Yeast

These eukaryotic micro-organisms make our beer, our wine; they leaven our bread and make our pitas pocketed. Yeast, a significant member of the Fungi kingdom, has been in use for thousands of years, much of that time without our understanding of the why or the what. You let juiced grapes sit out for awhile, and ta-da! we're incredibly ebullient and talkative (or possibly asleep). Live yeast, bought in paper packets from the grocery, bubbles and foams when reinvigorated in warm water, and inflates balls of dough triplefold. Don't forget vinegar either, which itself is only possible through the tireless efforts of these singular creatures. These little unicellular beings sustain themselves on sugars, and depending on the venue (i.e. drowning in a sweet grain or grape soup or enveloped in wetted flour) defecate alcohol or carbon dioxide or both. It lives in our guts, on our skin and in the barely visible particulates of the air.

Imagine France without yeast. Or say, any other place wherein good things are had. The wines, the breads, the dipping vinegars. The flavor imparted upon baked goods is palpable, it is the identity of the thing. To take it away from that bread or roll or bun is to be left with not only an uninspired and airless slag of grain, but also one without that thick and succulent je ne sais quoi flavor. To leave it out of wine or beer is to leave them out entirely, to be left with grape juice and soda. Vinegar, pivotal in most common condiments, is the most unavoidable though, seconded only by soy sauce. Try to go to a restaurant and order around these obvious obstacles. Forget Chinese. No more casual sushi (not only the problem of soy sauce here but also the vinegared rice). You'll have difficulty eating Italian too and most salads are out of the question. You might even go home and attempt to hobble together a ketchup or mayo analogue, in hopes that you could carry it along in a to-go bottle and again enjoy slathering fries in dip. It won't be the same though. You'll notice the unfettered joy on the faces of your devil-may-care companions as they swallow down goblets of wine or pints of beer, getting it on their upper lips or spilling it down their faces, and smiling as they lick it or wipe it away and go after another handful of sweet potato fries in curry ketchup or pesto mayo. You'll know. And you'll cordone yourself off at the bakery, investigating only the scones and the cookies, the muffins and cupcakes (all the while you wanted something savory). You'll take to the internet on fruitless searches for those yeasty borderlands (does rindy cheese have yeast? which restaurants use liquid aminos?) and come out less informed, more confused and in want of all those things you can't have and all the stuff you aren't sure of. Then you'll pull the vodka from the freezer (as it is distilled and filtered) and make a drink. These are the facts and my impressions upon denying it past my lips the last weeks.

Just over a month ago, after completing three fruitless months of a gluten-free life, I got my food-panel blood test back. Yeast (brewer's and baker's) among other less dramatic items showed up as an allergy for me, which I hadn't ever considered previously. A daily fact of my life, from nutritional yeast to wine and beer to vinegars and kombucha, had to be eliminated for an indeterminate period of time. It is still indeterminate, but there has been marked improvement in the state of my digestive system, in the state of that overraw length of piping from throat to gut. And that is where I stand, or sit, or lay. I've friended distilled alcohol and lemon juice. I sigh less when my friends eat things I can't. I am attempting creativity in the kitchen in the face of this adversity, and when all is said and done, it is a hell of a lot easier than divorcing gluten. We've become great friends again. Absence makes the heart grow fond, and the stomach grow wanton.

An Unfortunate Journey

I am beginning a trial-run of a gluten-free diet today, to resume for three months' time. I am not very energetic about this. Nor do I enjoy the amount of research it is taking to do it right. If it is that I have Celiac's (which given my Irish and German roots, is a good genetic possibility) then, I am told, even a thimble-full of something containing that special protein would set me back 6-8 weeks. It is a sparse possibility in my case that I do have this, but a possibility all the same. I won't see a change for at least 4 to 8 weeks apparently, if there is no accidental hiccups in my ingestion schedule. Damnit.

If anyone has any tips, give them to me. I want them. I love bread and beer and they can't have me for at least three months. I am looking towards sake and wine for respite. Maybe brown rice pasta, corn and potato chips and corn tortillas. That's all I got for now. Thanks for your ear.

Island Wilderness Camping

Recently, we went on a camping trip. On the Island of Whidbey, just North and West of Seattle. Half a mile from a beach that looks out on the Puget Sound and behind that, the great Pacific Ocean. Accompanying us on this sleeping-in-the-out-of-doors expedition were two other couples, whose celebrity mash-up names would be Zamie and Aargan (pronounced air-gun). Here are shameless plugs of their websites: Zack, Jamie, Aaron, and I don't know if Meagan has a website. Anne's is on the sidebar.

We camped, specifically at South Whidbey State Park. It was fun though there was little in the way of hiking, unlike the massive forests of the Olympic Peninsula, still my favorite place to camp. We set up camp, each couple with our own four-person tent, and set to making food before the sun fell too far down over the horizon. Then we drank around the fire. The weather was nice, though a little cool at night, and the beach was beautiful, full of various beached life-forms ready to have their pictures taken. We, the boys, threw rocks at inanimate objects until we were tired and wanted beer. We, the boys, played with the clay that made up the cliff abutting the beach, and formed it into unidentifiable nothings until our hands were covered in clay and we were wearing stupid smiles. We, all, took pictures of the oddities of the beach (including ourselves) as the tide was at its lowest. Then we walked back up the hill to our camp, in order to sate our desires for food, booze and the mesmerizing behavior of flames. We slept in between eating and playing and drinking, such an insignificant detail though.

I felt like life should be like that more than it is. Void of bank statements and the forty-hour-a-week deal. Just throwing rocks at things and making food. Simple and wonderful. But, I must say, the shower was amazing when I got home, as well the warm bed and the laying about in front of a movie. The camping was fun, for awhile. And it didn't rain. I have sloppily explained the whole thing but the following pictures will help.

The Tent!

More After The Jump

Local Food and Good Beer

This is a good mantra, I think. Anne and I patronize the services of a local farm (Full Circle Farm) that delivers digestibles to us weekly (actually to the community center a block away from us). It is one of many CSA's (Community Supported Agriculture) that Western Washington has to offer. Every week, for thirty one dollars a week, we are provided with a bounty of fruits and vegetables, about 12 to 14 different food items per box, which is more than enough. Plus, it is all organic. This is what I do every Thursday upon getting the box to our kitchen:

Many cities enjoy these programs. It feels good to know you are supporting your local economy and also eating damn good organic produce. The average American meal travels thousands of miles to get to one's plate. A lot of calories to bring a few. It is uneven. Local economies suffer for global markets. Much of the viable land in the Midwest is being used for inedible corn, #2 corn they call it, for use in thousands of super-processed foods. Anyone who gives a damn should look up CSA's in their area, or farmer's markets. They are your neighbors. Even in the very rural Barnard, MO, where much of my family lives, and where much of the farmland is #2 corn, they are putting together a farmer's market where people can sell their own garden's produce, and to their neighbors nonetheless. It is important. To further explain my point, I would suggest watching the movie Food, Inc, and reading books by Michael Pollan. Also, a very funny and food-smart guy, Mark Bittman. Here is a good, funny and important video by Bittman: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YkNkscBEp0



Second to food, beer is also important. Drink good beer. I drank a good beer the other day. I often do. But a certain beer stood out. It wasn't local, but oh, well. It is a Polish beer. Find it and drink it and tell me what you think. Tell me what you think about any of this. It is easy.

San Francisco Pt. 2

This second installment of Northern California, going along in an intentionally non-chronological order, concerns our last full day in that beautiful and sunny city, because I want to. We were left to our own devices that day (these devices, in this case, being our own feet and wavering senses of direction) and Jill parted with us in the Fisherman's Wharf area (which according to this website is the suckiest part of Frisco, and I agree). Before our paths diverged, we went to the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, which features an enormous clock tower front and center and sits right at the edge of the water. This former ferry terminal now is host to shops and restaurants inside, which center around local and sustainable fare, and a three-day-a-week farmer's market just in front. As some of the pictures will attest, there were shops dedicated to meat and lard, "Tasty Salted Pig Parts," fresh baked breads, gelato, fresh mushrooms and mushroom growing kits, as well as newspapers and assorted tourist detritus.

