Holy effing pig on a pogo stick it’s COLD outside.  As I write this post, the temperature outside has dropped to a very cruel -51 F.  At that temperature, I think about food quite a lot, but not about cooking… I think about sinking my teeth into greasy, carbohydrate-rich cheeseburgers, heaping bowls of fettuccine [...]]]>

Photo from Photobucket.

Holy effing pig on a pogo stick it’s COLD outside.  As I write this post, the temperature outside has dropped to a very cruel -51 F.  At that temperature, I think about food quite a lot, but not about cooking… I think about sinking my teeth into greasy, carbohydrate-rich cheeseburgers, heaping bowls of fettuccine covered in mounds of butter, heavy cream and parmesan, slabs of chocolate cake the size of Volkswagens.  I’ve decided that this is not a moral failing on my part; It’s evolution.  My cravings for carbs and fat in sub-zero temps is a sign of my evolutionary fitness.  Even vodka freezes at -51.  I however, am surviving.

One cannot help but to be introspective while trapped inside by subarctic temperatures and the noticeable absence of the sun.  My introspection lately has revolved around the topic of My Career.  Actually, that should be plural: My Careers.  I’ve managed to carve out small bits of success in a few areas: painting, writing, teaching.  All of which I love deeply, like children, each in their own way.  But, like children who grow up to live in your basement, none of these professions have been able to pay the bills.  Last fall I took a job designing online courses and, whereas it’s paying my bills, it keeps me away from the things I really want to do all day.  This isn’t uncommon.  It’s a cliche, really.  A bumper sticker: “I’d rather be writing/painting/cooking!”  The employment world is rife with artists who are wasting their talents on things like data entry, phone sales, administrative jobs.  I’m a medium size fish in a very enormous sea.

Yet, I think if I decide to abandon completely the things that make me feel genuinely engaged, I’ll be just another one of the Walking Dead that inhabit cubicle spaces everywhere.  I’m convinced that this is why Zombies and Vampires are the cultural Zeitgeists of today.  So many of us exist day to day just to get by and corporations and government agencies (seemingly immortal entities) suck the lifeblood from us in order to sustain their own vacuous existence.  Maintaining a sense of personal identity, free of the trappings of traditional employment, is vial then, I would argue, to my psychological well being.  Duh.

But we all know this is easier said than done.  Gone are the days when I could spend an entire weekend in the studio ignoring the real world.  It’s difficult to take my time thumbing through old cookbooks and trying out new recipes.  Last winter break, when I was still an adjunct English instructor, I spent days and days writing and cooking and reading volume after volume of Bourdain and Fisher and Reichl.  I had time then to write, to post here. To think about the ways that crafting language and crafting a meal are both ways of paying homage to the transitory nature of existence.

So I simply try to keep this in mind: that somewhere between the knife and the pen, lies my bliss. My true nature.  My calling to be in the world.  Rather than carving my life into sections, where in one place I am a Zombie Drone and in another I am a vital human being, I’m trying and occasionally succeeding at weaving what makes me feel most alive into my day to day existence. The most successful days seem to be those where I “cross list” the things I must do out of obligation with the things I do out of love.

I’m a huge fan of Top Chef.  I’ve seen every episode of every season.  I loathe all other reality shows.  But Top Chef is different I think because it revolves around skilled chefs who are both hugely passionate about what they do and fiercely competitive.  The Quickfire Challenges are my favorite because they reveal the true creative capabilities of a chef.  The ingredients are often limited or there are unusual constraints imposed upon the contestants and they must make do with what they have. I’m inspired by this… All artists have some kind of constraints imposed upon them in some way; whether it’s tradition or money or materials or time.  It’s out of constraint that true inspiration arises.

