Pain

Pain is, of course, French for bread. When applying an English reading of the word, it describes the condition of my very soul when faced with the prospect of baking it.

For some people, bread making is a passion. There exist people in this world for whom the process is relaxing, even meditative.

Not for me. I become anxiety-ridden at the thought of baking it. It's too basic, too fundamentally a part of our everyday existence. Bread, in one form or another, has supported human life in most cultures for several millenia. What if I, a classically-trained cook, screwed it up?

Frankly, I doubt many people would care. I might get a "Jesus, don't take yourself so seriously." comment which, of course, brings to mind one of His more popular sound bytes:

"I am the bread of life
he that cometh to me shall never hunger." (John 6:35)

Oh. Would Jesus find disappointment in a baker who won't bake Him? The pressure weighs upon me like a ton of unleavened loaves. That is a Mosaic reference, sorry. I currently can do no better-- it's too early in the morning.

In all seriousness, I understand that this is a totally irrational fear, but a real one, like the one I have about driving a car with manual transmission. I could write volumes about my relationship to bread-- my love of consuming it, my loathing of its production. I will keep this brief and spare you the rest.

I have decided to conquer this culinary fear today. I have decided to make white bread or, as the recipe calls it, American Sandwich Bread. Here goes...

Master Recipe for American Sandwich Bread

This recipe was taken from The Best Recipe by the good people at Cook's Illustrated.

Ingredients:

3 1/2 cups bread flour, plus extra for work surface
2 teaspoons salt
1 cup warm milk (110 degrees)
1/3 cup warm water (110 degrees)
2 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons honey
1 package (about 2 1/4 teaspoons) rapid-rise yeast

Instructions:

1. Adjust oven rack to low position and heat oven to 200 degrees. Once oven temperature reaches 200 degrees, maintain heat for 10 minutes, then turn off oven heat.
2. Mix flour and salt in bowl of standing mixer fitted with dough hook. Mix milk, water, honey, and yeast in 1-quart Pyrex liquid measuring cup. Turn machine to low and slowly add liquid. When dough comes together, increase speed to medium and mix until dough is smooth and satiny, stopping machine two or three times to scrap dough from hook if necessary, about 10 minutes. Turn dough onto lightly floured work surface; knead to form smooth, roundd ball, about 15 seconds.
3. Place dough in very lightly oiled container or bowl, rubbing dough around bowl to lightly coat. Cover with plastic wrap; place in warm oven until dough doubles in size, 40 to 50 minutes.
4. Gently press dough into rectangle 1 inch thick and no longer than 9 inches. With a long side facing you, roll dough firmly into cylinder, pressing with your fingers to make sure dough sticks to itself. Turn dough seam side up and pinch it closed. Place dough in greased 9 x 5 x 3-inch loaf pan and press it gently so it touches all for sides of pan.
5. Cover with plastic wrap; set aside in warm spot until dough almost doubles in size, 20 to 30 mintues. Heat oven to 350 degrees and place an empty loaf pan on bottom rack. Bring 2 cups water to boil.
6. Remove plastic wrap from filled loaf pan and place in oven [ I assumed the authors meant for us to place the filled loaf pan in the oven, not the plastic wrap]. Immediately, pour heated water into empty loaf pan; close oven door. Bake until instant-read thermometer inserted at angle from short end just above pan rim into center of loaf reads 195 degrees, about 40 to 50 minutes. Remove bread from pan, transfer to a wire rack, and cool to room temperature. Slice and serve.

I did it. I made it. I made it and no one was killed or shamed in the process.

The bread turned out rather well for a first effort, I think. Except for the top. I didn't pinch the top of the loaf properly (don't snigger). The result-- and not an entirely unpleasant one at that-- was that, when sliced, the bread took on a shape that looked vaguely like Wisconsin. I toasted it and ate it with great lashings of butter and blackberry preserves. Sorry Thrasso, no marmalade in the house.



I admit to feeling a bit silly about avoiding this for so long. And relieved. What the hell was I so afraid of? I suppose my big question of the day is this:

Is there anyone else out there with performance anxiety (culinarily speaking, of course)?

