Colin’s Column: The Kroger I Have Loved
If you grew up in the South, you’re probably familiar with Kroger. Like a less friendly Winn-Dixie, Kroger offers food that is often acceptable but never spectacular. It’s also a refuge from the false cheer of stores like Publix and any form of social responsibility or upper class self-love found at Whole Foods. Most locations are cold and slightly moist at all times and the tiles on the floor are movie-theatre sticky.
What it lacks in charm, quality, and fresh produce it makes up in anonymity, low prices, and abundant people-watching opportunities. Much is made of the people of Wal-Mart, but if you haven’t shopped for frozen pizza at 3am while high (on life or otherwise), you’re really missing out.
For three months I lived in New York and desperately missed the low prices and relative convenience of Kroger. Now I’m in Austin, Texas, where food is priced for humans. They’ve got Randalls, which thinks it’s upscale but isn’t, and HEB, which sounds like a disease. And of course Austin is the home of Whole Foods, which features pretty good food with exotic, European prices. The people who work there are friendly, although the threat of vegetarian guilt trips and half-baked libertarian empty-box rhetoric is ever present. At least they aren’t smiling psychopaths like the poor bastards at Trader Joes.
The point is: I miss me some Kroger. For your pleasure, a short list of the reasons to shop there.
Reasons to Shop at Kroger:
*Woke up with kidney missing, need gauze, CVS is too expensive and Publix will get snippy at you for bleeding.
*For the price of one chocolate bar at Whole Foods, you can buy literally six boxes of Little Debbies.
*While food is better at Trader Joes, Kroger employees don’t initiate corporately mandated conversations tinged with despair.
*Thinking about shoplifting lube and know if you get caught it’ll be less embarrassing at Kroger than at Publix.
*In no mood to be asked how your day was, as it involved hepatitis and possibly manslaughter.
*No fresh underwear, did not bathe today, really need cream for rash. Hello, U-Scan-It!
*Super fucking high and pretty sure Publix has Homeland Security cameras that can see THC in your blood.
*On the one hand, have multiple bullet wounds. On the other hand, really want lukewarm hot wings.
*Want to eat your feelings and don’t particularly care how they taste.
*Want frozen pizza and ice cream and potato chips all at the same time but feel judged when making these purchases at better stores.
*Wearing sweatpants and have a black eye.
*Don’t want to hear about bagboy’s science fiction novel, model trains, or anything else.
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Kroger logo courtesy of open-source Kroger images.
Dump Cake: The Taste of 18
The rumble in my head this morning was nothing compared to the shaking of peoples’ lives in Haiti. For that I was thankful. I over-indulged last night, which is just a polite way of saying I woke up with a killer hangover. The culprit? A bottle of Malbec shared with friends, followed by copious amounts of grapefruit vodka. Definitely a bad choice, and one I’d be more likely to attribute to a person of 18, not one more than twice that age. This knowledge only added to my burgeoning shame spiral.
It all started Tuesday morning, when I opened my Facebook page and nearly spit my coffee onto the screen. On it was displayed a message and friend request from a man who had broken my heart numerous time over the course of my 16-18 year-old youth. Immediately, the lyrics of Kate Milller-Heidke’s Facebook Song resounded in my ears:
They say everyone should have their heart broken at least once
And that is how you grow emotionally
Well I have been misused by many, many, many men
But nothing can compare to how you treated me.
At times it really felt as though the pain was here to stay
And though it’s many years I go I feel it to this day,
And now you wanna be my friend on Facebook
Are you fucking kidding me?
(Do yourself a favor and see the full lyrics, as well as the live version here.)
In suspended animation, I sat with my coffee for what seemed like hours. Throughout my life, straight men have remained such an enigma to me. Many, especially ones Kate and I seem to have dated, appear to have both short and selective memories. The passing of time vanished as emotions bubbled to the surface, while I read an e-mail containing 23 years worth of history. In that moment, I appreciated Milan Kundera’s insight, that Tragedy+Time=Comedy. Surreal comedy, at that. I called my mom, and screamed into the phone, “Oh my God! You are never going to believe this!” Dad couldn’t believe it, either.
So, what do you do when a blast from the past reaches out, full of sunshine and smiles, e-mails of memories, all the while omitting the fact they broke your heart? Well, apparently, I drink vodka with Jerry, Lewis and Nirej. Aside from that, I head to the kitchen. I know you’re asking what recipe could I possibly pull together to make sense of all this, but I already had the perfect one. It’s been taped in my recipe book for almost 25 years, the founding staple of my white-trashy comfort food desserts. And it’s straight from his mother’s kitchen.
