Something good was happening in my kitchen last weekend. Something thats warm and comforting and rich as all hell. It's winter people, not the time for grilled fish and cucumber emulsions. Winter food means thick and hot, not diet friendly or even healthy. Winter food means risotto.
Risotto has always had a special place in my heart. Everyone I've spoken to about it echoes the same sentiment, "Oh risotto! I love risotto, but its so time consuming, so finicky, i really hate making it." I am ardently on the opposite side of the fence. I love making risotto. The first time I ever tried my hand at it-when I was thirteen or fourteen-I followed a recipe and it turned out fine. The next time, many months later, it was at ten at night in the fit of some sort of teenage pathos and all I did was shut up and start sauteeing. After that night, I was hooked. Whenever I'm in the mood to do some serious cooking, mostly for a large group, its risotto or something risotto like. Last weekend, it was a massive pot of mushroom and butternut squash risotto, perfect for breakfast the next morning or one of my personal favorites: a paella-esque dish of day old risotto in a cast iron skillet with chicken broth and lemon wedges. Actually, I think the best part of making risotto is the part most people hate: after stirring in the wine, when you have to stand endlessly at the stove adding broth. I love the meditive qualities of that motion, the way the stove looks covered in steaming pans of this and that, the smell of the evaporating wine mixed with onions and rosemary, the relaxation of such careful repetition. I've learned the one basic tenant of risotto is this: risotto is not something you can keep to yourself; it must be shared.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mullings and Tributes
Alright lets face it. My unwavering dedication to the art of blogging in the new school year has not been as ardently attended to as I might have liked. Life gets ahead of you and you end up wondering where that half hour you had reserved went. Alas, the real sorrow in that is all the wonderful culinary adventures that go unrecorded.
The past month has been lost to traveling, family, music and various school related activities. I spent a lovely holiday break that commenced with a Inferno-esque O'Hare experience and culminated in the most epic tamale feast ever. Really. This blog is therefore devoted to tamale husks and Portland Oregon.
It is rare to find a place that truly culls up some latent sense of your existence, more so, your humanity, and I am lucky to have found that place in the Pacific Northwest, where I was born and unfortunatly must return to in-all-too brief periods of time. Portland, Seattle, and the whole Northeastern seaboard seem to beckon to the bleakest, wettest and most vital parts of the soul. The people themselves are a part of the skyline and the convergence of mountain, earth and ocean makes for a distinctive palate of tastes, textures, and experiences. The food from that part of the world is much (rightly so) lauded, and if your interested in local eating then look no further than the wonderful plethora that is Washington and Oregon. My home is there, my people are there, my tastebuds most certainly are looking forward to going back.
Anyways, these tamales. On my last day there this January, we spent the day drowning ourselves in food. Louise (my other mother), from which all delicious, nutritious gluten free foodstuffs flow from and I decided to cook up a Mexican influenced feast, which quickly grew from a small family gathering to all out party. The menu: Spanish rice and beans with cojilo cheese, tomatillo and red salsa, chicken tamales, posole (provided by the equally talented caterer/chef extrodinaire Jennifer), tamarid mixers (all thanks to another Jennifer), plaintains, homemade tortilla chips and pecan pie and leftover buche de noel for dessert. It was phenomenal, one of the most enjoyable evenings I have ever spent, and in the company of the most heartwarming people I know. I left the next morning after three hours of sleep, full of the taste of tamales with hot sauce, the scent of strong bitter coffee and the memory of some of my dearest loved ones to carry with me back east.
So there, a vingette from the holidays; something that made going back to the dismal, metallic grey of Rochester that much more bittersweet. Oi veh. Hopefully there will be more posts in the new year, that sounds like as good a resolution as any.
The past month has been lost to traveling, family, music and various school related activities. I spent a lovely holiday break that commenced with a Inferno-esque O'Hare experience and culminated in the most epic tamale feast ever. Really. This blog is therefore devoted to tamale husks and Portland Oregon.
It is rare to find a place that truly culls up some latent sense of your existence, more so, your humanity, and I am lucky to have found that place in the Pacific Northwest, where I was born and unfortunatly must return to in-all-too brief periods of time. Portland, Seattle, and the whole Northeastern seaboard seem to beckon to the bleakest, wettest and most vital parts of the soul. The people themselves are a part of the skyline and the convergence of mountain, earth and ocean makes for a distinctive palate of tastes, textures, and experiences. The food from that part of the world is much (rightly so) lauded, and if your interested in local eating then look no further than the wonderful plethora that is Washington and Oregon. My home is there, my people are there, my tastebuds most certainly are looking forward to going back.
Anyways, these tamales. On my last day there this January, we spent the day drowning ourselves in food. Louise (my other mother), from which all delicious, nutritious gluten free foodstuffs flow from and I decided to cook up a Mexican influenced feast, which quickly grew from a small family gathering to all out party. The menu: Spanish rice and beans with cojilo cheese, tomatillo and red salsa, chicken tamales, posole (provided by the equally talented caterer/chef extrodinaire Jennifer), tamarid mixers (all thanks to another Jennifer), plaintains, homemade tortilla chips and pecan pie and leftover buche de noel for dessert. It was phenomenal, one of the most enjoyable evenings I have ever spent, and in the company of the most heartwarming people I know. I left the next morning after three hours of sleep, full of the taste of tamales with hot sauce, the scent of strong bitter coffee and the memory of some of my dearest loved ones to carry with me back east.
So there, a vingette from the holidays; something that made going back to the dismal, metallic grey of Rochester that much more bittersweet. Oi veh. Hopefully there will be more posts in the new year, that sounds like as good a resolution as any.
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