Eat Me, David, and Ezra: Interweb Crushes

Cat Toy via Eat Me Daily

I spend entirely too much time on the Internet. Sometimes I’m working, sometimes I go into a Facebook Scramble trance, and other times, I am taking a look at what other food bloggers are doing.

There are, for better or for worse, a dizzying amount of food blogs out there. And most of them are, frankly, crap unappetizing. The sinister flash photography, the “look-what-I-had-for-dinner” sharing, the heavy reliance on the exclamation point, the word “yummy” or the suffix “-icious.” It’s enough make me show you what-I-had-for-dinner. After I have eaten it.

And don’t get me started on the number of cupcake blogs out there or I shall cry.

Fortunately, there are a few places of refuge: sites that sparkle like the Emerald City set against the background of a sky blackened by millions of flying, food blogging monkeys.

The following are my current web crushes, in no particular order. One is relatively famous and respected in the food world, one should be, and the other is just plain interesting. They are sites that always have me coming back for more. If you don’t know them already, you should. Give them a little look-see. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be hooked instantly

David Lebovitz

Photo by David Lebovitz

You probably already know him or, at least know of him. If you don’t, you should. He’s one of the most visible food bloggers around. And for very good reason. Lebovitz is a pastry wiz who made a name for himself right here in the Bay Area. Now an American in Paris, he shares his experience of living in a city that many Americans fantasized about without the irritating look-at-me-I’m-in-Paris tone of other writers, for which I am deeply grateful. In fact, he can even mention cupcakes without upsetting me. Of course, showgirls were a mitigating factor.

His recipes and food photography are solid and enticing, his writing style is concise and informative yet chatty and personable. David Lebovitz might heart Neufchâtel, but I heart his blog.

Ezra Pound Cake

Photo- Ezra Pound Cake

Several weeks ago, while trolling about the Internet, I found a food photography website. I couldn’t tell you the name. What I can tell you is that, as I was thumbing through the thumbnails of dessert photos and whatnots, I discovered that most of the images I was clicking on were taken from the same food blog. Ezra Pound Cake. I clicked on over to the website, just kicking myself for not having thought up that name before this particular blogger did.

Ezra Pound Cake. It’s just plain brilliant. Rebecca Crump, the force behind the blog, describes the name as a “Wheel of Fortune-style Before & After phrase, like Toby Keith Urban or Whitney Houston Texas.” It spells out her own “before” and “after” as a writer-turned-baker. And, man, can she do both.

Filled with a recipes culled from her favorite websites and cook books, Crump tackles them with charm, wit, and a healthy dose of pop culture references. She is a blogger after my own heart, except with better photography, baking, and naming skills.

Ezra Pound Cake isn’t budging from my blogroll.

Eat Me Daily

Meat Bingo. Photo by Mike Zortman

I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Eat Me Daily is a fascinating group blog that started doing its thing in October 2008. Almost pointless to describe, this website is primarily devoted to food-related media: visual arts, television programming and commercials, cookbooks, print ads, and news-related items.

From Martha Stewart to meat bingo to frog blancmange, this site really has it going on. It is, however, not for the squeamish or, as they put it “your mom (unless your mom is awesome).”

Meet me there for a daily dose of odd.

Crab Rangoon: Something from Something Else.

Last week, I accepted a dinner invitation from an ex-boyfriend to dine with two old, out-of-town friends at Bar Crudo. It would seem that I can be lured nearly anywhere by the promise of raw shellfish and wine.

It was an oddly comfortable dinner. There was none of the awkwardness that typically accompanies former couples who find themselves momentarily placed in the situation of acting as partners again, even though the partnering has been limited to the dinner table. Dining– especially from shared dishes– is an activity that is unmistakeably intimate. I decided to not focus on the obvious questions like why on earth would he invite me to dinner to meet two of his oldest friends or why I had even accepted the invitation. Rather, I decided to focus on his friends and the platters of seafood that had been so carefully placed in front of us.

His friends were smart, charming, and enthusiastic. Dismay was expressed by his friend Lindsay over the prospect of eating raw oysters– an activity in which she had never before engaged, but was willing to give them a chance, nevertheless. I ordered the smallest, sweetest ones on the menu, to make the exercise as easy as possible. She gave them a go, declared them good, and then immediately turned her attention to the one half of a Dungeness Crab carcass lying lifeless on the pile of ice that both separated and united us.

