On Friday I learned that Nutella Jars aren't made out of safety glass. But peeling off shards of glass and scraping off possibly glass-dust-filled-chocolate-hazelnut spread from the mass of non-glass-dust-filled-chocolate-hazelnut spread in my hand was as time consuming as it was worth it.
Mike and I estimate we only lost about 3%.
Worth it.
Also, Ada has started patting me on the back when I pick her up and hold her. I think it's adorable.
Showing posts with label foodies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label foodies. Show all posts
Monday, January 16, 2012
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
. . . except chocolate
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| Ciocoshow booths in the Piazza Maggiore |
For over a week before the festival, tents were being set up, lighting was being installed, woodfloors were being fitted, booths were getting decorated . . . I thought, "All this work! Surely it must be fore more than a 5 day festival?" But no. It's just a testament to the level of seriousness these people have for culinary arts.
It's hard to name everything we saw. I thought the rusty tools and antique-looking treasures were the most impressive (and realistic) chocolate creations. We saw everything from dress shirts and ties, to iPhones and dentures. Name something. You probably could have found a choco-version at the festival.
And not only did they have chocolate for show and chocolate for eating, they had chocolate for making—the festival hosted chocolate classes and gelato classes. Were Ada perhaps in a bit more cooperative (comatosive) stage, maybe I would have braved the language barrier and given it a shot.
Brianna and I took the girls out to scout out the festival before bringing the dad's a few days later. It was then that Ada learned her latest trick: scoring samples and nearly every booth. I may or may not have stolen a few and put them in my mouth first. By the way: Chocolate Passion has the best cremino. I could eat that stuff for dinner—oh wait! I did!!—with a side of chocolate salami. True story.
Mikey is notorious for not being a sweets guy. This concept is something my brain has a hard time computing. Sweetness = goodness. Duh. But he says, "Nothing tastes as good as fit feels." Saturday, however, he admitted that, "Nothing tastes as good as fit feels . . . except chocolate." Score.
See Ada's sad face? That's because we wouldn't let her hold her own truffle and eat it. Poor dear. The truffles did look amazing. Who wouldn't want to hold them (and get a break from the stupid gloves mom always forces on me).
The truffles were displayed grouped together: the dusty dark balls, cozied up to the coconut covered white chocolate ones. Pistachio covered truffles sat deliciously prickly next to some milky concoction. I wish I could have tried each one. Too bad they cost about a euro a piece. (Ouch). We opted for four different kinds. Hazelnut won out hand over fist.
Oh Bologna! Thank you for teaching me to slow down to eat my food. Chocolate tastes so much better after it has melted on my tongue.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Kinda like thrush, only with more fizzing
"Good pizza dough should be sticky," she told me. Julie and Paolo just moved back to Bologna with their three kids after living in The States for a few years. Paolo is a baker. Julie is a nurse. She gave us a pizza dough demo a few weeks back.
I should have come home that day and tried it out. At the very least I should have written something down because after two weeks elapsed, the details of her demonstration had already begun to blur.
I remembered that the flour, poured directly onto the counter, made a nest to hold the yeast, oil and water. I remember how sticky her hands were, but how they didn't slow her down or make her seem less practiced. It was just part of the process. She made the dough with all the finesse of a true Italian; quickly and gracefully.
I was far less graceful. The walls of my flour nest broke, sending the yeasty water and oil mixture all over the counter and down between the fridge and the drawers. My sticky hands, I'm sure, looked far less masterly and purposeful than Julie's. They were constantly trying to free themselves, like they couldn't work right from under all the dough. Not just the dough on my my fingers, but on my palms would stretch and stick to everything they touched. To make matters worse, I didn't use enough flour and the bitter active yeast powder flavor came through. Only then did I read the package and realize I had used twice as much.
So with my sticky hands I grabbed the bag of flour, the container of salt, the bottle of olive oil and tried to make up for it.
In the process I got yeast in my mouth.
Have you ever had active yeast powder activate in your throat? No? Well wake up and feel the burn, my friend! The experience is one you'll have a hard time forgetting (because it burns and fizzes for what feels like hours. And tangentially: remember baking soda and vinegar volcanoes? Why in the world haven't we been using active yeast powder? That stuff puts the old baking soda and vinegar standard to shame.) I could go into all the details of how I activated yeast in my throat, but imagination is much more fun.