Last night I had to make dinner for my family.  I didn’t have time to construct an elaborate meal out of which I could spin an essay; I had to cook something fast and feed four hungry, frozen people.  I knew I might have a little time to write this morning (it was -50 last night so I figured we’d be stuck inside again) so I figured I could make do with what I had.  Constraint.  What could I come up with, Quickfire-style, that would be both delicious and something I could write about?  I looked around for unusual combinations of ingredients and decided upon this:

Quartered New Potatoes Roasted with Shallots, Tobasco Pepper Jelly, Cracked Pepper, and Sea Salt.

(I could just call this: Roasted Red Potatoes, but if I were a contestant on Top Chef I’d have to spiff things up a bit.)

• 1-2 lbs. quartered new potatoes
• 3-4 tablespoons of Tobasco Pepper Jelly
• 1-2 thinly sliced shallots
• 2-3 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 tsp cracked pepper
• 2 tsp Kosher sea salt

Put the pepper jelly and shallots in a bowl with about 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 3 or four tablespoons of warm water and stir until the jelly is thinned out.  Coat the potatoes in this mixture and put it into a 350F oven.  Make sure the potatoes aren’t crowded.  If you crowd them, they won’t get crispy.  When the shallots and jelly have caramelized and the potatoes have a good crispy edge to them, take the pan out of the oven and let the potatoes cool a bit.  Once they’ve stopped steaming add the cracked pepper and salt.  Then, as M.F.K. Fisher would say, serve it forth!

Professional chefs know that a meal is a kind of performance, the dinner table a place of theater. So for the holidays I made sure to don my best chef’s hat and draw the red curtain on all my best cooking.

Now, with the New Year upon us, I notice that after all [...]]]>

Professional chefs know that a meal is a kind of performance, the dinner table a place of theater. So for the holidays I made sure to don my best chef’s hat and draw the red curtain on all my best cooking.

Now, with the New Year upon us, I notice that after all of the dramatic feasts of the holiday season, the “Titanics” of Thanksgiving, and the “Kramer vs. Kramer” of Christmas, what I really want is the culinary equivalent of a Steven Segal flick. I enjoy reading about, cooking and eating good food made with fresh and unique ingredients, preferably doing it all from scratch. But sometimes I tire of food that tries too hard. What I really want right now is cheese in a spray can, “salads” made with Jell-O, something made with marshmallow fluff, food eaten with toothpicks, or anything I can eat on top of a Ritz cracker.

Better yet, I think I’ll just take all the leftovers I can find in my fridge, dump it into a glass dish, add a can of cream of mushroom soup, and call it a day. After all the fanfare of the holidays, it’s just what I want.

And yet, the distinction that I’m making here — between all-out, made-from-scratch holiday fare and preprocessed holiday collage-cooking — is problematic. I spent part of the holidays in the Midwest and there I found these categories turned on their heads. Midwesterners seem to be fond of Crockpot and casserole cooking (they’re called “hot dishes,” I’m told) for holiday gatherings and desserts that feature unique combinations of familiar ingredients (chocolate covered potato chips are delicious!).

What I ate while I was there tasted good enough to go back for seconds and thirds every time, but it was decidedly different from the kind of cooking I grew up with. Southerners (I was born and raised in Georgia) seem to be just the opposite: We show off around the holidays, cooking non-stop for three days, breaking out our finest china and silverware and do everything humanly possible to impress our guests. It’s exhausting. Which is why I’m always craving Cheez Whiz come January.

As a former Southerner living in a place with large numbers of Midwesterners, I’ve come to believe that there is a marked difference between Southern and Midwestern cooking that goes beyond ingredients and cooking methods, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on it until now.

The act of eating is a moral and political act. The choices we make about how we eat are linked to who we are as human beings. How we produce, disseminate, and prepare food has been the topic of much debate lately, from Eric Schlosser’s “Fast Food Nation” to Jamie Oliver’s “Food Revolution.” I think that beyond the debates and controversies, how we eat reveals the moral center of the numerous regional cultures that comprise our nation in a way that is illuminating rather than divisive.