When she saw crab on the menu, her eyes went wide behind her glasses. When our waitress explained that there was only one half of a crab left in the restaurant, her eyes got even wider, as a mild panic set in. “We want that crab.” There was no raised voice or exclamation point to end those four words, but the sense of urgency with which they were imparted caused our server to move more quickly than we were to see her do for the rest of the evening.

“You don’t understand,” she told me, “We live in Texas now. You can’t get fresh crab in Texas.” Enough said. I decided not to wonder aloud if the crab was actually local.

I sat there staring at the cold, dead crab for a minute, remembering the two pounds of crab meat that lay ignored and shivering in my freezer between the ice cream and bottle of Limoncello that had been equally forgotten. I looked back at Lindsay, who was so delighted by the sight of just a fraction of what I had taken for granted at home. I felt instantly shamed, and said as much when I offered her my share of the crab. It wasn’t so much generosity as it was penance.

When I got home, I opened my freezer door to pay my respects to the crab meat. I waved at it briefly and offered it my apologies. Why had I been avoiding it? Why had I put two pounds of crab meat out of my head?

And then I understood. My expectations had been too high. When the crabs fell into my lap unexpectedly, I was excited, full of high hopes and grand plans. I wanted them to be shared in any number of fun ways with people I cared about, since one should never eat crab alone.

My crab-eating reality, however, was different from my crab-eating fantasies. I was sick with a stomach virus and working a lot. Circumstances had stacked themselves between myself and the crab. What was once alive and fresh and full of possibility wound up wrapped and thrown into a dark place to freeze over. Like so many other things.

And then, of course, I thought of the man who invited me to dinner. Our relationship was rather like the crab in my freezer– something once regarded as a source of grand plans, the sweet meat of it hard to get at through the tough shell, but thoroughly worth the effort. A seasonal item with a very short shelf life. I’d wrapped that up tight and thrown into a dark, cold place where I didn’t have to look at it along with the damned crab.

Well, I’ve taken the crab meat out of the freezer. It may no longer be fresh but it’s still there and my feeling is that what is left should be put to good use– it’s just too precious a thing to let go to waste. Something good can and should be made of it.

It does, however, take a long time for something that cold to thaw.

Crab Rangoon

I’m not quite certain why I chose to make this dish. I could have made something fresher, someting that showed off the crab a little more. I suppose I just wanted to try something a little different this time around. And it suits me. It suits me just fine.

Crab Rangoon is dish whose origins and ingredients are as fanciful as its name. I very much doubt the current military government of Myanmar (formerly catalogued as Burma by English Colonials) would ever allow such a recipe into the country. Unless, perhaps, they changed its name to Crab Yangon, tortured it a bit (it is, of course, boiled in oil), and then slapped a uniform on it after it had been sufficiently “retrained”.

Nope, Crab Rangoon is a uniquely American concoction– one that takes a little bit of this culture (wontons are Chinese), and a little bit of that one (A-1 Steak Sauce is English, cream cheese is a Northern European invention) and serves it up in a way that is universally acceptable (fried). Hopefully, none but the truly naive are fooled by the name.

There are two schools of thought relating to the genesis of Crab Rangoon. The first tells of its debut at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904– a year the city has never since exceeded in terms of global attention or charm. The claim is dubious– more so than the other “firsts” of the Fair, like cotton candy, peanut butter, or the hamburger. I’m willing to give them Dr. Pepper and the ice cream cone, at most.

The second, most likely story is that the dish was created in Oakland, at the original Trader Vic’s. According to their website, “Trader Vic employed what was becoming the ever-present hallmark of all his food and beverage recipes: a light touch, meant to enhance but never disguise nor overpower the fine original taste of his main ingredients.”

Given that this is a fried dish with cream cheese and, according to the original Trader Vic’s recipe, A-1 Steak Sauce and garlic salt, that’s about as colorful as one of the one-legged Vic’s legendary tall tales.

Fortunately, the dish is much easier to swallow than his stories.

This is an adapted, non-traditional recipe. I figured if Vic could come up with a “Polynesian recipe” and name it for a city nowhere near Polynesia, I could take a few liberties, too.

Makes about 30 pieces.

Ingredients:

1/2 pound fresh crab meat, preferably, but canned crab meat may certainly be substituted.

1/3 pound cream cheese at room temperature

4 tablespoons of finely chopped red onion, more or less according to your own tastes

1/2 teaspoon finely chopped garlic

1/4 teaspoon of salt

1 tablespoon or more of chopped cilantro

a few dashes of Worcestershire Sauce

as many wonton wrappers as you can fill

1 egg yolk, well beaten with a teaspoon of water

vegetable oil, for frying

Preparation:

1. Combine crab meat with cream cheese, onion, garlic, salt, Worcestershire sauce, and cilantro. I find mixing the ingredients with clean hands to be immensely satisfying. Refrigerate if not using immediately.