After I had finished kneading my dough it seemed so harmless as it sat there rising in an oiled bowl. Then I looked at the counters, the fronts of my drawers, the floor by the fridge-- evidence of a very unpracticed dough maker--and though, Maybe not quite so harmless.
I should have come home that day and tried it out. At the very least I should have written something down because after two weeks elapsed, the details of her demonstration had already begun to blur.
I remembered that the flour, poured directly onto the counter, made a nest to hold the yeast, oil and water. I remember how sticky her hands were, but how they didn't slow her down or make her seem less practiced. It was just part of the process. She made the dough with all the finesse of a true Italian; quickly and gracefully.
I was far less graceful. The walls of my flour nest broke, sending the yeasty water and oil mixture all over the counter and down between the fridge and the drawers. My sticky hands, I'm sure, looked far less masterly and purposeful than Julie's. They were constantly trying to free themselves, like they couldn't work right from under all the dough. Not just the dough on my my fingers, but on my palms would stretch and stick to everything they touched. To make matters worse, I didn't use enough flour and the bitter active yeast powder flavor came through. Only then did I read the package and realize I had used twice as much.
So with my sticky hands I grabbed the bag of flour, the container of salt, the bottle of olive oil and tried to make up for it.
In the process I got yeast in my mouth.
Have you ever had active yeast powder activate in your throat? No? Well wake up and feel the burn, my friend! The experience is one you'll have a hard time forgetting (because it burns and fizzes for what feels like hours. And tangentially: remember baking soda and vinegar volcanoes? Why in the world haven't we been using active yeast powder? That stuff puts the old baking soda and vinegar standard to shame.) I could go into all the details of how I activated yeast in my throat, but imagination is much more fun.
After I had finished kneading my dough it seemed so harmless as it sat there rising in an oiled bowl. Then I looked at the counters, the fronts of my drawers, the floor by the fridge-- evidence of a very unpracticed dough maker--and though, Maybe not quite so harmless.
Monday, October 10, 2011
It smells whiskery
"Do you like seafood?" the waiter asked us right after he propped up the handwritten-menu next to our table.
"Eh . . . sort of. Yeah. Sure." (Is that convincing? What if it's paired with a face somewhere between a frown and a shoulder-shrug?)
"Okay, I'll try to explain the menu to you in English."
Great. Because I've been scanning the menu for words that I recognize and I only see one: linguine, and it's sandwiched between granchio and polpo.
He begins, "Okay, for the first plate we have these options. To begin we have this, it is fried octopus, crunchy on outside, squishy on inside, put it oven. Next, squid, sliced very, very thin, goes in oven. This is tuna done three ways, and in oven. This is a fried squid, very good if you like squid. This is octopus. I don't know the name of this fish. This is blue lobster, half lobster and half . . ."
All I can think about is my sort-of-yeah-sure-shoulder-shrug response to the waiter's first question and how funny it is now. And that I really wish this osteria had had a menu posted outside. And that I had known what polpo was before we came inside.
He finishes explaining nearly every dish on the menu.
Mikey and I sit there in silence. Stunned really. And trying to remember what seemed the least "squishy on inside."
"I'll have the salmon for my first course, and the cauliflower linguine for my second." I felt like those were the least scarey options presented to us. Mikey gets a tuna dish and some spaghetti with prawns.
When they bring out our first plate I see my salmon and immediately think I made a mistake. It's a huge mound of raw fish. Completely raw and sitting atop a pile of greens. And are those? Yes. Capers. Mikey's looks good though. And turns out, it really was.
I drizzle my pink mound of cold fish in a healthy amount of olive oil, pepper it, and dig in. To my surprise it actually isn't bad. Aside from the fact that it's cold and raw, I'm totally in to it. And when I shut my eyes and stopped thinking, I forgot about those two facts almost entirely.
When the second course comes out Mikey is given a small plate with a moist towelette on top in addition to his prawn-topped noodles. "What's that for?" he asks me.
"It's to clean off your fingers after you pinch off the tails of the prawns."
"Can you pinch off the tails?"
"No. They're your prawns." To be honest, I was afraid of them too. But I tried playing it like I was completely unintimidated.