Baking bread, I have discovered, is like having sex or speaking Spanish. You hear about it. You might watch people doing it late one night on cable television. You discover that there are even classes and workshops to help. You buy the instruction manuals and practice, quietly, when no one else can see you. The important thing is to try. And to practice-- whether alone or with a friend. I know for a fact that sex and Spanish are more practically done with someone else present. It is up to you to decide if that is the correct approach for you in terms of bread baking.

And try I did. I count that as one more thing to cross off my what-are-you-waiting? list of things to do, one more bogey man slain. I'm still not so sure about driving a stick shift, especially in San Francisco.

To learn more about bread, go here.

To get some hands on experiences, go here.

My (insert adjective of your choice here) Clementine

I wandered into the Whole Foods Market on California and Franklin the other day where I was greeted by giant stacks of citrus. The clementines caught my eye, which was quite easily done due to the sheer volume of the little fruits-- boxes upon boxes of them.

I love tangerines, so I grabbed a box. Ideas kept popping into my head as to how I would use them. Sliced up and drizzled with olive oil, tossed with salt and toasted walnuts, made into pudding, squeezed for juice in the morning and, of course, eaten right out of my hand. Vinaigrettes, granitas, dipped in chocolate and crushed salty cashews. I planned on being one busy fellow in the kitchen.

When I got them home, I grabbed one out of the box, peeled off the skin and popped a segment into my mouth. I turned my back to the other surviving clementines, not wanting them to witness the disappointment that had immediately registered on my face. What I had just eaten tasted flabby and rather anemic. Then I remembered something fairly significant in terms of citrus purchasing:

Wasn't there a terrible cold snap a couple of weeks ago?

I went online to look up the what happened to the California citrus harvest this year. Nearly three-quarters of our state's citrus crops were destroyed when temperatures dipped into the 20's about two weeks ago. This year has not been good to citrus farmers. I was, however, glad that I had paid my $7.99 as some sort of support. I then realized that I had given Whole Foods Market my money and wondered how much of that actually went to the farmers. Whatever the answer, I thought I should go and make the best of my clementines.

I grabbed another clementine. It felt heavy in my hand for its size, as all good citrus should. It was sweet and juicy and unyielding. The first fruit I peeled must have been an anomaly. I decided to go ahead with my first recipe.



There is a buttermilk pudding cake I love to make once or twice a year when meyer lemons are good. I thought I might see how one made with clementines would turn out. There is a very good reason the recipe calls for lemons-- they are, by nature, tart and high in acid-- things critical to the success of the recipe. Clementines, on the other hand, are very sweet and low in acidity-- something I chose to ignore when preparing the dessert. I was so intoxicated by the smell of fruit's rind, which I kept scratching with my fingernail, that I thought enough zest would somehow make the alteration in the recipe work. Sadly, I was wrong. Sadly? Not really. I learned something about why certain foods work in specific situations and why others do not. It wasn't a total wash out. Besides, it at least looked good. Remind me to share the lemon recipe with you one of these days.

As I mentioned earlier, I love tangerines. I automatically assumed clementines were a type of tangerine. I was wrong again. While both are members of the Citrus reticulata species, the clementine owes its existence to the cross breeding of the sweet orange and Chinese mandarin and its name to the man who first accidentally bred them at an Algerian orphanage in 1902, Father Clément Rodier. Tangerines, if you hadn't guessed, got their name from the Moroccan port city of Tangiers-- the source of import for most of Europe's supply of the fruit. I suppose citrus growers should be grateful that Pere Clement had a catchy name, otherwise, they might today be growing algerines. Not quite the same market appeal as "clementines", to be certain.

I went back to the market to buy a tangerine so I might taste it side-by-side with a clementine. The clementine tasted dull when compared to the sweet-tart flavor of the tangerine. Tangerines have sass. Clementines are blandyly sweet and tend shed their clothes too quickly-- maybe they type of fruit appropriate for a one night stand. Tangerines, at least, make me want to come back for more. The fate of the clementine-- at least its role in my life-- was sealed. A few lines of that song made so popular by Huckleberry Hound popped into my head:

How I missed her, How I missed her
How I missed my Clementine
Till I kissed her little sister
And forgot my Clementine.

