Culinary Compulsion » Side Dish

the benefits of bacon guilt

Alona — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 21:34:21 +0000

This week’s wise words of advice: when offered bacon, never turn it down.

I mean it. I know, I have friends who are rolling their eyes as they read this whilst running on their treadmills. Yes, I actually know people who can roll, read, and run at the same time! I, for one, am not one of them. But back to the bacon…

The stuff is good. I’m not talking about turkey bacon: that impostor cardboard slice spayed silly with smoke flavor fails to recreate juicy, fatty, meaty reality. I am in no way trying to scoff the attributes of turkey here. It has many. Roasted turkey happens to be one of my family’s favorite meals, actually. Just don’t try and pass it off as a pig, for God’s sake!

Oh, and speaking of God. I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry. As a Jew, I struggle with the dietary laws that restrict certain things from my diet that are not kosher (like pig) and confess that I eat bacon.

Adore bacon.

Dream in bacon.

However, I’ve managed to work through my bacon guilt and try to maintain some control. I visit treadmills occasionally and compensate for my spiritual anemia by doing mitzvahs (good deeds) every day. I have to: my family sits around the dinner table each night to report on our positive contribution to this world. So you see, I gotta keep up on the spiritual goodness. It’s just when bacon comes in play I lose my north and become a puddle of weakness and readily indulge, replacing my healthy and theological consciousness for my culinary compass.

My kids are equally passionate about bacon when the topic arises. That’s just a polite way of saying they beg for it…ALL THE TIME. My twelve-year old proudly sports her “Bacon is a Vegetable” t-shirt in a passionate attempt to redefine the food groups. Even my self-proclaimed eight year-old vegetarian pleads for the addictive crispy flavor of bacon. (When questioned on ethics, he feigns ignorance as to its source of origin.)

If I try and implement the theory of moderation, they rebel and get creative as to when and where bacon can be enjoyed. They know how to get to my weak spot by becoming proactive in the kitchen, and, the two of them (normally aiming swords at each others jugulars) miraculously come together to get their bacon way. Here’s how it goes down:

The Girl (known to be manipulative and incredibly smart):

“Mom, we want to help you cook dinner tonight.” (Mom’s radar is beginning to activate, but, aw, mom is turning to mush here.)

The Boy (an irresistible charmer (have you seen the eyelashes?) and frightenly good liar):

“Yeah mom, you always do so much for us. We want to do something for you.”

I know what you are thinking right now: I am a sucker with this stuff. And I am so not a sucker normally. I am a hardcore, don’t mess around, no-B.S. type of gal. You want to barter down the best price on that jalabia in the Khan El Khalili Cairo souk? I’m your gal. Need to sweet talk your way into Sir Richard Branson’s exclusive Kasbah Tamadot in the Atlas Mountains? Then you’ve come to the right person. But pair food, the kitchen and my kids and I go soft, Brie-left-out-in-the-sun soft.

In minutes they put together a quick excuse to eat lard: creamy boiled fingerling potatoes, Normandy butter, shredded Wisconsin cheddar, Turkish black pyramid salt and crumbled bacon. It’s not brain surgery, but it is slathered with manipulation and plenty of worthwhile calories.

How, or why, could I say no to that? We sit down to dinner with their new creation, which they have decided to call Dajopo (Daniela Jonathan Potatoes) and commence reporting our mitzvah for the day: Dani shared her materials with a classmate that was ill prepared. Jonathan used his allowance to buy a newspaper that supports the homeless.

The treadmill waits patiently for me tomorrow and the rabbi would smile if he could hear us share the ways we helped someone else for that day. I want my mitzvah to be that I’ve created these two awesome children that are smart, assertive, caring and exceptional culinarians. After all, they make a mean bacon.

sweet potato tsimmes: a delicious addition to Sukkot

Alona — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 22:56:01 +0000

It’s a fun life being a foodie and a Jew. Granted, aside from Yom Kippur, when we fast and pray for atonement, every other holiday requires a ridiculous amount of food as an accompaniment. Sukkot, the holiday currently being celebrated, is no exception. During Sukkot (which falls five days after the oh so somber Yom Kippur and lasts for 8 days) it is traditional to eat foods that reflect the autumn harvest. For us Floridians autumn means the humidity is down to an 80% instead of 100% and temperatures dip into the high eighties, if we are lucky. But still, autumn.