2. Heat at frying oil to 375 F. Give yourself some room– do not stint on pot size and make sure the oil is at least three inches deep. Pre-heat oven to 200 F and line a baking sheet with paper towels for future oil drainage.

3. Working four wonton wrappers at a time, lightly moisten (sigh) the edges of the wrappers with egg yolk. Place a heaping teaspoonful of crab mixture in the center of each. To shape into blossoms, seal each corner together and gather in the middle like so:

If a little bit of crab peaks out from the top, as illustrated above, don’t worry– they won’t come apart. Pinch and twist the corners, making certain that you are making flowers and not swastikas. This is important.

4. Fry the wontons. You may do this in batches if you like or one at a time, since the frying time is fairly quick– about 45 seconds, depending upon the true heat of the oil. The dual goal is to get the wrappers to a crisp, bubbly brown and to heat the filling through. The filling does not need to be horrendously molten. Place each wonton on the towel-lined baking sheet to drain. When frying has been completed, place your newly-born Crab Rangoon into the oven to keep warm.

Best served immediately. And not piping hot, unless you actually are trying to give your guests mouth burns.

Serve with Chinese mustard, Red Pepper sauce like Sriracha, or fish sauce. Whatever you like. It’s your Crab Rangoon, make it work for you.

Hamantaschen: Over my head

Happy (post-) Purim. I should have written this post last week but, frankly, I forgot all about Purim this year. I’m not good with dates. And I’m not a Jew, though I have been told many times by Jewish friends that I am, in fact, Jew-ish.

And that makes me exceptionally happy.

Now, I bet you are wondering, “Why the photo of the lady with the enormous décolletage and the even more enormous hat? What on earth does it have to do with Purim or those delicious, Purim-related delicacies, Hamantaschen?”

Please let me explain.

Nine years ago this month, I had never even heard of Purim until a received a phone call from my friend Tricia.

“Are you free tonight?” she asked. “Want to go to a Purim party?”

I said yes, of course. And then I asked, “What the hell is a Purim party?”

She admitted that she really had no idea. As a Mexican-Scottish agnostic, she wasn’t exactly up on Jewish religious tradition. Her fiancé was, however, in his second year of Rabbinical school and she was boning up on her holidays. She told me that, unlike Yom Kippur, this was one of the fun holidays, where people dressed up, ate, drank, and made a lot of noise. Being rather good at all of the above, I became rather excited about it– especially when she told me we needed to go in costume.

I had approximately six hours to come up with costumes for the two of us to attend a party at a temple in which I’d never been, celebrating a holiday I never knew existed. I did a little research, called her back and said, “Just show up here at six in a black turtleneck.”

For those of you who still don’t know what Purim is about, let me explain as briefly as possible.

Purim, for Dummies

Purim is a rather joyous holiday– one celebrating the Jews’ deliverance from extermination by the King of Persia’s evil advisor, Haman. Haman despised the Jews because of their otherness– they refused to bow to him, the king, or anyone but their own God.

Fortunately, the king’s favorite wife, Esther (who was the adopted daughter of Mordecai, a man who once saved the the king by revealing a plot against his life) was a Jew, though closeted at the request of her father. When Esther learned of Haman’s plans to exterminate her people, she revealed herself as a Jew and argued that, should Haman have his way, both she (his favorite wife) and Mordecai (his savior) would be murdered as a result. Tables were turned, Haman was himself killed, and the Jews were allowed to exact reprisals upon Haman’s people– essentially freeing themselves from their famous Babylonian Captivity.

It’s amazing how freeing coming out of the closet can be, whatever one’s secret. In this case, quite literally.

Oh, It Needs a Hat

I was at a loss as to what to wear to the party. How many Esthers, Mordecais, and Hamans would show up? I imagined people with a poor grasp on historical costuming showing up in togas or basic burlap. Thanks to a little time and Googling, I came across several recipes for Purim cookies, or Hamantaschen, which are supposed to represent Haman’s hat or, as some would argue, ears.

As a literal-minded man who loves to put things on his head, I found the notion of making a hat-inspired cookie into a cookie-inspired hat rather delicious. I spent the rest of the afternoon making giant Hamantaschen headwear.