I'm going back to tangerines. Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

Though not specific to clementines, this link is citrus-related and makes me rather happy. Please see the singing orange... thank you.

Fancy Food Show

I arrived at the Moscone Center yesterday morning at 7:30. I was, it seemed, the only person in the North Hall who wasn't either sitting quietly in a registration booth or scurrying about with boxes of food, portable gas burners or Chinese musical instruments. Cursing myself for unnecessarily missing an extra half hour of sleep, I approached the Press Registration Booth slowly, not wanting to look over-eager. I found this attitude a difficult one to strike since, being the only non-employee in the building, my mere presence there at that hour betrayed me. The woman at the press station smiled and, as if not to wake me or herself said gently, "Good morning. Why are you here so early?"

"Oh, I thought I'd just beat the crowd." Having said that I then realized that, unless one is a baker of bread or breakfast pastries, food professionals are not typically known for rising early and shining. I thought it best to say nothing more before my already-tenuous claim to a press badge was revoked. I left the building, got some coffee and returned, casually, at 8.01.

Crossing over into the South Hall, I managed to snag a second row seat to hear Eric Schlosser's Keynote speech: Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the American Meal. Before his arrival, an ex-nurse warmed up the audience-- at least, those of us lucky to have been within earshot of her-- by condemning those still practicing her former profession. I did my best to not get sucked into conversation with her, looking forward instead to being profoundly depressed by Mr. Schlosser's speech.



Upon arrival, Mr. Schlosser's first action was, in fact, to offer an advance apology for delivering such a depressing talk so early in the morning. In refernece to his best-selling book, he said it was not so much fast food that interested him as it was the nation itself.

"Food is the bedrock of society. It defines us as a nation."

"The selling, sourcing, marketing and production of food all have a great impact on the nation," he continued. McDonald's, his primary example, has not only dramatically changed the way America eats, but the way it farms and sources labor. The fast food industrial system is not reliant on the individual-- it seeks uniformity, conformity. "One taste worldwide" is the alarmingly appropriate slogan for McDonald's.

Schlosser continued by explaining the ways in which McDonald's markets itself. One example I found very grim. Noting that brand loyalty can be developed in human beings at as young as two years of age, McDonald's has targeted children in its advertising, assuring itself future generations of loyal customers. Schlosser claims that one in every three toys recieved by a child in this country comes from Mc Donalds. This information alone was not terribly disturbing, but the studies he cited linking the habitual eating of fast food to childhood obesity (one in three American children is considered at-risk), diabetes and heart disease killed my caffeine buzz.

"Can we market healthy brands to children?" He asked.

From here, Schlosser's talk took a more positive turn. He noted that the fast food culture that had its beginnings in mid-20th-Century southern California is gradually giving way to a more thoughtful way of eating that has its roots in the Bay Area. "People are starting to read labels." People are beginning to care again about what they put into their bodies.

In closing, he commended the Food Show attendees for there efforts at getting healthier, more natural foods out into the marketplace and hoped that, someday, "fancy food won't be considered fancy anymore."

My general sense of culinary doom for this country temporarily soothed, I made my way to the convention floor.

I thought I had prepared myself. Previous attendees offered advice like "Get a game plan" and "Just pace yourself." I now know that one can never be too prepared.

The show lasts three days for a reason- it's huge. Trying to take it all in over the course of one morning and afternoon like I did is like trying to take in all the sights of Western Europe over one holiday weekend. By 3 o'clock, both my belly and my brain were full. How much chocolate, cheese and hot sauce can a one take? I cannot recount everything I saw there, we'd all be in tears, though yours would most likely be shed due to boredom. Instead, I will limit myself to sharing a few highlights-- and low.

I thought a bit of hot chocolate might be a good way to start the day, though the initial sight of what I thought was a booth caught on fire made me want to start for the exit before I'd barely gotten underway.



Over in the Australian foods section, I sampled hot sauces with a man from Redback Chili Products, whose Horrible Haggis's collection of chilli (their spelling) sauces caught my eye. The following label depicts dominatrix nuns whipping a bare Bill Clinton while a cigar smoking Monica Lewinsky looks on. Another sauce label in their collection suggests using their product for testicular massage. I admired their ballsy marketing.



