Cooking With Ideas

Unforgettable - Truly Unforgettable

Some time ago, my partner and I learned about a holiday tradition in Iceland: Jolabokaflod. Yep -- just what it sounds like: the annual Christmas book flood. With historical roots in WWII, the tradition seems to involve receiving -- and reading -- a book on Christmas Eve. When I learned of it, I said: I want to move to Iceland. I have not. Nor have I been there (yet). But, I have joined the imitators of Jolabokaflod. And, that makes me happy. 

Without consulting one another, my partner and I exchanged books on Christmas Eve, 2017. I was less successful in my shopping than my partner, who purchased for me one of the most delightful books that I have read in a long while: Unforgettable, the book pictured above. Subtitled The Bold Flavors of Paula Wolfert's Renegade Life, the book was written by Emily Kaisen Thelin, edited by Andrea Nyugen, has photography by Eric Wolfinger, and was designed by Toni Tajima, people who care for Paula Wolfert and wanted to do with and for her something Wolfert herself had wanted to do but is now unable to accomplish  -- write her own memoir. I had no idea that Wolfert has a memory loss disease -- and thus is unable to do what she is so well known and well loved for -- and my partner had no idea that we own and cook regularly from Wolfert books! Nor had I any idea how influential she was for many in the world of food today (including me!) -- or how new the notion of someone making a living by writing cookbooks was when she launched what (eventually) became her career.

The title Unforgettable captures the irony and the pain of Wolfert's memory loss for it reveals the centrality of memory to the work for which she has been known since the 1970s - traveling and making available in the US recipes from the Mediterranean world (loosely defined, beginning with Morocco and including places like ). Perhaps better put, the focus on memory is both joyous and painful. Wolfert''s memory was, apparently, widely known and widely respected. A person who could jot down a few words and then reproduce both recipes and tastes -- a memory that came along with a discernibly high order palate -- that is part of what made her career possible. She had what seems almost like an eidetic memory for food related matters. And, in fact, the diagnosis and recognition of her memory loss came as she started to find this difficult. Today, Wolfert brings her passion for research and for evidence to her own search for ways to live best with Alzheimer's -- and the book concludes not only with dietary suggestions in this regard but much more in the way of recommendations. Her active participation in various Facebook and other on line venues in a widespread community focused on memory loss is testament to her continuing wonder. The author, who is fairly frank about her own relationship with Wolfert, is clearly pained by the losses she can see in what Wolfert can remember - and also increasingly skilled at finding ways to encourage the memories that are there to some to the fore. As an occasional student of memory and religion, I was both intellectually happy reading this book -- and moved as someone who cooks. 

From couscous (in the 1970s) to today, Wolfert was responsible for many transformational changes in American cuisine. Without her, no duck confit, for example. Without her, no American foie gras. Did you know D'Artagnan was founded by a woman? No, not by Wolfert but as an indirect consequence of Wolfert.  Without her -- many of the food items we can find in the grocery store would never have been imported -- they were inaccessible or only accessible from a single importer in the US when Wolfert introduced recipes requiring them -- int eh back of her cookbooks, Wolfert referred readers to various means of importing things that I can find in Wegmans today. In fact, she affected the careers of people who themselves then became importers. (yes, D'Artagnan but others before -- and after -- that!) She published the first (very extensive) recipe for cassoulet. I might make it. Pomegranate molasses -- Wolfert. Yes, I own it and cook with it and when desperate have made it from scratch. And, truly, couscous -- not in its instant form, of course, which I am banned from serving at our house because my couscous period truly over did it. Without Wolfert, tajines would not be . . . here. Without her -- well, who knows what we would be eating! 