Mikey cuts them off with his knife and discards a majority of the prawn on the small plate. No pinching here. We're such dining-out amateurs it's hilarious.
I ask Mike, "Does something smell fishy? You have an I'm-smelling-a-bad-smell look on your face."
"No, not fishy . . . It smells whiskery."
By this time I'm crying from laughter. Between Mikey's reaction when he saw the prawns complete with legs whiskers, antennae (do prawns have antennae?) and watching him try to eat around the thing, my body was shaking and tears began streaming down my face. Also, we were supposed to be in the city with the best food in Italy. And we were here?
Picture eating this. Only cooked a little and topped with parsley flakes.
By 8 o'clock the place was full of people who looked like they had made reservations and actually wanted to eat various and sundry sea creatures. Turns out it was a Sicilian joint. With all the fish one could hope for. It promised to please the seafood-eaters but left the seafood-shoulder-shruggers wishing for some tortelloni con burro e salvia.
But the experience? Unbeatable. We are having so much fun.
"Eh . . . sort of. Yeah. Sure." (Is that convincing? What if it's paired with a face somewhere between a frown and a shoulder-shrug?)
"Okay, I'll try to explain the menu to you in English."
Great. Because I've been scanning the menu for words that I recognize and I only see one: linguine, and it's sandwiched between granchio and polpo.
He begins, "Okay, for the first plate we have these options. To begin we have this, it is fried octopus, crunchy on outside, squishy on inside, put it oven. Next, squid, sliced very, very thin, goes in oven. This is tuna done three ways, and in oven. This is a fried squid, very good if you like squid. This is octopus. I don't know the name of this fish. This is blue lobster, half lobster and half . . ."
All I can think about is my sort-of-yeah-sure-shoulder-shrug response to the waiter's first question and how funny it is now. And that I really wish this osteria had had a menu posted outside. And that I had known what polpo was before we came inside.
He finishes explaining nearly every dish on the menu.
Mikey and I sit there in silence. Stunned really. And trying to remember what seemed the least "squishy on inside."
"I'll have the salmon for my first course, and the cauliflower linguine for my second." I felt like those were the least scarey options presented to us. Mikey gets a tuna dish and some spaghetti with prawns.
When they bring out our first plate I see my salmon and immediately think I made a mistake. It's a huge mound of raw fish. Completely raw and sitting atop a pile of greens. And are those? Yes. Capers. Mikey's looks good though. And turns out, it really was.
I drizzle my pink mound of cold fish in a healthy amount of olive oil, pepper it, and dig in. To my surprise it actually isn't bad. Aside from the fact that it's cold and raw, I'm totally in to it. And when I shut my eyes and stopped thinking, I forgot about those two facts almost entirely.
When the second course comes out Mikey is given a small plate with a moist towelette on top in addition to his prawn-topped noodles. "What's that for?" he asks me.
"It's to clean off your fingers after you pinch off the tails of the prawns."
"Can you pinch off the tails?"
"No. They're your prawns." To be honest, I was afraid of them too. But I tried playing it like I was completely unintimidated.
Mikey cuts them off with his knife and discards a majority of the prawn on the small plate. No pinching here. We're such dining-out amateurs it's hilarious.
I ask Mike, "Does something smell fishy? You have an I'm-smelling-a-bad-smell look on your face."
"No, not fishy . . . It smells whiskery."
By this time I'm crying from laughter. Between Mikey's reaction when he saw the prawns complete with legs whiskers, antennae (do prawns have antennae?) and watching him try to eat around the thing, my body was shaking and tears began streaming down my face. Also, we were supposed to be in the city with the best food in Italy. And we were here?
Picture eating this. Only cooked a little and topped with parsley flakes.
By 8 o'clock the place was full of people who looked like they had made reservations and actually wanted to eat various and sundry sea creatures. Turns out it was a Sicilian joint. With all the fish one could hope for. It promised to please the seafood-eaters but left the seafood-shoulder-shruggers wishing for some tortelloni con burro e salvia.
But the experience? Unbeatable. We are having so much fun.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I'm craving . . . not being hungry
I used to read recipe blogs. Loads of them. I'd bookmark things to try later, add fun ingredients to my grocery list. . .