As Americans, we probably share similar values, but each region of the U.S. seems to hold one particular value over the others. For instance, the concept of Southern hospitality isn’t just a cliché — it’s central to the culture and reflective of a particular moral position. Being a good host is about more than showing off your wealth, it’s about loving thy neighbor. If you don’t offer your guest the best you have then you are, in some way, being greedy and immoral. Wealth is to be shared, not hoarded.

The values reflected in Midwestern frugality are equally moral in nature. To be frugal is to take only what is needed, leaving some for your neighbor. “Making do” is a way of ensuring that there is enough to go around in hard times and ensuring that your children’s children will fare well. Extravagance is seen as a kind of selfishness. For both cultures, these things are reflected in the way they eat.

Neither is more correct than the other, and both reveal some of the social glue that holds each culture together.

As for Alaska culture, I think the concept of the potluck aspect of how we eat is indicative of a particularly strong moral value central to our culture here.

Potluck eating is fairly common. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I ate at someone else’s house and didn’t bring a dish. When I entertain, I never have to prepare the entire meal. The Alaska potluck mentality is heavily influenced by the Alaska Native potlatch, which was largely about redistribution of wealth and reciprocity, as well as the church supper traditions of the Lower 48. Potluck values have pulled my car out of the ditch, taken care of my animals when I’ve traveled, gets us all a thousand bucks every year and it makes sure that when we eat, we eat well and even take some leftovers home.

You bring the Ritz. I got the Cheez Whiz.

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

Of all the Thanksgiving traditions I inherited from my family, “Always invite someone new” is my favorite. Over the years, this tradition has created some memorable feasts: I’ve reconnected with old friends, made new friends and watched as the “someone [...]]]>

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

Of all the Thanksgiving traditions I inherited from my family, “Always invite someone new” is my favorite. Over the years, this tradition has created some memorable feasts: I’ve reconnected with old friends, made new friends and watched as the “someone new” drunkenly unraveled a tearful prayer of gratitude to all who would listen.

Last year, despite the fact that my entire family was valiantly battling what I’m convinced was the superflu, my mother decided she would stick to the tradition and invited someone new. We were all terrified that this person would botch the evening, but she turned out to be a delightful and eccentric woman who spoke five different languages and sang a Chinese song for us, accompanied by sign language, about gratitude.

In my early days in Fairbanks, I knew a woman (I’ll call her Julia) who was a fantastic cook, and I loved having Thanksgiving with her around. What little I know about baking bread, I know from her. Julia is a sweet and generous woman. When I hosted my first Thanksgiving, she asked to invite two guys she knew from college. I happily obliged and just before they arrived, Julia pulled me aside and said, “Listen, I sort of told these guys a bit of a fib. I told them that you were really into Thanksgiving dinner and that you like to dress up in Pilgrim costumes and that you make your guests do it too.”

As she’s telling me this, there is a knock on the door and, lo and behold, there are two nice fellas dressed in construction paper Pilgrim hats. One was even wearing black dress shoes with large buckles he found at Value Village expressly for this event.

They were a little confused, to say the least, when they realized that we were all wearing modern attire. They were very good guests and made my first Thanksgiving memorable.

It turns out inviting people you don’t know to Thanksgiving is an old tradition. The original Thanksgiving in 1609 was a three-day feast that included Pilgrims who identified themselves as “Saints,” other Dutch settlers they called “Strangers,” and the surrounding Wampanoag people who had saved all of their starving behinds the year before. Actually, there were far more Native Americans at this feast than settlers, and it has always seemed sad to me that years later, the Wampanoag must have regretted sharing anything with the people who eventually hoarded the land one which they had lived for thousands of years and, well, you know the rest.

Yet that’s the true sense of generosity we should be celebrating at Thanksgiving. Giving freely of your home and table to strangers should be risky, otherwise it isn’t real generosity; some people reciprocate generosity and others take advantage of it. If you’re inviting strangers to dinner, there is always the chance that your guests won’t reciprocate, but there is also the chance that they will.

