Readings

Today’s New York Times food section has a nice echo of my previous post about culatello. The science-and-food writer Harold McGee covers the renewal of American-made dry-cured hams. Producers in Virginia and elsewhere are now making hams to rival those of Italy and Spain.

“Have you ever placed a vanishingly thin morsel of rosy meat on your tongue and had it fill your mouth with deepest porkiness, or the aroma of tropical fruits, or caramel, or chocolate? Or all of the above?” he asks.

Monday’s Wall Street Journal had a fascinating piece on the history of Grape Nuts. The breakfast cereal was a staple around the house when I was a kid. I enjoyed its crunchy taste, especially with a few spoonfuls of sugar on top, but my favorite memory of it concerns my father. He loved the stuff, but would sometimes get him very agitated. It was the vitamins or the minerals or the fiber that irked him. His problem with it was that it took too long to chew. He was always in a hurry in the morning.

On Sunday, also in the Times, Amanda Hesser wrote a brilliant op-ed about Michelle Obama’s relationship to the kitchen. According to the Times, the First Lady said, “I don’t miss cooking. I’m just fine with other people cooking.”

Hesser clarifies her message. “Though delivered lightheartedly, and by someone with a very busy schedule, the message was unmistakable: everyday cooking is a chore.”

That’s the truth. But Hesser doesn’t stop there. The best part of her column points out what we lose when we don’t cook at home: A connection to food and each other.

I’ve been trying to save money around the house. I switched from an air-miles reward credit card to a simple cash back one, as I’m not going anywhere anyway. (The card is a good deal: Chase’s Freedom Visa pays up to 3% back on purchases). We do almost all of our food shopping at the Park Slope Food Coop, which has a very minor mark up, so we are saving money there.

Still there are things I want that I can’t get at the coop, such as Progresso lentil soup. It’s one of the concessions I make to convenience in feeding the kids. Nina loves it, even if it does break my heart just a little bit to hear her call out for the “canned lentil soup” instead of my outrageously delicious Turkish version (which I’ll write about later, I promise.)

The coop doesn’t sell the soup, but at least two grocery stores in my neighborhood do. The closest one to my house has it at $2.99 a can. A larger store a few blocks away sells it for $2.69.

I’ve yet to develop the skill (and patience) to compare prices and really shop around, but I hope to learn to do so soon. (A master of saving money is my friend Vespucci. He’s a shrewd shopper, and a home gardener. The New York Post just did a video feature on him.)

Still, I make an effort. On Sunday, I walked to the larger grocery store and bought four cans of the soup with my cash-back credit card, saving more than a dollar. On the trip back home, I felt both proud and foolish. Proud to have saved the dollar plus. Foolish for being proud.

But then I read a harrowing story in the New York Times magazine by an economics reporter who has tangled himself up in the financial crisis. He borrowed too much money to buy too big a house. He and his new wife couldn’t slow their spending, and now they are facing foreclosure. A cautionary tale, indeed. Made me feel much better about saving that dollar.

I always considered the instant-read thermometer to be a useful but slightly obscure tool. I had no idea that it is now essential for everyone's health.

According to a disturbing article on the front page of today’s Times, major frozen-food corporations can no longer vouch for the safety of their offerings. After a spate of illnesses related to frozen chicken pot pies and the like, the companies are insisting that the consumer check the internal temperatures of their reheated meal to make sure they've heated it sufficiently to kill any pathogens.

Apparently, even if you prefer to throw a frozen dinner in the microwave, you’re going to have to learn basic skills. I guess we’re all cooks now.

One part of the Mothers Day celebration that I left out of yesterday’s post came to mind as I read today’s Science Times. We may have started the day with kid-friendly pancakes, but I was keen on ending the day on a more mature note—a dry, refreshing note.

Santa Maria was off with the kids at the playground. I was just back from a run in the park. I opened a bottle of wine, found a pair of disposable Styrofoam cups, poured two cups, and headed out to meet Santa Maria on the playground.

I’m a big fan of the four-packs put together each month by one of our local wine stores, Red White and Bubbly. When I was younger, I liked to listen to the radio because then I didn’t have to sort through my record collection (yes, I’m old enough to have had LPs). When I found a station I liked, I left it there and enjoyed the music (even if every few songs I might end up listening to something I didn’t like).