But something happened called, I'm in baby growing mode, and now the thought of reading recipe blogs is about as enticing as eating my laptop.
I thought the aversion to recipe blogs would let up after I made through the first trimester (even though mine was mild). But not so! I still get sick looking at them. And nothing looks good to eat. Ever. Even in the grocery store I feel lost as I wander the aisles waiting for something to catch my eye. I find myself staring at the contents of my fridge until the gumball sized goosebumps on my arms (okay that may be a slight hyperbole) make me close the door and walk away.
Don't get me wrong. I'm eating. Oh boy, I'm eating.
But the satisfaction, the anticipation of a good meal has rarely accompanied my eating experiences as of late.
Except for my chicken and mushroom stuffed creps at La Jolla Groves. I could live off of those.
But something happened called, I'm in baby growing mode, and now the thought of reading recipe blogs is about as enticing as eating my laptop.
I thought the aversion to recipe blogs would let up after I made through the first trimester (even though mine was mild). But not so! I still get sick looking at them. And nothing looks good to eat. Ever. Even in the grocery store I feel lost as I wander the aisles waiting for something to catch my eye. I find myself staring at the contents of my fridge until the gumball sized goosebumps on my arms (okay that may be a slight hyperbole) make me close the door and walk away.
Don't get me wrong. I'm eating. Oh boy, I'm eating.
But the satisfaction, the anticipation of a good meal has rarely accompanied my eating experiences as of late.
Except for my chicken and mushroom stuffed creps at La Jolla Groves. I could live off of those.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Cinnamon Peach Chili
The name, I think, is slightly misleading. However, the end result = summer in your mouth. We went to the Provo Farmer's Market last Saturday (one of my favorite things to do during the Summer months and into the Fall) and bought veggies to pair with the vegetables aplenty we've been putting to good use from neighborhood gardens. And when I say aplenty, I mean, I made 8 loaves of Zucchini bread last week (that equals twelve cups of shredded Zucchini) and I still had half of a monster Zucchini in my fridge.
But what better way to use (and eat) all these veggies than to chop them up, simmer them down, and feast on the spoils of Summer?
We adapted a recipe I found here and we gave it three cheers.
Cinnamon Peach Vegetarian Chili
1 can black beans
1 can kidney beans
1 can pinto beans (be careful opening the cans. I sliced open my knuckle. I still can't figure out how)
4 potatoes chopped in .5" cubes
4 zucchini and/or yellow squash cut in .25" thick slices
4 tomatoes chopped3 ears of sweet corn - kernels cut off the cob2 medium onions
2 peaches - depitted and cut in cubes
3-4 tablespoons chili powder
2 tablespoons cumin
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper
Salt to taste
Dump all of your beans, juice and all, in a large chili pot. Add your vegetables and seasoning. Bring to a simmer. Lower heat to the lowest setting possible, cover and let simmer for 2 hours. Stir every 15-30 minutes or so. If the chili is too watery after it simmers down leave the lid off to let some liquid cook off.
Serve over cooked brown rice and top with plain greek yogurt (an excellent sour cream alternative) or goat cheese crumbles. Honey cornbread muffins are a must - I used this recipe.
Serve over cooked brown rice and top with plain greek yogurt (an excellent sour cream alternative) or goat cheese crumbles. Honey cornbread muffins are a must - I used this recipe.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Get out of my banana
Here I am, minding my own business, chowing down on a perfectly under-rip banana (with just a hint of green, so as to not be too sweet you see) and all of the sudden there is something extra-fiberous, stiff, and nigh-unto-crunchy in my mouth.
Ew. What is that?
I spit it out. Take another bite. Again it's there! Is there extra hairy stuff on the edges? (After basically shaving the exterior of my banana, I decide that no, there isn't extra hairy stuff). So I investigate further. I take another bite, trying to locate where the hard-yuck is coming from.
It's the center.
So I stick my finger down the middle of my banana (so it divides into perfect thirds which is just one of life's little pleasures--perfectly dividing your banana into thirds...) and find this column of brown icky stuff. It's like someone put Grape-nuts in the center of my banana.
And now, at this point, the thought of Grape-nuts in my banana makes it completely unappetizing. Into the trash it goes (don't tell Mikey).
