here are a few favorites.

Haydee’s Restaurant
3102 Mount Pleasant Street NW, Washington, DC 20010
For the uninitiated, Haydee’s looks a bit suspect on the outside, but the inside is filled with funky murals, green booths, and twinkling lights. Haydee’s serves two flavors of pupusa–cheese and pork and cheese, $1.75 each.

Ercilia’s Restaurant
3070 Mount Pleasant St NW, Washington, DC 20009
Ercilia’s serves seven different kinds of pupusas, starting at $1.50 a piece. While I prefer the dough at Haydee’s, I like Ercilia’s tangy curtido and the fact that it comes with fresh tomato sauce. Flavors include cheese, pork and cheese, bean and cheese, bean and cheese with rice flour dough (instead of corn masa), bean and loroco (a plant from Central America; I personally find the flavor unappetizing), cheese and loroco, and shrimp.

For a while I thought that there was no way I could write about any sort of scandalous or juicy exploits in my life. Of course, there was the privacy issue, but mostly, my life is pretty uneventful.

Culinary exploits aside, (and, mostly, I am still too broke to have very many culinary exploits) there are some weird and/or unsavory things that seem to happen as an urban dweller in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. I thought it was time I started keeping a record of all those “What was I thinking living here?” moments.

Tuesday, July 18th. I move in to my new aparment. As Lee unlocks the front gate, he apologizes for the scent of urine permeating the entranceway. Homeless folks like to pee on the yard next door. The urine smell subsequently returns every time it is particularly hot and humid (e.g. the entire summer in Washington, DC).

Wednesday, July 26th. I begin to notice that my walk to and from the metro station usually involves passing through a gauntlet of Hispanic men, who invariably fall silent and then one of them mumbles something to me in Spanish. I can’t understand and suspect that it’s better that way.

Sunday, August 12th. I spot a strange shadow of a person’s legs through our living room window. Later that evening, Lee and I discover a paper bag stashed behind the bush in front of our apartment. “What do you think it is? A dead baby?” I ask. “Maybe it’s a drug drop,” Lee replies. We then gleefully contemplate the possibility of our house being the site of a police sting and possibly a major drug bust. However, our dreams are quickly shattered when Lee reaches into the bag and pulls out… a Jane Fonda workout tape.

Sunday, August 20th. There is a drunk man in our alley. He is passed out… in our parking space.

As I near the end of week three at my new job, life is finally starting to feel routine. So routine that I’m starting to grow tired of doing all my cooking with 1 measly Calphalon pan while awaiting the moving truck from Minnesota. That said, I’ve been able to do quite a bit with a handful of utensils and a kitchen that’s only 8 feet long.
Personally, I blame Trader Joe’s. Six bucks for a big filet of wild salmon, four dollars for a bottle of wine, imported cheese that isn’t $20/lb, and this fabulous hydroponic Boston lettuce… At the rate I’m going, they should hire me to write The Trader Joe’s Cookbook.

Cooking lately has been strangely liberating. At school, I would have to carefully plan a meal for my housemates; I don’t know about you, but most of us can’t just throw together food for ten with things lying around the house. But with only two people, I can just go to the store and impusively buy whatever looks delicious. The challenge then is to come home after work and figure out what I can do given my base ingredients. All my cookbooks are in transit, so I’ve been doing practically everything off the cuff.
Cookbooks are really inspiring and also are really important for learning technique. But it’s also been good to be recipe free for a while. When you first start cooking, it can be difficult to even follow a basic recipe. It was hard for me to imagine the day when I wouldn’t need measuring cups and spoons. But, that day has come. And with it, comes the measurement-less recipe. Cooking in often instinctual, and good ingredients can often make or break the meal. So, here’s my version of a caprese salad. Get some fresh ingredients, make it to taste, and it will be delicious.

Alicia’s “Caprese” Salad

I’ve seen a number of caprese salads in my day; some I’ve liked better than others. All of them feature tomatoes, basil, and fresh mozzarella in some combination, but I think the balsamic vinegar is really where it’s at. There aren’t exact measurements because this recipe is pretty much idiot-proof. You can adjust as you like.

