I’ve gone grain crazy as of lately. There are so many different types of them to explore. It started with a pack of bulgur, coarse grinds of whole wheat with a muddy tan color and toothsome, chewy texture. If you like wild rice, you’ll find some similarities here. Then I went freaky for smoky roasted spelt, also known as freekeh. Now I can’t get Missy Elliot out of my head.
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Guys, I’m almost due. On February 18th, this blog will give birth to numerous identical hardcover books, each named The Art of Eating In: How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove. Published by Gotham/Penguin, it’s my first book, a memoir of the two years I spent eating in, solely, all the while trying to keep a somewhat normal life, a paying, nine-to-five job, a boyfriend, social engagements, etc. It didn’t turn out being so normal in the end, but what I ended up losing (jobs, boyfriends) over those years was miniscule compared to what I gained from learning to appreciate everything about making meals from scratch, on a daily basis. It’s my requiem to an unconventional urban lifestyle, and all the characters and experiences I encountered while not eating out and blogging about it. The book has nothing rehashed from this blog, but let’s just say that it shares the same genes.
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You know how salads in restaurants tend to have eight things in them, at least? Or else, it’s not really a salad, it seems. One of those ingredients is usually cheese; another is usually nuts (and it’s usually crusted with something sweet). There’s often meat, grilled and served hot in contrast with the cool greens. It gets more complicated, too. Dried or fresh fruit, oily crusts of bread or croutons, dressings that are an army of ingredients in themselves, and so many types of mixed lettuces when you couldn’t identify one by name.
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It’s on! Soup and Bread, a cozy tradition from Chicago, is making its way to Brooklyn for the first time this Thursday. Over in the windy city, it’s a free, open-to-the-public weekly dinner at the Hideout bar and music venue, where staff, friends, cooks, musicians, and whoever’s willing donate pots of homemade soup to serve. It’s a culi-charity (has that been coined?) event designed to be low-key, easy to participate in, and fun for the community, especially in the middle of a freezing Midwest winter. And, it’s raised thousands of dollars for the Chicago Food Depository, by passing around a bucket for donations at each Soup and Bread.
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Ever had a really good, juicy carrot? Not the kind that’s all white and dehydrated like your skin in the winter, I mean a plump, bursting balloon of sweetness, with a few wisps of fuzzy roots and wrinkles, maybe, but a thin skin that betrays its more-orange-than-an-orange flesh? Thankfully, I have. And it’ll never be forgotten. Granted, I can eat carrots any way, shape or form: raw, cooked, juiced, shredded or mashed — and yes, wispy and dry as my skin right now, too. But it’s a whole other level of enjoyment when the ingredient is at its prime.
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Sometimes the simplest things really are the best. I’d planned to cook, eat, and write about an elaborate dish on my day off. It would be exciting, colorful, and completely novel. It would also somehow incorporate soaked and mostly-cooked white beans, which I had leftover. After a morning of deliberation and preparation, it was done: sour citrus wedges, briny olives and mealy white beans, unexpectedly brought to congress with plenty drizzles of olive oil. But once it was photographed and poised to be eaten, I found that I didn’t really want to shovel it down. It was just a bit much.
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There’s nothing ickier than raising a fork to eye level and finding that intimately human object entwined in your food: hair. All the sudden, it’s like you’re in bed with the chef. And how well that person cleans him or herself, or where he or she has been in the last twenty-four hours — and who that person is — you have no clue. Panic ensues.
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It’s time once again, folks. The Food Obstructions III is happening at The Gutter on Sunday, February 7th, and of course we’re giving it a corny Valentine’s Day kiss. Reddy or not! Here are the five obstructions to your dish:

-Cannot contain onions or garlic
-Must contain hearts (of palm, artichokes, celery, an animal, candy hearts… you name it! Just don’t say you simply cooked it “with heart”)
-Must include an ingredient that is red
-Cannot require utensils to eat
-Must include an ingredient that is rumored to be an aphrodisiac
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I’ve been having a love affair with beans lately. This may have happened by default, with so few fresh muses in season to cook with, or else a newfound appreciation simply gained on its own merit: beans are infinitely versatile, used in every cuisine, hearty, and nutritious. They are the main ingredient in comfort foods of so many cultures, like the French cassoulet. But beans also have a stigma attached to them, especially in our meat-loving culture — that of a “poor man’s protein.” (And please hold the gas jokes.) “Beans are not enthusiastically embraced by everyone,” Ken Albala wrote in Beans: A History. “More than any other food, beans have been associated with poverty.” Yet thanks to them, and to a dizzying bar full of folks enthusiastically embracing them, beans have made the Greenmarket of New York City $2,500 richer.
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Sick of the same old squashes? Bored of the brainless old ways to cook them, too? (i.e. Roast until tender. Puree into soup.) I think this happens just about every January. It’s the winter’s-here, we’ve-done-our-soup-thing, home-cook-head-scratching blues. The holidays are over, and reality has sunk back in; it’s back to the daily grind. And what? You’re coming down with a flu, too? Yep, you’ve got it bad. Better get some antioxidants in the system, STAT. Luckily, eating squashes (not just in soups) are pretty good at doing that.
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