I feel the same way about the four packs. Each month they pick wines they like and sell them at a price that appeals to me. Each month I’m assured of finding something I’ll like. Occasionally, there’s something in it that I don’t think I’ll like. Such as this month. One of the bottles was a Rosé. I don’t generally like Rosés, but the afternoon was hot and the bottle was inviting. Plus I like the way I could rhyme in my head Mothers Day with the word Rosé.

The bottle the wine store selected was a Mellot Sincerite Rose by Jean Baptiste Thibault, and true to the store’s description, it was dry and delicious.

At the playground, Santa Maria was touched that I had thought of bringing her a glass (or cup, such as it was). But she didn’t actually want to drink anything. I did though, and was happy to have my cup and hers. And I admit that it didn’t hurt any to have consumed them by the time Pinta had a temper tantrum in the lobby of our building because I wouldn’t let her climb the stairs barefoot. I just waited with her while she protested, and protested, and protested. After a while, she put her sandals back on and we went upstairs where I thought about having another glass, but didn’t.

This brings me around to today’s Science Times. It has a great article by Jane Brody on the dangers of drinking. Not the dangers of being an alcoholic, but the kind of behavior that might lead to alcoholism. My father was an alcoholic and my brother is too. Am I at risk? I read the piece to find out. Apparently, I’m allowed up to four drinks a day (but no more than fourteen a week). Not bad. I think I can live with that.

I’ve set up this website for a number of reasons. One is to be a source for recipes and inspiration for dads (and others) who like to cook. The other is to help me remember what I’ve eaten for breakfast (and lunch and dinner).

There’s a New Yorker cartoon by Bob Mankoff that shows a lone diner at a restaurant saying to the server, “Waiter, I’d like to order, unless I’ve eaten, in which case bring me the check” (you can see the drawing here). I’m not quite that bad—I always know when I’m hungry—but I identify with the absent-mindedness, and it leaves me feeling hollow.

So it was with the eagerness of a high-school-English student discovering Fitzgerald that grabbed onto a passing colleague’s comment the other day. I was at the coffee station at work, and I saw an odd sight for that stark office setting: a fancy immersion blender. I was keen to strike up a conversation with its operator, having once written a paean to the device.

I asked him what he was doing with it. He was frothing his milk for his coffee. He explained his methodology (froth first, then microwave) and, perhaps feeling self-conscious about the equipment, added a quip. “It’s important to ritualize your drug habit, because otherwise it wouldn’t be sacred.”

I don’t know about drug habits, but I’m all for making the everyday bit more sacred. I’m hoping the ritual of writing about my adventures in the kitchen sanctifies the experience. And that provides an inspiration for others.

Santa Maria is a huge fan of the New York Times science section, published each Tuesday. I always bring her a copy of it home from the office, like I’m some kind of nineteen-fifties provider. In getting in the habit of bringing her the section, I’ve started to grow very fond of it myself. This week’s edition had a chilling article by Jane Brody about the perils of eating meat, one of which are the carcinogens that develop as the meat is grilled or roasted.

I’m a natural omnivore with an unusually high need for protein, so I’m not sure how I’ll be able to cut down on the amount of meat I eat. As it is, I don’t often eat red meat, given how expensive it is (at least for the grass-fed kind).

I try to get in as many vegetables as I can, having been raised on a steady diet of meat/starch/vegetable servings. One of our favorite greens is asparagus, and there is no better time for it than in the spring. One of my favorite ways to cook it is to roast it. The method is quick and easy and most importantly, tasty. I have no idea if it puts me at risk for carcinogens the way roasting meat apparently does. It’s just too delicious to consider.

• 1 head fresh asparagus
• a little olive oil
• salt and pepper

Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees.
Snap the ends off the asparagus and wash the stalks well.
Place the stalks on a baking sheet and drizzle with the oil.
Roll the stalks around to coat them.
Salt and pepper to taste.
Place the baking sheet in the oven and roast for about fifteen minutes, or until the stalks are tender             and the tips are crispy.

Note: Santa Maria likes to then dress the stalks with a balsamic vinaigrette. They are also tasty with slices of Parmigiano-Reggiano.

I’ve eaten many things in my day, but nothing like what Richard Wrangham has downed. The Harvard-based anthropologist who has made a career of studying chimpanzees, has, in his time gone to remarkable lengths for science. Today’s New York Times has a brief interview with him in which he reveals some of his research methods: