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.

Bike to Wineries, Check.

Yesterday (Saturday, the 11th), we biked to the wineries. Myself, Anne and our friend Zack. This was an event that we had been wanting to do for some time and only ended up doing as a result of our panic that Summer was in its death throes. The ride was about 18 miles there, but we got off the trail too early and added nearly five more to that. The Burke-Gilman Trail runs through Seattle, beginning at 11th street in Ballard and ending above the Northern finger of Lake Washington at Bothell. From there it is replaced by the Sammamish River Trail, which continues to the wineries accompanied by the Sammamish River, whose banks are crowded with small bungalows and scrappy boats. Both trails are rail trails, conversions of unused railroads, which make for very evenly graded paths.

It was a gorgeous day, luckily for us. The ride was relaxing and surprisingly easy. We rode into our usual winery destinations, starting at Columbia Winery. I am a member there, thanks to my mother, and enjoy two free tastings for four people each time I go. We were joined, via her car, by Zack's girlfriend, Jamie.

We brought various farmer's market fare to eat. A baguette filled with olive oil, basil and garlic. A creamy spreadable fromage with truffle salt in it. Some fontina cheese. Plums, various berries, heirloom tomatoes and lentil sprouts. It was decadent and delicious. We got our tastings at Columbia, our heads humming with wine, then we headed across the street to Chateau Ste. Michelle.

Anne walks with determination near the plants of her Spanish ancestry. Here, at Ste. Michelle, the grounds are much more exciting and decorative. They even have a stage for the big name bands of yesteryear to play such as Crowded House; Steely Dan; Earth, Wind and Fire and Chris Isaak to name a few. And they have fowl. Ducks, geese and peacocks. The vines on the property are decorative only, as the real grapes are grown in more sandy, loamy soil on the other side of the Cascade Mountains. As such, these grapes are a little sour...

... as can be seen in the above picture, in Jamie's face.

There are the ducks, which seem to piss Zack off, or at least make him uber-serious. This is our second eating session, because drinking wine is a task that famishes.

And the following are some of the fowl we encountered.

The ride back was less invigorating than the ride there. We were beat. And there was a football game at UW's stadium so the trail became inundated with drunk, inconsiderate sports fans. We walked our bikes the last mile for this reason. Our final mileage was sitting at about 41 miles. We swelled with pride before succumbing to exhaustion and finding bed.

Interlude Accompanied By Pressure Cooker

To momentarily deflect attention from my increasingly distant San Francisco visit, I will take a moment to praise the culinary efforts of my trusty pressure cooker by way of the presentation (with obligatory photos) of the meal I quickly made up last evening. I will not name it for to do so would be to diminish it to some easily identifiable and therefore hum-drum existence. It, like much in life, is a construction of parts, of which none can lay absolute claim for its eventual resulting texture and flavor, in the way that a swingset is a swingset and not a metal tube or a plastic seat. My rhetoric, I am aware, is becoming ridiculous (though true).

These parts are: 1 cup dry brown rice (Basmati), 2 cups dry red lentils, two medium orange carrots (chopped), one medium russet potato (chopped), half of a yellow onion (diced coarsely), five to eight cloves of garlic (minced), three-fourths of a bag of frozen spinach, fourth cup of olive oil or so, splash of balsalmic vinegar, fourth cup of sesame seeds (ground fresh), some nutritional yeast, maybe fourth cup sugar, five cups of water, one cup soy milk and spices (details forthcoming).

The spices I used are the following: mixed peppercorns, cumin seed, black mustard seed, asafoetida a.k.a. hing (interesting history behind this special spice), curry leaf, coriander seed, toasted lentils, cayenne powder and coconut. Hence this bowl of spices:

 

More after the jump~

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 ~

Went to See Art

As the title suggests, I went to see art. It is also a careful nudge toward a blog that I also write on: GO SEE ART. Check it out. Now, the art show that I found myself attending lately I heard of through my girlfriend, the illustrious, beautiful and extremely talented artist, Anne Petty. It was her show. Here is her website: Anne Petty Dot Net. It was also the show of Hugo Shi.

Pictures after the jump~

Thanksgiving Redux

OK, thanksgiving was nearly a week ago, but I am now only writing about it. We went over to our friend, Stephen's, house. He had an elegant dinner setting out for us. How wonderful it is to be a guest. For this event, I made two dishes, both having come from a book at my work, surreptitiously photocopied and not bought. The book, Cooking With Pumpkins and Squash, has many amazing recipes in it. Thus, I photocopied the recipes for a Pumpkin Gnocchi and a Roasted Squash Soup. The soup was the star, but the gnocchi was amazing itself, buttery and decadent and time-consuming as all hell. The soup was vegan and the gnocchi was rich and vegetarian. The way in which they recommended to make the soup was something I had never imagined. The gnocchi would have been easier if I would have had a potato ricer, which I just got today. Anyway, just look at these images of these recipes. They're pretty.
P.S. I did not take these pictures, but they would be almost as pretty.

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!

Indian Feast!

  

I was given to throwing an Indian feast last night. Every conceivable stop was pulled. As one can see by the plate awash in a background of blackness, the results were favorable. The menu was as follows: 

• Brown Basmati Rice (cooked with onions, garlic, carrots, turmeric, cumin seed and cardamom)
• Saag Paneer (Spinach and fenugreek leaves, cubed paneer, with spices)
• Dahl (Not the Roald variety, but actually red lentils, tomato, onion, garlic, curryleaves, various toasted spices and possibly a splash of wine)
• Cauliflower Curry Stuff (Cauliflower and carrot in a tomato and cream curry sauce, with hot peppers from my window sill)
• Samosas (homemade semolina and wheat wrappers enveloping a mashed potato-pea spice explosion, also including hot peppers from my sill)
• Tamarind Chutney (spicy and sweet, for the samosas)
• Papadums (bought in a non-descript package at the Indian grocery store, toasted under the broiler until wavy and crunchy)
  

  Our faithful captain, Lucas, made the cauliflower dish, the tamarind chutney, the amazing samosas, and the Saag Paneer, with help from some purple lipped prep cooks and paneer fryers of course. I made the dahl and the rice. Every dish was astounding. We outdid ourselves, I said to Lucas. He smiled and drank wine. So did I.

 Today, I am eating leftovers. 

 Today, I am drinking pots of tea at the coffeeshop and reading and writing.

 Today, I don't yet know what I am doing.

 I can't exactly do a step-by-step on these dishes since 1) I didn't make all of it and 2) Indian cooking is more of an intuitive task than one enumerated. We had vegetables, butter, oil, rice, lentils, many varied spices and love, and also wine, for the cooks. The best way to learn is to try it. Once I see it done before me, I am validated to do it myself, fail or win.


This site is where we found out how to do samosas:
http://www.manjulaskitchen.com/ 

Check out this site for sure. There are so many good recipes.