Dressed as The Hamantaschen Twins, Tricia and I were a hit at Temple Sha’ar Zahav. After the noise-making and game show-themed events, the evening culminated in costume judging. We came in second place, much to our delight, beating out the less-inspiring costumes and, inexplicably, a woman wearing a giant vagina suit. I have since blotted from my memory the costume which stole our thunder.

We celebrated by strolling into the Castro wearing our hats. Most of the people on the street looked at us with utter confusion. A few people, however, smiled and gave us the thumbs up sign. “Jews,” we thought, “They dig us.”

We settled into a bar table at Harvey’s, where I drank my first, second, third, fourth, and last ever Lemon Drop. Why? Because we were wearing big hats, that’s why. We chatted up a table of gay softball players next to us. I was rather (unsuccessfully) fixated on one fellow there celebrating his birthday. Tricia was occupied by another, more interesting gentleman. When a drag queen handed us pencils and stapled sheets of copy paper, we realized it was trivia night, so we in our giant hats joined tables and forces with the jocks.

And, this time, there was no second place for us– we won, even though none of us could name more than one porn star out of the many represented on our test papers. Fortunately, we were good at geography and disco hits of the 1970’s.

I went home that evening rather high from all the contest-winning and Lemon Drops, but I came away with much more than that– I met one of the best friends I’ve ever had that night chatting and playing trivia games, all the while savoring the time I was able to share with one of my oldest friends– a girl who, at 13, I asked to go to Europe with me as gravely as any other shy boy might ask another girl to go to the prom.

And all thanks to our giant, conversation-starting Hamantaschen hats.

The hat was somewhat worse for wear by the time I gave it to my next door neighbor– a Jew who loved playing dress up more than any straight man I’ve ever met. God only knows whatever became of it. Or him. Fortunately, the friendships are still around, however tattered and frayed by life and stress and distance they may have become at times. They are sometimes shelved, but they are always there. A little more glue or glitter or TLC, and they are as good as new– more durable than any styrofoam, brown paper, and satin that a hot glue gun could ever put together. I’d be a fool to give those two away like I did that damned hat. I don’t care how many cookies you offered me.

Hamantaschen

In German, the word tasche means pocket, which is essentially what these cookies are all about– there is a pocket made for jams or other pastes like those made of poppy seeds or prunes (lekvar). How they are meant to represent a hat worn by Haman, I have no idea. Three cornered hats were favored by European gentlemen of the 18th Century C.E., not Central Asian ones in the 6th Century B.C.E.. The European Jews of the 18th Century may not have had much of a knack for historically-appropriate head gear, but they did come up with a rather delicious cookie.

While trawling for recipes, I landed on the one that sounded the most delicious (to me)– that of a certain, very, very popular food blogger who shall not be cited here. There was something about her non-traditional use of both butter and (especially) cream cheese in the dough that told me these were the ones to bake.

They didn’t turn out so well.

While they were as delicious and tender as I suspected they would be, I followed the recipe too blindly as I am wont to do whenever I bake anything new. I should have read all the comments attatched to the post before my baking venture to get a little more insight. For example, the dough should have been rolled more thinly, too much jam (even for this jam lover) in the center, the oven temperature was not high enough, and the baking time, which was suggested at 20 minutes, was more like 30. Oh, lots of problems, but that is another blog topic altogether Sadly, the walls of these little Jerichos came tumbling down with the weight of all that bubbling confiture. Some of them looked remarkably like gaping wounds. But, like I said, they tasted rather good.

Of course, it could have been my own, simple lameness. But I very much doubt it.

I should have stayed with Mark Bittman.

Moist Towelettes: Dampen Your Spirits

I have a problem with the word “moist.” Anyone who knows me well understands that.

For me, it’s right up there with the words “classy” and “slacks.” Upon admission to another person of my distaste for these words, the three are invariably strung together in a sentence, as in “Did you get of load of the moist, classy slacks on her?” It never fails. In fact, I expect it. Still, the mental images these sentences produce are just too jarring.

So perhaps it was in the spirit of irritating me that my friend Lyle, who has made several blog topic suggestions, ask that I write about moist towelettes. He is mildly fascinated by them.

“Well, why not?” I thought. It seemed like a good time to take on this personal difficulty of mine and tackle the towelette, however moist.

And then I promptly forgot about it.

One day about two weeks ago, I received a small envelope in the mail. No return address. I could feel a small, square packet underneath the outer paper. It had the telltale squishiness of an individually-packaged prophylactic. “Who the hell just sent me a condom?” It was near Valentine’s Day, after all. I thought it was either a gesture of bonne chance or a creepy offer from some as-yet-unknown admirer.