One of the things I enjoyed most about the show was encountering food items I'd never heard of before. My hands-down favorite was the Carica from Chile. The fruit tastes similar to a mango, but with softer, almost pear-like notes. The syrup from the jar would be great for mixing cocktails (attn: Stephanie).



The Yumberry is, as I was told three times in the two minutes I visited the booth, not a lychee nut. The flavor of the juice was good, almost cranberry-like. I was just skeptical of its name. I suspected a Chinese-to-English "sounds-like-a-good-idea" marketing ploy. Being a techno-and- marketing-savvy fruit, it has its own website. You can read the "The Legendary of Yumberry" there at your leisure.



After spending enough time sampling detoxifying fruits and their juices, I came upon a stand that was offering precisely the opposite. I thought a cocktail might take some of the edge off the convention. It (they) didn't. I was disappointed to see mostly Cosmopolitans, the I-lack-any-sort-of-imagination-so-I'll-just order-what-everybody-else-is-ordering cocktail of yesteryear and it's new replacement for America's hopelessly sheep-like drinkers, the mojito. I sampled a bloody mary mix that was so unbelievably salty (and I love salt) that it sent me running back for more Yumberry juice. Remind me never to trust a company that doesn't care about spelling.



One of the last booths I visited was also one one my favorites. Fish-in-a-tube by Mills from Norway. The smoked salmon and mackerel were very tasty and, I would imagine, very good to have on hand. I took some samples and plan on putting one in my medicine cabinet.



My energy sapped, my brain and belly full, I resolved to leave. On my way to the exit, I ran into Pauline, a regular bar patron at my place of employment. In a lovely and much needed-by-me reversal of roles, she offered me a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. I thought this was most likely the best way to end my day at the 32nd Annual Fancy Food Show. We chatted for a few minutes until I had finished my wine, I thanked her and then left.

I praise my own ignorance for much of the enjoyment I experienced at the show. Apparently, photography is frowned upon. Surprisingly, only two people asked me not to take photos. I thought it was because their products were so horrible that they were possibly ashamed. Now I know better.

If taking photos is frowned upon, taking product samples is definitely taboo, which is why the FFS only offered conventioneers clear plastic bags. Though completely ignorant of that fact at the time, I am glad I put the bottle of ouzo that a lovely woman from Chios gave me in my messenger bag. Efkharisto for that.

Though, at the moment, I never want to see another bottle of olive oil or new, exciting tea beverage in my life, I understand what a great resource the Fancy Food Show is for everyone involved. The opportunity to sell one's product and make money is there to be certain. So is the chance to spot trends (like the exploding interest in teas), get inspired (though the pina colada flavored cheese straws need some work) and generally connect with the rest of the food world-- and I do mean world. I would happily go again, knowing now what to focus on (trends, ideas) and what to avoid (stop eating so much cheese).

The convention lasts until tomorrow, January 23. Perhaps by then the more seasoned veterans of the show will have exhausted themselves with all the eating and schmoozing and selling and buying. They will go back to their hotel rooms (or, if they are particularly good at schmoozing and selling, someone else's hotel room) sated, finished with the convention and San Francisco for another year. Or should I say two years? The 33rd Annual Winter Fancy Food Show will be hosted in San Diego.

The British Grocery

Last Friday my friend Lyle and I were driving around town, the French cheeses we had recently scored from work stinking up the car, wondering what the hell we were supposed to be doing with ourselves and generally unclear about where life was taking us . We were on our way to Rainbow Grocery when we took a wrong turn onto 15th Street from Potrero-- a dead end, if you are familiar with that particular part of town. We were looking for fresh fruit and organic liver drops, but what we found instead were McVitie's Hobnobs and clotted cream at The British Grocery. I decided it was God's Will that we should pay a visit, bad dead end metaphors be damned. It was one of the pleasanter wrong turns of my recent memory.