The book is amazing. In fact, I have a feeling the book is as amazing as Wolfert herself. It is a testament to love of Wolfert, to the uniqueness of how she approached and created a career writing cookbooks, and to people who care for her and have been influenced by her. It is a testament to her reach, to the weaving together of who Wolfert is and was with what she brought -- in a somewhat more than hypothetical way -- to our tables. A life long eye issue shaped her approaches (and her personality). Somehow the phrase honey and vinegar comes to mind. How, I asked as I read along, could such a renowned cookbook author avoid knives for much of her career? And, how could someone with such personality extremes be so effective at meeting and learning from women (most often) across the world, persuading them to give her recipes often held very private in various ways in various parts of the world? Did she, I asked myself, create the notion of the culinary anthropologist?!?!? She -- and others like her -- certainly made possible my own, more lazy (or at least more travel averse) culinary tourism. 

Both the content and form of the book are wonderful -- filled as it is with lovely pictures and truly approachable and well written narrative. The team that put this together accomplished a lot. The recipes represent the range of Wolfert's career -- including some that have a "cult" following. I rarely say this: I look forward to cooking some of the recipes -- and to revisiting some of the ones I have cooked of hers over the years. In fact, we had a trout with eggplant and pomegranate molasses dish during the holiday season just because I had started reading Unforgettable. (That recipe is in The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean by Paula Wolfert. 

Here is a book that makes evident why one might want to know about the cookbook author as well as the recipes. The life and the recipes go together somehow and knowing that seasons the recipes newly in my imagination. This seems to e to be a book to which I will return multiple times -- for the irony, the joy and the pain. 

A renegade life -- one that truly starts with the beats and moves on -- defined by an early decision to go to Tangier when it was the hotbed of beat life -- well, that was just the start of a life time of choices that were both creative and defining of the world in which she lived and consequentially the world in which we live! Various bits of the decades of her life weave together one life with the lives of movements (the Beats, and beyond) -- and the ways our food culture has become differently global since those days.

I am grateful to have read this. I hope you will be too. 

Alice Waters Remembers

 

Some time ago I wrote: I met Alice Waters. I wrote that with glee, having the opportunity to meet her when she was inducted into the National Women's Hall of Fame. In fact, I brought her a tomato from Fellenz Family Farms, which she seemed to carry with her various places during that weekend. From our CSA to her hands. . . . (I wish she had had the opportunity to try some of the more farm to table restaurants in the area -- and hope that she will come to the region again to do something. But meanwhile. . . ) 

In any case, I had her sign a cookbook I have owned for years despite the fact that the memoir pictured above was just out. She herself wanted folks to focus on her cookbooks not this memoir. But, my partner purchased the memoir for me. It was misplaced for a while in the house -- hiding in plain sight among other books -- and just surfaced. Hence this review. 

The book is the memoir of a shy person, I think. It was a fast read -- though not, in some ways a deep read. If forced to a short statement about it I would say: this is a book that belies the complexity of its subject just as, perhaps, the simplicity of the recipes in some of Waters' cookbooks belies the amazing tastes that can come from truly making those dishes with the best ingredients and loads of patience. Subtitled "The Making of  Countercultural Cook," there is some Berkeley name dropping in the book -- and some foodie name dropping later -- but the main theme seems to be that she was not as into politics directly (though Waters was at some of the main demonstrations) but now, on reflection, sees her eventual position on food as born in those heady days. For Waters, the countercultural was in part a free love kind of approach but also about creating together with others a new culture. And, indeed, she eventually did.

I have to admit, this was not my favorite food-related memoir like book this season (eventually I will get to Unforgettable which is about Paula Wolfert -- and that book blew me away).  Am I glad I read it? Yes, most definitely -- and grateful to have met her. But this is, indeed, a book by a shy person. And, like many shy people -- there is an odd relation between what they let you see and who they may in some deeper sense be. I imagine Waters as someone with the gift of friendship and remain a bit jealous of those who truly get to know her -- cooking with her, eating with her, smiling with her. Meanwhile, a quick trip down memory lane is what she has provided here. She says she is not a reflective person. Your turn to judge! 

And, as you do, you will join a lot of readers as the book debuted at No 13 in the NY Times best seller list. The name carries weight. The book, less so. And yet, as Waters says that beauty is crucial to care, reflection matters as well. My guess -- she is more reflective than she lets on here. 