We were given a simple explanation of the SF Muni train system, by which we were to travel back for dinner, and then the aforementioned devices of ours took over. We traveled around in the Fisherman's Wharf area for a bit, passing the entryway for the Alcatraz tour and stopping in at a sourdough bakery called Boudin (they made their breads into various shapes and sizes such as a larger boule and an alligator) where we got a large sourdough wheat to bring home and a small one to eat as we walked. Sourdough has a special stake in San Francisco for nowhere else is there the same bacteria floating around in the fog-laden air. Lactobacillus sanfranciscensis is key to the sourdough starters there and it supposedly imbues these breads with a sourness not found outside the city. We chewed on the bread and honestly were not impressed. No extra sourness that I could detect. Maybe there is a secret place we didn't go.

Chewing mindlessly and wandering about the Wharf area, we began to feel like everything around us was merely high-priced San Francisco advertisements -- shirts with Golden Gates hanging from awnings, chain restaurants, street performers whose allure only works on tourists -- and we quickly made flight towards Coit Tower, a defining landmark which would bring us into North Beach and closer to City Lights Bookstore. We didn't go to Coit Tower since we went last visit, but found our way out of the tourist trap nicely. Before reaching City Lights Bookstore (the place of Beat legend and publisher of many a Ginsberg poem) we stumbled upon two churches of classical enormity and style. The first was the church wherein Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio were married called Saints Peter and Paul Church. The other church was less about the church and more about the section attached to its hip. Inside there was the city's as well as the national Shrine of Francis of Assisi, which was a 75% reproduction of the Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi. The man inside who showed us around and explained the history (as well as the papal decree which would absolve all who entered that they never see Hell i.e. us) we found out was a Knight of St. Francis as outed by a young and overly zealous Catholic boy who knew all the ins and outs of the transportation of religious iconic statuary. 


Now that we would never see Hell, we walked a little lighter on our toes. It took some time to locate it, but we finally found City Lights. We searched the shelves lazily but were really hoping for used books which they didn't have. Quickly soaking up the history of the place, including the basement section where I could feel the quiet energy of jazz poetry spoken live 50 years prior bouncing off the walls, many people clapping with their fingers. We left and didn't get far. Next door was a bar. It was called Vesuvio and it felt good to know that Beat legends such as Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady spent nights writing and drinking there. I got Merlot. Anne got beer. It was around 3 o' clock and the sun poured in on us where we sat upstairs. Regulars lined the bar and spoke about things we didn't understand in grizzled happy voices. It was fun.


After this, a little buzzed, wine-toothed and sun-touched, we walked to the train and went back for some amazing soup Jill created, which we accompanied with bread from the bakery around the corner and some Portuguese beer that was $5.99 a six pack at the wine shop. Our night finished at a bar with some strangers where our team got second place on Trivia Night. 

 

Beauty.

More after the jump ~

Milkman Revised

Gone are the days when a man would come by and put six reusable bottles white to the brim with milk onto your porch or into your milk door (a smallish cabinet outside your domicile with an inner door for retrieval) exchanging out those bottles you downed last week and very politely rinsed out for him. Yet, there are still beverages which a person might want to have delivered to their home. Something less viscous, less in need of refrigeration. So we traded the nectar of the bovine teat for that of the vintner and the brewer. Two days ago I received my first delivery of beer and wine, and despite the conjecture of many, it wasn't brought by winged cherubs, but by a simple man with a simple idea: Bring the people joy, bottled and various. My milk door is long ago sealed up (yes, we do have an old milk door, circa 1940's) so after buzzing this new age milkman in, we had to settle for human contact, a box of beer and wine for a Spongebob Squarepants check written out, simply, to "Milkman."
If you live in Seattle, I would suggest giving him some business. No delivery charge, no price hike, just a five dollar monthly fee. Some relics of the past can be revived.

Here is the site:
http://milkmanseattle.com/

You never have to leave home again!