The British Grocery has served ex-pat Brits and Anglophiles alike in procuring some of their favourite (yes, I added a "u") foods from Great Britian since 1973. Marmalade, lemon squash, black pudding-- things I have seen the English ingest from spending entirely too much time watching Eastenders and other BBC programmes are available for the (paying for and) taking. Tea services, marmite, British candies, fruity HP sauce, Devon cream, crumpets, Curly Wurly bars, the occasional reminder of royal weddings gone awry. Some of you may already be familiar with the store. If so, you might understand my delight in finding it-- they have spotted dick, for God's sake. How can you not love a store that sells such things?



The business may have existed since just before Glenda Jackson won her second Oscar, but the actual store has only been open to the public since "around 2000", says owner Patrick Alexander. The bulk of their business is done through internet orders. Though many items appear to be available through their website, I would recommend visiting the store itself, because there are some things that just have to be seen. I'm still kicking myself for not purchasing a teapot which, to me, looked either to be Danny Bonaduce in a perambulator or, more likely, a baby with a severe case of rosacea. Whichever the artist's intention, the teapot is a steal at $14.99.



When paying a visit, make sure to ring the clearly labeled, correct doorbell for assistance. For more infromation, visit their website: Britshoppe.com or call them at (415) 552-4399.

Molasses in January

Molasses isn't necessarily slower in January than it is in December. Just ask any Bostonian over the age of 85.

Apart from a possible spike in interest after bizarre, molten tragedies, I doubt many people have taken the time to note the subtle variations in velocity of room temperature molasses from one month to the other.

I attribute the phrase "as slow as molasses in January" to the fact that the only activity in which it might passively engage after Christmas is its sad return to the back of the pantry cupboard. There it will remain, stuck in its own ooze next to the rosewater and gifted holiday chutneys until the need to make gingerbread men grabs hold of us once again. Or, gingerbread woman. I don't have a lady-shaped cutter, so I opt instead to make the occasional gingerbread k. d. lang, which I never have the heart to eat.

One of my easy-to-acheive New Year's resolutions this year is to utilize my most seldom-used pantry items. This week, it's molasses. Here's a way to rid yourself of another three tablespoons:



Molasses-glazed chicken:

There are several molasses-based glazes for pork products, but precious few for chicken. I like this recipe. I even added bacon to it to play be on the safe side. Of course, I add bacon to pretty much everything.

4 whole chicken legs (use whatever pieces you like, I just think that the legs are better-suited--
and cheaper-- than breasts)
1 large yellow onion, roughly sliced
3 strips thick-cut bacon, diced
3 tablespoons unsulphured molasses
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1 teaspoon allspice
2 scallions, green parts sliced for garnish
1 tablespoon cooking oil (I use olive oil)
salt

Coat chicken with salt, cover and refrigerate for one hour (This step can certainly be omitted, if you are sodium-conscious. Of course, you can brine the chicken, too. Your choice). Rinse chicken under cold water. Pat dry with paper towels.

In a small bowl, combine molasses, maple syrup, allspice and mustard until a smooth consistency appears.

In a cast iron skillet, cook bacon on a medium flame, rendering as much fat as possible. When crispy, remove bacon pieces to a paper towel-lined plate to drain. Ignore them for a while. Add oil to the skillet. When the fats are hot enough, add chicken and brown on both sides. When sufficiently browned, turn the pieces skin side towards heaven and brush the molasses glaze over them. Add in the onion. Put skillet and its contents into a 350 degree oven. Go do something else if you have to, but come back to the oven every few minutes to reglaze. Keep this up for about 45 minutes, or until you see what I am assuming to be the ankle socket of the chicken exposed. That, to me, says it's done.

Serve the chicken with caramelized apples. Or don't.

Caramelized Apples:

2 large apples (your choice, but I would chose a variety that stands up to cooking--Red
Delicious work well. I used Braeburn, which worked nicely, too.)
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons vegetable oil

Line a baking sheet or large platter with waxed paper. Mix sugar and spices in a medium-sized bowl. Toss half of the apple slices with the sugar mixture.

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add sugar-coated apples. Cook until the sugar caramelizes and the apples are cooked through, turning often. About 4 minutes. Transfer to waxed paper. Clean surface of skillet with paper towels. Add clean oil and repeat steps with the remainder of the apples.

Place apples and onions from the chicken pan on a large platter. Add the chicken. Sprinkle with chopped scallion and bacon bits. Do try to eat it hot.