You know what’s funny? Every time I’ve made this cake, I’ve looked back on the folly of youth and smiled. I’ve wondered how his family was doing, and hoped they were all happy. They are. Me? It’s been a week of jumbled reminiscence. Apparently some unresolved hurts. But the good news is, it only comes to surface when we’re ready to deal, and not a moment before. In the wake of missing my career in aid work, I’ve been wanting to go to Haiti and help out on the front-lines. Instead, I am in my cozy home with my husband and child, looking back on what my life might have been like, staring at images of Haitian destruction, grateful for what it is not. The gratitude for where I am, has given way to reconciling myself with the path I chose to get here. It’s a work in progress.
I thought making Dump Cake was so apropos yesterday. I was dying to dish the dirt the with guys and told my Facebook friend that I still had his mother’s recipe. Worlds were colliding, and it didn’t scare me. As I dumped the cake mix onto the fruit, I watched footage of tumbling buildings in Port-au-Prince. I might have gotten dumped 23 years ago, but as I licked the cherries from my fingers, I went to my laptop and donated $23 to the Red Cross. I finally got my just dessert.
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DUMP CAKE
- 1 package Duncan Hines Classic Yellow Cake mix
- 1-20 oz. can crushed pineapple
- 1-20 oz. can “more fruit” cherry pie filling, such as Comstock brand
- 1 stick salted butter, cut into small pieces
- slivered almonds, walnuts or pecans
- fresh cream (optional)
Preheat oven to 350. Coat bottom and sides of a 13 X 9 pan with cooking spray or butter. Now, the dumping begins. Dump the entire can of crushed pineapple into the pan, including the juice. Spread it evenly. Next, following with the cherry pie filling, making sure to get even coverage on top of the pineapple. Follow this with the dry cake mix, breaking up any big lumps. Top with your choice of nuts, then cover with the butter pieces. Bake for one hour, until bubbly and lightly browned. Let cool slightly before serving. Drizzle with some fresh cream, if desired.
A word on cake mixes: I’ve used every mix in the book, and Duncan Hines CLASSIC YELLOW is really the way to go here. It has a slightly coconutty flavor, and is just delightful with the rest of the ingredients. Which reminds me, you can toss some coconut on top, too, if you like. Once I messed up and bought the Butter flavor yellow cake mix, so I melted the butter and added a bit of coconut extract, then poured it on top of the cake before baking. It worked out ok, but really, trust me on the Classic Yellow thing.
December 26th: An Homage
December 26th.
Women in unison shaking their holiday tablecloths,
remembrances handed through generations.
Each stain, a roadmap of laughter, a hallmark left by ones they love.
~Lorrie
Dedicated to all the women who have shaped my kitchen and to the loved ones who have graced my table.
Pistachio Cake With Honeyed Apricots: A Sweet Celebration of Ramadan & Rosh Hashanah
During my globe-trotting days, I worked with some pretty amazing and diverse populations: refugees, genocide survivors, Holocaust survivors, HIV+, single parents, LGBT. Even through the rose-colored glasses of youth, there was one over-riding premise: pain was pain, we all bled red. This imprinted on my mind, I moved forward, ever conscious that regardless of my far-flung locale, I shared more in common with the people whom I was there to serve than I shared differences.
After 9/11, I became painfully aware that I knew precious little about the Muslim world, ashamed that so many in power and media were making gross generalizations about a people group with whom I was sure few had ever met or shared a meal. Irritated, I concluded that I could only change myself and the lense through which I saw. Of one thing I was certain; I had worked and studied abroad enough to ascertain that acts of terrorism are driven by forces of desperation and poverty, not by the name one calls “God”.
It was in this vein, which a professor friend and I chose to embark upon a course of study, reading through English translations of the Koran and several volumes of Islamic literature, poetry and art history. I was fascinated. Mesmerized. How could there be so much hatred when we shared so much beauty? The following summer, I signed on to be part of an exchange program between Western Judeo-Christian countries and Islamic countries in North Africa. The next thing I knew, I was packing my bags for Morocco.
I criss-crossed the country: Tangier, Meknes, Marrakech, Beni Mallal, Essaouirra, Safi, Casablanca, Rabat….. Some towns were very traditional, where as a woman, I found I could not enter a cafe without a man or unless other women were already present. In others, you could get a contact high just from inhaling second hand smoke. In all, however, I was welcomed with open arms by everyone I met–even after disclosing my nationality and Jewish ethnicity. Seated around living room floors, I shared meals, tea, even henna painting–a gift from one family. I was invited to celebrations and prayers. Simply put, I was asked to share Moroccan life, and it changed mine. 