• 4 small-medium heirloom or other good quality flavorful tomatoes
• 2-3 oz fresh mozzarella “pearls” or perlini or dice a ball of fresh mozzarella into 1/4″ cubes
• fistful of fresh basil, chopped
• extra virgin olive oil
• balsamic vinegar
• salt, pepper, sugar to taste

1. Chop tomatoes and place in a large glass bowl. Sprinkle with salt and sugar to bring out flavor.
2. Add basil and mozzarella.
3. Toss with equal parts olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Be sure to use good quality oil and vinegar, since the flavor will make all the difference. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. If you have time, place salad in refridgerator to marinate for 20-30 minutes before serving.

The things you learn about a person when you actually live with them. Oh, I know, everybody told me that before I moved in with Lee. Well, I’m on day two and here’s what I’ve learned.

If left unattended, Lee will buy chunky peanut butter and single-ply toilet tissue.

Well. This has to stop. For one thing, I didn’t even know they still made single-ply toilet paper. Even public restrooms don’t stoop that low. And it is certainly not a cost-saving device when I need half a roll to wipe my ass.

Secondly, chunky peanut butter?! You think after four years of knowing somebody, you’d know they were a Chunky, but no. Peanut butter choice is a way of dividing the population into vast and probably meaningless categories: creamy, chunky, and deathly allergic to peanuts. I am a die-hard creamy peanut butter eater. At the age of seven, when my grandma served me chunky peanut butter on toast, I spent 20 minutes carefully picking out all the little peanut pieces. That’s dedication. (Or simply an early sign of anal rententiveness.)

To me, peanut butter and peanuts are two distinct flavors and although peanut butter is derived from peanuts, I don’t want the tastes mingled together in my mouth. Also, I hate that mealy texture plain peanuts leave in my mouth. Unless they’re sprinkled over pad thai, because it’s a nice contrast to the soft, chewy rice noodles. But, I digress. The bottom line is that it’s going to get awful hard to buy peanut butter around here; unless we want to eat out of separate jars, somebody is going to lose.

Lee and I went to the supermarket on Tuesday and, after having conceded defeat on the peanut butter issue (until this jar is empty anyway), I was determined to not be saddled with some undesirable jam. It was then that I revealed my true jelly snob colors: I don’t like strawberry, raspberry, and least of all, grape jam. I like black cherry. And not much else, unless it’s one of those jams you pair with savory foods, like mint, apple, current, or mango chutney.

“How about strawberry rhubarb?” Lee asked. “You have to like strawberry rhubarb.”

“I like strawberry rhubarb… in… pie.” The truth is, strawberries and I have never gotten along, mostly because fresh ones give me hives, and I can’t lift my grudge for even the most innocent of preserves.  Lee shot me a very disappointed look.

In the end, we each picked our own flavor of jam.  At least we both like whole wheat bread.

I am sitting in my living room watching a Paula Dean marathon on the Food Network. My hope is that this festival of butter, eggs, mayonaise, and southern charm will culminate with “Paula’s European Vacation”, as I think that watching Paula eat her way across Europe for the first time will probably be fattening and entertaining.

I’ve been watching an awful lot of the Food Network lately, but the truth of the matter is, I haven’t cooked anything since those oatmeal cookies, save a delicious grilled Rachel sandwich. Ever since being spit out from my undergraduate institution last month, I’ve been trying to get my life reorganized for this rude entry into “The Real World.” Right now, that means being preoccupied with money (or lack thereof) until my first paycheck, as well as packing up everything I own in preparation for moving. This doesn’t leave me a lot of time or energy to cook, though I have obsessed over microwaves, glassware, and trying to fit a mandolin slicer into my check-in luggage.

Instead of creating, I have been consuming (albeit in moderation), but frankly, it’s just not the same. Good food is delicious, but I feel so… passive. And a little bit bored. Expect some changes in this blog in the upcoming weeks–it’s going to expand and change shape as I adjust to urban living, eating out on the cheap, dollar-streching, and cooking dinner for two most nights of the week. I’m pretty excited about getting back into a rhythm and getting creative–but that seems pretty far away at the moment.