In any case, for others' views of Coming to My Senses by Alice Waters -- there are many reviews to peruse. Here is the New York Times review of the memoir, which quite rightly uses the words oblique and meandering to describe Waters' life -- or at least this narrative. The Washington Post reviewed it here, and the Chicago Tribune here. 

Linden Street Cocktail Bar

I admit it. I had been there only once and made a judgment that the Linden Social Club was not for me. It was very early on in their existence -- and neither the taco I had nor the cocktail quite met my dreams. And, it was noisy beyond all belief. Not my thing anymore. And yet, here I am much later writing about the Linden Social Club. (I hate the fact that I am kind of no longer anonymous and frankly, I love the people that opened the Club -- and loved them then. So, I did not write.) 

In any case, my partner disagreed with my assessment and LOVED the taco -- even then. As a result, now, much much much time having passed, I wandered in. . . . and was delighted. Ok, it was not now -- January 2018 -- it was some time ago -- but I was delighted enough to post this now to let folks know to drop by. And to order the tacos.  

Here's the thing: (a) it was kind of early in the evening, and the place was not hugely busy. On one side there was a group that seemed to be taking dancing lessons. The music was delightful. (b) I came in only for tacos and intended to take them to go. The bar tender kept offering me various drinks, but I refused -- not because I did not want one, but because I was due elsewhere with the tacos. (c) I ordered several kinds of tacos. And, then I wandered them down the street to my partner who I was treating. 

We were both surprised. She was surprised because I had wandered off with no notice and now was back. I was surprised because the tacos were in the top 10 tacos I have ever had -- not my initial experience with the Linden Social Club. (Others include some from Austin, Texas; a few from Chicago; and my own that involve roasted poblano strips, potatoes and chard -- and sometimes mushrooms). 

So: Linden Social Club. Hurrah. Patience won this time. Hurrah. 

Failure is (Im)Possible

The headline above is a (mis)quotation -- tweaked with parentheses -- from Susan B. Anthony. Yep, that one -- with all her wonders and problems, and her importance to both local history and local tourism. I have tweaked it simply because, recently, I had a food failure. And, I know why. And, failure is sometimes a way to learn. So there, red cabbage sauerkraut, aka blaukraut that went weird and madly and truly stinky. It was my last effort of the season and, clearly, I had gotten somewhat lazy and sloppy. 

The picture above is (with gratitude) from athomewithharwen.com -- and I suspect strongly that what is pictured here is not failure. 

Yes, I used Fellenz Family Farm red cabbages (small ones). Yes, I used local apples from our local wonder:  Red Jacket Orchards. The onion was from Fellenz Family Farms. And then there was the freeloader: apparently, mold from the local area as well. A kind of beautiful airy mold that . . . well, was moldy. Local. But moldy.  

Here's what the recipe said: Shred red cabbage; add thinly sliced tart apples (2-3), add one thinly sliced onion. Massage like mad. Ferment for a week or two. Ok, the recipe was a bit more specific than that. But hey. 

Here's what I failed at: (a) the cabbage did not exude a lot of brine. I ought to have added brine as I did with the first sauerkraut I made, but I had mistakenly concluded I jumped the gun there and ought to have tried to get more to exude from the cabbage. No. This needed more brine so that the cabbage was always submerged and thus anaerobic. (b) I used cabbage leaves as a topper and then a bottle of water. I did so because I lost the right size weights that I have for the larger crock, decided against a bag of brine -- a solution I had used earlier because i succumbed to lack of certainty about the ways plastic might enter the sauerkraut, a concern raised by my partner, and thus did not do a good job of adding weight and keeping things submerged. I ought to have used the plastic bag -- and I ought to order new smallish weights since I lost them ages ago.  

Will I try again? Yes. Why? Because Failure is (I'm)possible. And, because I have never seen a more beautiful color than the blaukraut that failed. Not that dissimilar from the blaukraut depicted above, but just a bit more amazing because. . . it was my failure. RIP Blaukraut 2017. Looking forward to Blaukraut 2018.