Today concludes Ramadan, the month-long season of fasting for Muslims, which observes the time of the Koran’s revelation to the Prophet Mohammed. It is a day of celebration, feasting and prayer, known as Eid-ul-Fitr. Similarly, Friday evening marked the ushering in of the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, our year 5770. Rosh Hashanah is also observed with a special meal and prayers, leading into the “Days of Awe” for fasting and reflection, that pass the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
In both traditions, dates, honey, nuts, and fruit are placed on the communal table as families and friends gather to break their fasts. The Rosh Hashanah meal always begins with a special plate of sliced apples, which are then dipped in honey. This is to signify the sweetness of the New Year. We then wish each other “Shana Tova”, a good year. The meal concludes with a special honey cake. In her book, Leap of Faith, Her Majesty Queen Noor of Jordan recounts starting evening meals during Ramadan with dates, pistachios, tea and apricots. Seeing the similarities?
When I came across the recipe for this cake, my heart smiled. It was a culinary intersection of so many thoughts, feelings and experiences. I’ve baked it for so many of our bio and global family gatherings, each time returning with only the parchment coating the pan. As if I needed more evidence, that breaking bread remains a powerful force for uniting the disparate.
If you’re not in the mood to bake, how about this? Make a big bowl of popcorn and watch Occupied Minds and/or Encounter Point. Both are powerful films, exploring Israeli/Palestinian relationships, through the eyes of citizens working for peace, extending reconcilation to one another, in spite of personal loss and tragedy. If you’re not inspired, I’ll bake the cake for you.
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PISTACHIO CAKE WITH HONEYED APRICOTS
- 1 c raw pistachios, ground
- 1 c all-purpose flour
- 2 t baking powder
- 1/4-1/2 t nutmeg
- 1/4 t salt
- 1/2 c whole milk
- 1/4 t pure vanilla extract
- 1 stick unsalted butter, softened
- 1 c sugar
- 3 large eggs, room temperature
- 5-6 ripe apricots, halved, pits removed
- honey
Preheat oven to 350, with rack in the middle. Coat a 10 inch round pan or 9×9 square pan with cooking spray. Cut parchment to fit the bottom, insert, and coat again. Pulse the pistaschios until very finely ground in your food processor. When they feel fine, like little grains of sand, that’s perfect. Beat butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating thoroughly after each addition. Add milk and vanilla, combine. Mix in dry ingredients at low-speed. Pour batter into pan, smoothing out the top. Arrange apricots, cut side up, on top of batter. Insert honey into the middle of each. Bake for 35-40 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
The batter will rise up and cover the apricots, yielding an almost up-side down cake meets cobbler product. It’s truly amazing. It’s better to err on the side of using a larger pan, such as the 10 inch, rather than the smaller, or else you run the risk of over-flowing batter.
Wonderful served warm, plain or with some cream. My family devours it for dessert, snacks and breakfast. Whatever time of day, it won’t last long!
Adapted from A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg
Marahage: A Simple Tanzanian Stew
Every time I open a can of beans, I smile. Not because I’m excited about sodium and the dangers of BPAs, or the fact that I’m too lazy to soak and cook dried ones, but because I remember the days of driving for two hours to buy them, coming home, picking out the tiny rocks, rinsing, then soaking them. It amazes me at times, that I ever took these cans for granted. Many times, when I was working in East Africa, I would dream about the ease of this simple gesture. However, each time I made beans on a kerosene stove or fire, there was something deeply satisfying about sitting down to eat. Perhaps it was the Zen-induced haze of picking out those little pebbles, but those experiences elicited the sensation that I had been part of the process of getting my food to the table, at one with its purpose somehow. Or maybe it was just the view:
Whatever the case, I still maintain that food just tastes better in Africa, largely due to the simplicity and the fact that each meal is usually shared. Ok, and the location, too. Did I mention I missed working in Africa?
When my best friend, Kristi, was stationed in Arusha, she wrote to me about this recipe. I was in Morocco at the time, so that made the logistics of sharing dinner a bit challenging. It wasn’t until a year later, when we finally found ourselves sharing a kitchen, and rolling chapatis, talking about how easy making Marahage (pronounced Mar-uh-hog-uh) was going to be, since we could “cheat” and use canned beans. It felt like a luxury. We adapted the recipe accordingly.
Kristi related that she had learned this recipe from a woman who worked at the Arusha language school, where she and her husband studied. It is simple indeed, reflecting local flavors and ingredients. Peanuts (peanut butter, in this case) play a central role in East African cuisine, as they are both easily cultivated and packed with nutrition. In many areas, they are simply known as “G-Nuts”, short for “ground nuts”. Central and West African stews also favor the use of peanuts. Carrots, garlic, onions, tomatoes and beans, again, grown almost universally in arable plots. The use of coconut milk and coconut oil is shared across temperate and tropical zones, though in many parts of West Africa, red palm oil is used instead. I could rattle on, but will save my dissertation on African cooking for another day. Here, I offer a simple stew, where the flavors of East Africa linger in every bite. Please, share my table.