In the meantime, it’s back to watching Paula find 101 uses for the canned biscuit.

No, I’m not talking about the delicious crunchy topping on those familar breakfast treats, which also happened to be the subject of a semi-famous Seinfeld episode.

I’m talking about what the Urban Dictionary defines as that unsightly roll of flesh which bulges above a pair of too-tight jeans. You know what I’m talking about. It might even be worse than “plumber’s ass.” And, of the many items accquired on my travels through China, it appears to be the one that keeps on giving.

Up until now, it never occurred to me to address the issue of weight loss on here. Yet weight gain is often an inevitable part of eating lots of rich, delicious foods–or at least it is for some of us. Two years ago, I discovered that I can no longer eat whatever I want, whenever I want, in any amount that I want. After being away from a scale for nearly 5 months in China, I started screaming when I got home and found that I had gained 10 pounds and a wardrobe full of ill-fitting clothes. As someone who had never gained more than a couple pounds in any given time period, this was a pretty big deal–I’d gained 10% of my original body weight. It took me six more months and a few new pairs of pants to lose it all, plus a little more.

I am pretty sure it’s impossible not to gain weight while traveling in China. In a city where running a mile on an outdoor track is equivalent to smoking a pack of cigarettes, excercise seems to do more harm than good. Also, those eight or nine 12 course banquets I had to sit through probably didn’t help, not to mention the countless hotel buffets, abundance of cheap food, and the constant eating out.

Anyway, while I actually managed to fit back into most of my pants this time around, my waistline looks an awful lot like a dreadfully fattening blueberry muffin, hot from the oven (except for the part where my skin isn’t covered in purple spots). I tried to see if there was any quick way to fix this, before I have to start a new job with my stomach hanging out of those suits I bought 2 inches ago. Google rewarded my search with an article written by a transvestite who advocated 180 sit-ups (not crunches) for a week.

Well. I can barely do one sit-up, let alone 180, so that’s out. In the meantime, it’s back to denying myself delicious things (like that nutty, flaky aged gouda in the refridgerator–8 grams of fat per oz!) and forcing myself to use this terrifying eliptical running machine that’s been collecting dust in the dining room. I kind of hate running. But I hate the idea of buying a new wardrobe even more. Running is free, dress pants are expensive, and 2 inches from now, my new metabolism should allow me to eat the occasional ounce of aged gouda cheese.

It seems like the internet has suddenly gotten really boring. Or at least, everyone else’s blogs have gotten really boring. Sadly, I don’t think I’m any exception to this rule; I’m just treading water until I have to move and start my new job. I thought about making up some lie for a blog entry, like the harrowing tale of my first foray into competitive eating during which I stuffed down 20 burritos in less than 5 minutes… er, well, you get the idea. Needless to say, the reality is much more mundane, but I did make some decent oatmeal cookies and I’ll share the recipe here.

Cinnamon Apple Oatmeal Cookies

Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

• 1 3/4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
• 3/4 cups all purpose flour
• 1/3 cup desicated coconut (dried, unsweeted coconut)
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, softened
• 1/3 cup packed brown sugar
• 1/4 cup granulated sugar
• 2 large eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1 cup chopped dried Fuji apple pieces (You can use regular dried apple, but Fuji apples are much sweeter and flavorful. They sell them in my local Costco store.)

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Farenheit. Grease or line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
2. Stir together oats, flour, coconut, cinnamon, soda, and salt in a bowl.
3. Using an electric mixer at medium speed, beat together butter and sugar in a large bowl. Add eggs and vanilla and beat until well combined. Add oat mixture and beat until combined. Stir in dried apples.
4. Drop rounded tablespoons of batter onto cookie sheets, about 2 inches apart. Make sure to flatten the cookies, as they will not spread much during baking and look pretty lumpy otherwise. Bake until golden, about 10-12 minutes.