Sukkot is downright a festival of the outdoors. Sukkah’s, or temporary huts, are built and decorated with all sorts of fruits and foliage. Not only do we celebrate the harvest, but we also commemorate the 40 years of exile that Jews spent after leaving Egypt: two for the price of one.

Pay close attention to my words here: festival, celebrate, commemorate. This is all Jew-speak for EAT, EAT, and EAT.

Seriously, folks, the idea behind this holiday is to gather yourselves together, preferably with a whole bunch of other hungry people, ideally under one big Sukkah overlooking the stars and stuff your faces with lots of amazing food. One big happy Jewish outdoor potluck.

There is a tendency for stuffed foods (peppers, cabbage), possibly reflecting the cornucopia being celebrated, possibly for convenience sake (easy to travel from Sukkah to Sukkah), regardless, it is quite traditional to serve vegetables this way. Tsimmes, which is Yiddish for ‘to make a big fuss over’ is a popular Ashkenazi Jewish casserole served. Ashkenazi Jews find their roots in Eastern Europe. The tsimmes is always sweet and usually a combination of fruit, vegetables, and/or meat cooked together for a long time over a low flame. Honey or brown sugar play a crucial role as sweeteners and carrots and raisins tend to be a favorite addition.

Although I am a Sephardic Jew (whose origins trace themselves to Spain and the Middle East), I enjoy hopping over to the Ashkenazi palate and dabbling in these holiday favorites. Since I don’t have memories of grandmother’s Tsimmes and my wonderful aunts (both stellar chefs) filled our holiday tables with such Sephardic specialties as Braised Chicken with Honey and Tomatoes, Rice with Curry and Raisins, and Moroccan Carrot Salad, I resorted to Joan Nathan, America’s most reliable culinary expert on Jewish Cooking, for my Sukkot tsimmes this year. Instead of the popular carrot taking center stage, this dish is made with mashed sweet potatoes, heightened with pineapple, and, as an ode to Thanksgiving (which is soon approaching) the whole dish is topped with marshmallows and baked.

When I made it for my synagogue, I figured, what dish can go wrong with marshmallows? And I was right. Kids were drawn to it because of its gooey delight, and adults where dazzled by its sweet yet slightly tart taste. Either way, I came out a winner, adding one more satisfying dish under a Sukkah bursting with culinary celebration.

poutine: how to find happiness with french fries, gravy and cheese curds

Alona — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 16:24:11 +0000

It’s a horrible thing to kill an addiction cold turkey. It’s even worse to have it killed for you. Ruthlessly. Thoughtlessly. Cruelly.

That is how I feel with summer’s official end. Sure, South Florida kids have all been in school long enough to adjust to the bleak reality of a structured schedule, and, as the parent of two of them, so too have I been confined to early morning wake-ups, rushes to bus stops, drop offs, pick ups, homework screaming, and early bedtimes whilst insuring all three hundred different activities and requirements have been filled. It’s no wonder I collapse in bed with them at 8:30!

Still, the TRUE end to my summer comes with the dreaded temporary close of The Dairy Belle, in Dania Beach. Home of The Best Soft Ice Cream, I have been a faithful addict throughout the hot summer months, making the twenty minute drive for an unforgettably smooth twist on a cone- the loveable tango of chocolate and vanilla embraced in a cool, creamy spiral that balances precariously on a crispy crunch.

There are many soft ice cream joints around, and definitely many closer, but this one is IT, a fact they themselves boast by announcing they use more cream than others in their mix.

There are other pluses that make this tiny shack with five picnic benches a winner. The owners are French Canadian and extremely jovial. They are five minutes from the beach. And the place is always crowded with French-speaking uber tan, relaxed people. That in itself is a vacation and an escape from the humdrum of American suburbia life.

And then, of course, there is the poutine.

Poutine is the French-Canadian way of taking fries up a notch. A big notch. A concoction of French fries, cheese curd and brown gravy, this snack will hook you in your first crunchy, creamy, salty bite.