But no, it was just a moist towelette from Lyle. A simple reminder, not an offer of safe sex. So, Lyle, this one’s for you, though I warn you it’s more about the moist and less about the towelette.

Take a look at the adjective “moist” for a moment. According to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, the word is derived from the Middle English moiste, from Anglo-French, perhaps from Vulgar Latin *muscidus, alteration of Latin mucidus slimy, from mucus nasal mucus.

It is currently defined as:
1. Slightly or moderately wet.
2. Tearful.
3. Characterized by high humidity.

Not a very promising start. In baking or cooking, moistness is typically a quality to which we aspire– it is the general goal of most cakes and chicken breasts, for example, to be moist. If they are not, the more sensitive cook will himself become moist around the eyes, as in the second definition of the word.

I have often attempted to avoid the word “moist” altogether, with tremendous awkwardness. To compliment a dinner hostess on her cake by saying, “That was a wonderful carrot cake, Mrs. Baker. It was so wonderfully not dry.” implies that this is something out of the norm, in terms of her baking skills. Saying that you are delighted to find the cake delightfully undessicated would fare no better. Instead, I have learned to say, “It’s really good.”

The word’s synonyms are far less attractive. To hail someone’s roast chicken as damp, dank, aqueous, steamy, clammy, humid, vaporous, dripping, boggy, or swampy would fare you no better in the diplomacy department than trying to use its antonyms.

Sadly, “moist” is the least offensive word choice available. And, don’t worry, I won’t look into the word “towelette.” Not on this blog, anyhow.

The Moist Towelette

There is so much to say on the topic of hand washing, both before and after meals, as a social ritual or an obsession with hygiene, that I will merely direct you to someone who can tell you about all the various customs and taboos related to the subject. If you haven’t read Margaret Visser’s The Rituals of Dinner yet, I will hound you until you do.

There is precious little for me to say on the actual topic of moist towelettes. My phone call to the Kleenex Hotline yielded nothing. As to where and when they originated, I can tell you nothing.

They can be found in numerous places: fried chicken eating establishments, rib joints, automotive centers, casinos, airplanes, possibly even the Lusty Lady Theatre. Moist towelettes are nearly always offered to customers free of charge, often with a company’s logo and business information printed on the package. They are, in a real sense, viewed as sanitizing business cards.

There are numerous aliases for the Moist Towelette: sanitary handwipes, wet wipes, wet naps, moist wipes, fresh wipes, etc. They are, by and large, the same thing. On wandering the aisles of a Walgreen’s recently, I discovered with little surprise that they are very similar in make up to Baby Wipes, Feminine Wipes, and Toilet Wipes. Just add a little baby powder, springtime, or pine-fresh scent, slap on a different label, and you’ve got yourself a brand new product. It’s just genius.

If there is more you’d like to know, good luck. However, if you’d like to make contact with a few people who are obsessed with moist towelettes, or would simply enjoy playing a quiet game of moist towelette Concentration, please visit ModernMoistTowelette.com

Homemade Moist Towelettes

I know it sounds rather odd– even a complete waste of time– but you can, in fact, make your own. And without Polysorbate 20, Methylisothiazolinone, or Sodium Lauryl Glucose Carboxylate. They are gloriously, mindlessly easy.

Imagine your home made moist towelettes at your next outdoor or utensil-free eating event. At first, your guests will wonder what the hell you are offering them. If you have no problem at all with the word “moist”, your explanation will be a simple one. If you’re anything like me, you can just say, “They’re for wiping your hands.” People will thrill at your ingeniousness. And your thoughtfulness.

You can be just as clever as the folks at Kleenex or Proctor and Gamble, changing the scent of your wipes to suit your needs. Having a Moroccan Feast? Scent your wipes with almond oil. Persian? How about a bit of rosewater? Barbecue? Who cares? Just soak the towels in warm beer for all I care. The point is that the possibilities are endless.

Ingredients

1 cup Witch Hazel
1 tsp Glycerin
20 squares of good quality paper towels.
Fragrance of your choice (as much as you dare)

Preparation

Fold paper towels into non-threateningly-sized squares. Combine witch hazel, glycerin, and fragrance in a small container with a lid. Like one of those free cruets that would come with your packages of Good Seasons Zesty Italian dressing mix. Shake well, and pour over paper towels. Let towels stand for a few minutes to absorb the liquid.

Serve with a set of grilling tongs at arm’s length because, you know, they’re moist.