In the spirit of the season, and since I cannot invite you all to Thanksgiving, I’ve decided to share with you the Thanksgiving advice that others have been sharing with me over the last few days. I put out a call to family and friends to offer up their best Turkey Day feasting tips and they were more than happy to share:

1. Don’t forget to take the giblets out before you cook the turkey. (This was by far the most common piece of advice. I think it must happen pretty often.)

2. Give the turkey plenty of time to thaw (24 hrs per 5 lbs) and if you can prepare anything the night before, then do so.

3. Put out sand or gravel on the driveway (in case your guests are litigious).

4. Pre-program your playlist (I’m always Last Minute Sally on this one).

5. Put snacks out so that the wine doesn’t go straight to anyone’s head (especially the cook).

6. Remember to get ice.

7. If you have a dog, don’t use the back porch as another fridge, you may lose your pies.

8. Those who cook the least, clean the most.

9. Keep hot chicken stock within reach. You will inevitably need it.

10. Clean your cupboards of all those lidless pieces of Tupperware and the jars you’ve been collecting. Put foil on the Tupperware and send leftovers home with guests.

11. Try a new dish every year. Failures make great stories for next year.

12. Never let the most intoxicated person in the room say grace.

13. “Easy Mac.” This was the only piece of advice I got from my boyfriend’s twenty-something little brother. I guess if all else fails …

14. Invite someone new, or, if you can’t cook, try to be the “someone new” for a person who can.

15. Be generous. Be grateful.

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

In 1993, I returned from a brief stint as a nanny in France with a suitcase full of stinky cheese. Nineteen-year-old girls should bring home kitschy black berets or sleek leather handbags, maybe even a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower inside, [...]]]>

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

In 1993, I returned from a brief stint as a nanny in France with a suitcase full of stinky cheese. Nineteen-year-old girls should bring home kitschy black berets or sleek leather handbags, maybe even a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower inside, but I brought cheese.

The suitcase also contained a pack of Galois and a bottle of wine, since at the time I thought cigarettes and booze would be clear evidence of my having acquired a certain cultural sophistication while living abroad. The cheese, however, seemed silly and I remember being rather embarrassed about it at the time. Over the years, I’ve searched in vain for a wedge of brie that might transport me back to my stay in France, yet the domestic brie in your average American grocery aisle has never really compared.

So imagine my excitement last week when, in the chaos of the Fred Meyer West renovation, I found three large cases full of imported cheese in the new deli — from far-flung locations like Italy, Iberia and, best of all, France. I turned over wheel after wheel of soft and hard cheeses and there was not one English word to be found. My heart was literally racing.

As long as human beings have been herding animals, we’ve been making and eating cheese. The fourth stomach of a ruminating (grass eating) animal contains something called rennet, an enzyme that causes milk products to curdle and separates the curds from the whey. Then, specific starter bacteria are added to create the flavor peculiar to each cheese, followed by a number of techniques such as stretching or washing to create the texture.

For instance, in a mozzarella the curd is stretched and pulled while warm in order to convince the protein (the casein) to form a lattice structure, which is why the cheese on your pizza stretches in that gooey delicious way.

Those are just the rudimentary basics. I know little compared to today’s cheesemonger (a job that actually requires a formal education), who can explain much better the difference between the nearly 500 types of cheese recognized by the International Dairy Federation.

So what was I to do with this sudden influx of choice? How could I get my kids to eat stinky imported cheese? I resorted to a technique taught to me by my mother: hors d’oeuvres night. To have one of your own you can either break out the pigs in blanket, sliced vegetables, and pepperoni dip (my mother once went on a pepperoni dip bender, but that’s another story) or go stinky cheese style like I did.

Stinky cheese hors d’oeuvres night

2 kinds of bread, sliced into approximately 1 inch by 1 inch squares and lightly toasted

Unsalted crackers (the cheese will usually provide enough salt)

3-4 kinds of cheese (try a mixture of hard and soft for variety)

Fig jam or honey

Grapes or apples

Sliced vegetables (I used marinated tomatoes, olives, sautéed onions and cherry peppers)

Chopped, fresh herbs (I used thyme and basil)

Sliced deli meat (Soppressata for me)

Arrange everything on a big cutting board and then let everyone stack their own. It’s fun.