Originally created in Quebec, the French-Canadians are serious about their Poutine. And Dairy Belle does not disappoint. Served in tiny or large tin foil squares, their fries come heaping with steam, fresh cheese curd, and a savory thick brown gravy.

Dairy Belle will be closed from September 7th – September 27th, so needless to say, I found myself there with my two kids on Monday, September 6th- a rarity because they are normally closed Mondays. But this was the exception: the big send-off, and Labor Day weekend. We sat at our usual green bench and ordered up a poutine and several cones of soft ice cream: as we licked and chewed the three of us grew quiet, enjoying the salty air from the beach nearby, the cool creaminess of the ice cream, and the steaming crunchy poutine. It was all my comforts wrapped into one: beach, dessert, and salty goodness. I looked at my two kids and smiled, one was coated in ice cream, the other in gravy, I, daresay, in both.

“It doesn’t get better than this, kids. It doesn’t get better than this!”

ginger kugel: becoming an american jew

admin — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 07:00:00 +0000

Today is Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement, where all Jews become somber and introspective, asking for forgiveness for any wrongs they may have done throughout the year, spilling the beans to God, for lack of a better word. All this has to be done without any distractions, which means, no food. Such a condition does not sit well with a foodie like me, as you can well imagine, and so, I breathe a sigh of relief to be a member of a very progressive, informal synagogue, the only one in my nieghborhood, I believe, where my son is warmly accepted wearing jeans and crocs to the service and the rabbi conveniently slips us an out to the food clause by ending his sermon with a “for all of you who are fasting, may it be an easy fast.” He knows enough to assume there is one or two or three of us who will be more distracted without food than with it.Religion did not play a big role in my upbringing. I’d venture to say it was quite non-existent. Amongst the rows and rows of churches and saints we were the token, odd Jewish family in an unquestioning Catholic South American country that seemed to have more churches and saints than homes. And we seemed just fine like that.My father would joke about his father (a man of iconic stature I’d grown up hearing stories about) who would most likely be turning in his grave at the sight of his son frying up Sunday’s bacon. And yet, he’d smile, fry on and offer up another story about Isaac Abbady’s critical role with the British government in Palestine, only to end the story with a plateful of the tastiest bacon (the secret, he claimed, was a low flame and lots of patience). If my grandfather was turning, I wouldn’t hear him over the crunch.Even still, my stamp of Jewish identity seemed an inherent right to me. Born to an Israeli father, my life was woven with colorful stories of abba (Hebrew for “father”) and his youthful adventures as a Boy Scout romping through the still-forming confusion of Palestine and then later, Israel. My father was a real sabra (a term I wore proudly as if my own) used to describe native-born Israelis. He’d come alive during his tales growing up in Israel, his hazel eyes lighting up with sparks of excitement that drew me into his world and kept me there. Every year my family and I would make our annual summer trip to Israel, where, aside from intrusive cheek pinching from overbearing musty relatives, our father would point out the landmarks of his many stories and even attempt to relive some with my sisters and I: the skidding snake trail of Masada, the small kiosk on a crowded Jerusalem street which served as a meeting point for skipping school, the overcrowded beaches in Tel-Aviv. Each had helped make my father who he was and in turn, each helped draw him closer to me.This was how my Jewish identity was formed and it attached itself easily to the kaleidoscope of my unconventional upbringing as a child raised in a Latin country by an Israeli man and a American (converted) woman, a life spent brushing shoulders with diplomat kids and army brats that came from any corner of the world you chose. It all seemed quite normal to me.When I started my own family in South Florida I realized I had missed a huge American Jewish cultural gap. Just as I couldn’t bond with college buddies reciting episodes of The Brady Bunch (I only caught snippets of it on our winter visits to the U.S.), I couldn’t navigate through the American Jew’s pronunciations of Sabbath, Yom Kippur, or Rosh Ha Shanna. There have been many other adjustments coming from a secular Israeli-international background to a South Florida Jewish one filled with moments where I feel I don’t quite fit in. But then again, it is a feeling I have carried with me one way or another my entire life and its strangeness is strangely familiar to me. My adaptation to the food customs has been a huge success as I eagerly embrace the American Jewish obsession with brisket, kugel, and tzimmes: delicious prerequisites for being a good American Jew. The pronunciations and prayers may take some time to figure out, but again, I am grateful for my unassuming, progressive rabbi as well as the unbridled excitement and enthusiasm of my kids. This is their reality, this is their Judaism, and I am quietly, gratefully and hungrily along for the ride.