Ew. What is that?
I spit it out. Take another bite. Again it's there! Is there extra hairy stuff on the edges? (After basically shaving the exterior of my banana, I decide that no, there isn't extra hairy stuff). So I investigate further. I take another bite, trying to locate where the hard-yuck is coming from.
It's the center.
So I stick my finger down the middle of my banana (so it divides into perfect thirds which is just one of life's little pleasures--perfectly dividing your banana into thirds...) and find this column of brown icky stuff. It's like someone put Grape-nuts in the center of my banana.
And now, at this point, the thought of Grape-nuts in my banana makes it completely unappetizing. Into the trash it goes (don't tell Mikey).
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
With Wind in His Ears
Mikey and I have this thing. It's called: let's try and see if we can do one major grocery shopping per month (and keep the inevitable runs to the market to a minimum). I know, coming from the girl who was infuriated by the tuna and dry roasted peanuts incident, it's strange that I not only condone, but actively participate in this sort of behavior now.
But I've found a new challenge in it all. I plan out two weeks of solid meals. Something always comes up, a wedding reception, an invitation to dinner...whatever, so meals get bumped to week three. But the fourth week is the week where all the creativity happens. Or non-creativity. We had quinoa for 4 out of 5 days last week. Lunch and dinner. Andwelikedit,yeswedid.
Monday was another one of those spendy grocery days. The lets-stock-up-for-the-month day. We went to Costco. Where else?
On the way home, driving with the windows down in this glorious weather, I was thinking about coupons and remembered I had forgotten one. I turned to Mikey:
P: Hey I had a coupon for Stacy's Pita Chips but I forgot it. They'll be like a buck-fifty for a big bag with it.
M: Mmm, that sounds great! I'd love to go.
P: (pause, processing his response) I don't think you understood what I said.
M: Yes I did, you've got coupons for Stacy's Pita Booth. That sounds great. When do you want to go? . . . And who's Stacy?
But I've found a new challenge in it all. I plan out two weeks of solid meals. Something always comes up, a wedding reception, an invitation to dinner...whatever, so meals get bumped to week three. But the fourth week is the week where all the creativity happens. Or non-creativity. We had quinoa for 4 out of 5 days last week. Lunch and dinner. Andwelikedit,yeswedid.
Monday was another one of those spendy grocery days. The lets-stock-up-for-the-month day. We went to Costco. Where else?
On the way home, driving with the windows down in this glorious weather, I was thinking about coupons and remembered I had forgotten one. I turned to Mikey:
P: Hey I had a coupon for Stacy's Pita Chips but I forgot it. They'll be like a buck-fifty for a big bag with it.
M: Mmm, that sounds great! I'd love to go.
P: (pause, processing his response) I don't think you understood what I said.
M: Yes I did, you've got coupons for Stacy's Pita Booth. That sounds great. When do you want to go? . . . And who's Stacy?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Older than our marriage
I don't know what it is but I can't seem to get off this salty food kick. Seriously, I make myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich and after the first bite I think, Where's the popcorn? or the string cheese? or the Saltines?!
It's bizarre.
I just got home from spending all day on campus. I opened the fridge, looked at the half-empty shelves pathetically, glanced at the clock to see how long until dinner, and looked back to the contents (or lack of contents) of the fridge. Nothing in there struck me as "something yummy." Bummer.
I settled for shreded Parmesan cheese. As I put pinches of cheese in my mouth I read the lid, Aged over 24 months. TWENTY-FOUR MONTHS? AS IN TWO YEARS?!
I shouted to Mikey, "Hey this cheese is older than our marriage!"
Unimpressed, he replied, "Crazy."
It's bizarre.
I just got home from spending all day on campus. I opened the fridge, looked at the half-empty shelves pathetically, glanced at the clock to see how long until dinner, and looked back to the contents (or lack of contents) of the fridge. Nothing in there struck me as "something yummy." Bummer.
I settled for shreded Parmesan cheese. As I put pinches of cheese in my mouth I read the lid, Aged over 24 months. TWENTY-FOUR MONTHS? AS IN TWO YEARS?!
I shouted to Mikey, "Hey this cheese is older than our marriage!"
Unimpressed, he replied, "Crazy."
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