The results: My kids didn’t like what they called the “back taste” of the brie, but they really loved the young goat’s milk brie (which had a less silky texture than aged brie) as well as the French mimolette, which looks a little like a sliced melon and tastes like a slightly sweet, buttery cheddar.

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(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

People are sometimes surprised to find that I don’t own a blender, or a food processor or a spring-form pan. Recently a friend of mine was so appalled that I didn’t have what she referred to as a “proper spatula” [...]]]>

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

People are sometimes surprised to find that I don’t own a blender, or a food processor or a spring-form pan. Recently a friend of mine was so appalled that I didn’t have what she referred to as a “proper spatula” that she bought one for me and left it conspicuously in my utensil caddy.

I once owned all of those things, but a divorce reduced my kitchen wares by fifty percent and there are a few things I’ve never bothered replacing. I want a kitchen (and a life) unfettered by complicated gadgets that require high maintenance, elaborate cleaning rituals or any kind of ball bearing. I like the idea of a simple space, filled with sturdy objects that are functional and beautiful.

Life is transient. Most of my generation was raised on a diet of planned obsolescence, disposable income and moveable roots. That transience seems even more potent at thirty-something, when loss becomes a more frequent occurrence.

So when that same spatula-weilding friend left a $100 gift certificate for a local kitchen supply store as a thank-you for a favor, I knew immediately what I wanted — something grand and permanent, like a Le Creuset 7.25 quart French oven with Flame enameling.

If you don’t cook much, and if you don’t often cook stews or casseroles or no-knead bread, a Le Creuset French oven is pretentious overkill. It’s the kind of artisan object that hipsters buy because it’s artisan and because it’s expensive. And when I say expensive I mean it carries the kind of price tag that makes the frugal type get itchy all over.

But this thing could theoretically protect me from nuclear fallout if I could ever fit my casserole-eating rear end into it. It weighs 13.2 lbs. The first thing I made in it was a batch of Jasmine rice and I swear not a single grain stuck to the bottom. You can bake bread in it for goodness sakes. The “Flame Orange” color is right up my alley, too. Cadmium, the source red pigment for the original flame-colored French oven from 1925, was not only the latest and brightest pigment on the market, but when added to glazes it raises the temperature the cookware can withstand. It’s the same pigment used to paint racing engines so they can take the heat. Not only did Armand Desaegher and Octave Aubecq, the original creators of Le Creuset, create a beautiful piece of enameled cast iron, but the cooking capabilities were actually improved by its beautiful orange-red enameling.

There are other brands that I think would have sufficed just as well. Le Creuset is the brand that happened to be carried by the kitchen store, but I also have a Lodge-brand enameled cast-iron skillet that is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. What appeals to me most about this object isn’t the name it carries (although it has a sturdy reputation), but that it is just what I need right now: Something simple, and beautiful, and functional, and permanent.

This French oven won’t break, it’s wires won’t short out, and it won’t ask me to clean a complicated network of blades and gears long after the party is over. It’s a gorgeous workhorse, and I think it’s going to be around for a long time.

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(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

You know you’re loved when someone pit-roasts an entire pig in your honor. During the last three years, Eddie Kim, a poet and the most recent friend of mine to depart from Fairbanks, has become, as another friend put it, the “central [...]]]>

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

You know you’re loved when someone pit-roasts an entire pig in your honor. During the last three years, Eddie Kim, a poet and the most recent friend of mine to depart from Fairbanks, has become, as another friend put it, the “central hub of our social circle.” This means that we had to throw an awfully big party. And since everyone loves a good pig roast, we decided that was the way to go.