the crimson mistress

admin — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 07:00:00 +0000

I had all the intentions for a well-balanced meal. I had bought my veal scaloppini for an, albeit, politically incorrect entree, but after an instant sauté carefully paired with fresh lemon sauce, white wine, and plump capers even this milk-fed tender cow would understand why I had to do it. To go with my meat I had lugged out my super-sized industrial rice maker, whose wide and shiny chrome exterior parallels that of a small car. It came from the top shelf of my garage, buried amongst the cemetery of culinary items I thought I couldn’t live without (but turns out I can). Underneath these gadgets is another shelf filled with a rainbow of toxic paints from nine years’ worth of wall history in our house. This is the shelf my husband swears he can’t live without (‘what if we need to touch up the kids’ bedroom from three themes ago?’) but turns out he can. So, getting to this rice maker takes some drive, but damn it, I wanted this meal to be perfect and that chromed beauty does wonders with my Basmati rice, a 20 lbs. sack I lugged home in a moment of weakness from Costco during one of my hording phases. The scratchy sack proudly proclaims these millions of grains (at a steal at $9.99) are “watered by the snow-fed rivers of these mysterious mountains” and with the Oster Multi-Use Deluxe I swear I really can taste the Himalayan rainwater.Plump green beans beckoned to serve as the vegetable side dish for this event. Rinsed and cut into perfect 1 1/2 inch pieces, they waited to be simmered in olive oil with some slivered garlic, onions and coarse sea salt only then to be topped with thick slices of Florida tomatoes that I had gently ripened on my window sill.The meal was a simple one, nothing in the realm of sophistication, but well designed and satisfying, where each dish got along with the other like a happy family. And then there were the beets. Just the way their lush, dark green stems peeked out of the Whole Foods bag was a tease. Immediately, I became distracted. I knew I should most likely close the fridge and continue with the safe preparations of my pre-planned meal, but I couldn’t. I pulled the bag out of the fridge and removed them from it, exposing 5 dark purple curvy bulbs dusted in fresh dirt. Even their primal presentation was exciting as it served a refreshing change from the pre-packaged, sanitized, smell-less food options we have grown accustomed to today. This here was real, fresh food that I could smell and whose mere handling left my fingers dirty.I had been looking forward to my meal of veal, rice and green beans but now all I could think about where these wild, lonely beets. I wondered what to do with them, what role they would play in the evening’s culinary production. Somehow, they had to be included. Would I throw them into my green bean dish for a final crimson touch? Perhaps grate them raw in a leafy green salad? Mixing them with the others seemed an injustice somehow. I didn’t want them to meet, didn’t want the flavors to match up. I knew they would get along (beets are wonderful additions to so many dishes) but tonight, these beets felt special, they felt mine, and I wanted to enjoy them for who they are and not try and incorporate them into someone else’s flavor.My eyes filled with momentary guilt as I glanced at my happy family of veal, rice and green beans waiting to be prepared. They seemed to smile in their bags and packages, promising that after a quick and painless preparation, I would be entitled to a very predictably delicious meal. I knew this. I wanted to do this, but the dirt from the beet had already slipped under my fingernails and I could feel its grittiness pulling me in. I had to rinse these first and give them center stage. Afterwards, I would turn back to the others. I decided to roast my precious beets. This would guarantee their flavor not be tarnished or altered but rather enhanced and celebrated. It was all about them tonight I thought to myself as I carefully wrapped each one in tin foil. I didn’t know what I would do with them after I roasted them. We were dancing this tango one step at a time, my beets and I. All I knew is that I needed to pop them in this 400F oven and wait for magic to begin to happen and just the thought of that made me so inpatient and eager, I didn’t think I’d be able to wait.Sweet, warm, nourishing scents of earth filled the room thirty minutes later. It assaulted my senses and captured my heart and I found myself dumbfounded by its strength just standing in front of my oven waiting in a confused stupor. I yearned to taste this smell. My mind could only think of one thing and that was that I had to have these beets, N-O-W. Under that spell of roasted rubies I would be eating this source of earth, this root of life, right here, right now, and I would experience pleasure in a way I’d never before. This crimson mistress had fogged my mind and senses.I shook my head in disbelief at my epiphany. I wanted to justify my husband being out of town so long with my crazed infatuation with, yes, beets. I mean, on paper it sounds pretty absurd and unbelievable. But standing in front of that oven that was holding those tiny foiled packets of glory, first-hand I can tell you it’s not crazy. It’s the beets. Trust me.Barely in time to put some oven mitts on, I pulled the baked culprits out and tore their foiled wardrobe off them, exposing their dark, blushed skin. I envisioned offering them at least a fancy home to sit centerpiece: perhaps some freshly snipped arugula with its sharp, peppery bite offering a cool contrast to the beet’s mellow sweetness. I’d bathe them lightly with some roasted pumpkin seeds for that final crunch. Thick stalks of heart of palms beckoned as another alternative. I’d slice these into broad 2″ rings and pair them with quartered hard-boiled eggs, fresh dill, and lime honey vinaigrette.But in the end, I tossed all my ideas of grandeur out the window and enjoyed them in the most instant and passionate way a lover would: standing over my stove, beets barely peeled and quartered, I ate them straight up, only stopping on occasion to dip them in a Dijon vinaigrette I happened to have on hand.It was a delectable experience: one I had no control over, but rather allowed to control me. I closed my eyes and ate and ate and ate. ‘Keep some for later’, I said to myself. ‘Keep some for one of those salads’, I begged. ‘Stop this and fix your veal’. But I couldn’t listen to myself then. I knew it was a lost cause. I hoped the veal would understand and would forgive me. I knew I had had all the right intentions, but in the end, all the right intentions led me straight to a delicious dinner of roasted beets, where the only remnants of the affair was the smile on my face and my crimson-tainted fingertips.

stepping out of the mold

admin — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 07:00:00 +0000

There’s always at least one die-hard fan in the family, one person that will beg, insist, whine and demand that I must accompany my Thanksgiving meal with this item. After all, when it comes to Thanksgiving, I am a traditionalist, and this item is as traditional as it comes for them. And so, ever the compliant hostess with an unrelenting desire to please, I bite my tongue, force a grin, pull out the can opener and begin. As I work my way around the can’s edge, I remind myself to remain calm, begging for my mother’s proper Philadelphia genes to come through and handle this situation with dignity and grace, as those who knew her knew she would do. Alas, my Mediterranean spirit (point for dad) overrides any potential restraint and as my rusty can opener makes its final round, I can’t help but curse this poor soul who is lost in a world of habit and ignorance, swearing that the cranberry’s true form lies in such processed disaster, can rings and all. As I said earlier, I have an obsessive need to please my guests, and so, year after year, I begrudgingly open can upon can of sucrose-infested cranberry glue, knowing perfectly well that this delightfully tart and refreshingly bold berry is once again being misconstrued. However, what’s the harm in a little, passive-aggressive face-lift to the cranberry name? In my own private effort to revamp the cranberry image, I have found, over the years, a sneaky and successful tactic applied to my die-hard cranberry can guests: alongside the canned version comes a newer, brighter rendition of cranberry sauce. One year I showcased Tropical Cranberry Relish, a cranberry mold melded with crushed pineapples and passion fruit, amongst other ingredients. Another year Drunken Cranberry Sauce (whole cranberries sauteed in Port wine sauce) graced the table. Each year another cranberry newcomer was quietly presented, and each year that newcomer with diligently and gratefully consumed. The presentation was subtle yet bold: no frills, no PR, just an extra dish for those willing to step outside the canned cranberry mold. Lo and behold, all guests did, and, as the Thanksgiving years progress, the canned culprit has less nibbles on it and the homemade rendition gets quickly passed around. It’s a silent triumph for me and my cranberries. And who says people can’t change?