As it turns out, Homegrown Market in Fairbanks will butcher and dress a 79-pound pig for $3 per pound. Throw a party for 30 people and the per person cost is only $8 or so. That’s a darn good price for an animal that you know is raised locally, fed a healthy diet and slaughtered humanely.

In a prehistoric but time-tested fashion, a few of Eddie’s closest friends decided to pit-roast the pig. They stuffed its belly full of onions and oranges and herbs, put a green apple in its mouth, coated the skin in spices, wrapped the entire pig in cabbage leaves and then tinfoil, and then lowered it into a pit that had taken them 2 hours to dig. The pit was lined with coals and then covered with a tarp. By the time I showed up Sunday, the pig had been cooking for more than twelve hours.

We were all a bit nervous about the results since we were all pit-roasting virgins, but the result was succulent. It was the best goodbye any of us could imagine. And the next day’s farewell softball game ended up lasting all of three innings; one can only run so far after a feast like that.

I was unable to help with the prepping and roasting of the pig, so I spent Sunday morning preparing a few side dishes with the help of a fellow Southerner who I sometimes call Miss Tequila. Miss Tequila cooked up a baked bean casserole, a lemonade pie that elicited more than one bribe for the recipe and I brought out my grandmother’s recipe for cornbread. It was a sight better than the cornbread of my own making, which was more like packing material than food.

My grandmother, rest her soul, was the generous sort, so I don’t think she will mind that I’m sharing her recipe with you:

Grandma’s skillet cornbread

2 eggs, beaten

1 can creamed corn

1 large onion, chopped

2-4 jalapeños, chopped

1 cup corn meal

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon garlic salt

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese

1/4 cup cooking oil

Combine corn meal, baking powder, and garlic salt in a large bowl. In separate bowl, combine eggs, creamed corn, milk, cheese, and oil. Fold the wet ingredients into dry ingredients. Add jalapeños and onions, then pour entire mixture into greased iron skillet (or shallow non-stick baking pan) Bake at 350 degrees until edges are golden.

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

In his book “Street Food,” author Tom Kime wrote to “get a feel for the beating heart of any community, and to begin to understand a culture different from your own, you need to understand the food.” He’s right.

For the last [...]]]>

(This piece was originally published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner)

In his book “Street Food,” author Tom Kime wrote to “get a feel for the beating heart of any community, and to begin to understand a culture different from your own, you need to understand the food.” He’s right.

For the last 18 years, I’ve understood Fairbanks mostly in terms of the weather, but writing about our local food scene is teaching me how to understand and love this place in a new way.

Fairbanks has its own emerging hybrid culture — one rooted in subsistence living, energized by the freedom to “come as you are,” and adorned with the art, music and cuisines of the many cultures that exist here. Look at the College Road and University Avenue intersection — a place where Thai, American, Cuban and semi-Italian cuisines peacefully coexist.

Once summer rolls around, the open-air vendors set up shop and Middle-Eastern, Southern American, Mexican and Philippino cuisines are added to the mix. One could easily spend a Friday afternoon on a tasting tour around the world in the space of a city block.

Street food is in a class by itself. It’s a more intimate exchange than what happens in a restaurant, where the wait staff and dining room are middlemen between you and the person who cooks your food. On the street, it’s just you and the cook in what you both hope will be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Street food also is good for the larger community: it encourages socializing, outdoor activity, thrifty entertainment and entrepreneurial opportunities.

Edward L. Glaeser, a professor of economics said cities can “work economic magic and entertain their citizens by connecting smart people, helping them to learn from one another and to innovate. … Food trucks are a natural part of the innovative culinary process.”

Fairbanks should not only make it easy for these vendors to continue to exist, but encourage more vendors on more corners of more streets.

My favorite kind of street food is skewered meat: Greek souvlaki, Japanese yakitori, Southeast Asian satay, Turkish kebabs or French brochettes. Skewer the meat, season it, grill it and I’m there.

The following recipe is for an Asian-style skewers. The ingredients can be found here in Fairbanks, although you may have to ask where a few of them are located.

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