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MARAHAGE
- 6-7 carrots, grated
- 6 medium tomatoes, chopped
- 8-10 cloves of garlic, minced (we use a lot, feel free to use less)
- 1 medium onion, diced (I like to used red)
- 1 can coconut milk
- 3/4-1 c extra-crunchy peanut butter
- 1/8-1/4 t cayenne pepper, or a teaspoon of your favorite minced red chili
- salt and ground black pepper to taste
- 2 cans red beans, drained lightly, or 2 c. cooked
- 1 can pinto beans, undrained, or 2 c. cooked
- 4 T salted butter
- Cooked rice
- Chapatis or your choice of flat bread
Over medium-high heat, melt butter in your favorite stew pot. Add onion, garlic and carrots, saute until lightly soft and aroma of onion is released. Add tomatoes, cover, and stirr occasionally, until they are cooking down–about 7 minutes. Add the beans one can or cup at a time, then stir in coconut milk and red pepper. Heat until bubbly again, then add peanut butter, stirring until dissolved. Add salt and pepper to taste. You may want more peanut butter or cayenne. When you’re tasting testing is done, bon appetit! Serve with long-white or brown rice, and your choice of flat bread.
This stew both reheats and freezes well. Note that you will have to adjust seasoning levels if using the grind-your-own peanut butter, by adding a smidge of sugar. I actually use Jiff Extra-Crunchy for this recipe, because the flavor is consistent.
Adam’s Favorite Scrambled Eggs
Earlier today, I ate a grapfruit using one of my grandmother’s silver grapefruit spoons. I’ve been fighting a cold all week, and somehow, I found it’s presence comforting, as if a part of her were there. It seems as though each time I’m in the kitchen, I’m flooded with memories of people or places, times shared or simply missing someone. It’s remarkable how a small silver-plated spoon can evoke such emotion.
Similarly, whenever Adam eats cold cereal, he says he is reminded of our first days together, the first time I ever “made” him something. While I don’t think of pouring cereal and soy milk into a bowl as a declaration, to him, it was a supreme act of love. As for me, I tend to gloss that over, and selectively recall the first time I made him something, as when I went through an early morning effort at breakfast. For starters, as any friend, past roommate or family member can attest, I am NOT a morning person. The labor of love started there. In fact, most days, I refuse to have a conversation without having a cup of coffee first, let alone scribe an e-mail or Tweet. Trust me, it’s better for all concerned. I’m convinced that I once blew a grant opportunity, due to stumbling through a phone call I foolishly answered before ingesting coffee. That’s the same day the “No-Communication-Before-Coffee” rule went into effect. But, back to the eggs.
The morning I made that first breakfast, I sadly had not planned ahead. I find passion allows itself as the only luxury. I foraged in the refrigerator, and was rewarded with feta and dill. A little more scrounging, and I was able to concoct what remains a breakfast staple to this day. Adam, speechless, just scooped his eggs with sourdough and smiled. How was I to know he’d marry me?
As I was sipping my java and perusing headlines, I was warmed by President Obama’s statement that 9/11 should be used a day of service and remembrance. He proceeded to volunteer part of his day visiting and working on a Habitat for Humanity build site in Washington, D.C. (Read full story here). While many might not have an excess of time or money to give during these tough economic times, what we all possess is the ability to do something nice for someone else. A plate of eggs, a batch of cookies, doing a chore your partner usually does, watching a sick neighbor’s child or pulling their trash to the curb. A smile. You never know when a bowl or cereal or scrambled eggs could brighten someone’s life. Or change yours.
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ADAM’S FAVORITE SCRAMBLED EGGS
- 6 eggs (I use cage-free, brown, jumbos)
- 1/2 c cream
- 1 T fresh dill, chopped
- 1/2 t sea salt, or to taste. Less is more. The feta is pretty salty on its own.
- few cranks cracked black pepper
- 1/8-1/4 t cayenne pepper,or to taste. We tend to like a liberal dose.
- 6 oz crumbled cow feta (Unless otherwise marked, most feta in the supermarkets is of the cow variety. Cow feta tastes best for the purposes of this recipe. I once tried sheep, and the results were not the same.)
- butter
- 2 pieces sourdough bread for each diner
Whisk the eggs and cream in a medium bowl. Add the remaining ingredients and mix well. Next, coat your favorite 10-12 inch non-stick skillet with cooking spray. Heat the skillet over low heat. If you have a gas stove, that would be at about mark 3. As Ina Garten says, you want to “nurse the eggs along”, so as to yield a creamy end result, one that is not over-cooked, dry, or burnt. When the skillet is heated, pour in the egg mixture. Stir and scrape bottom and sides, repeating process until eggs are cooked. They will look light, fluffy and bubbly. While the eggs are cooking, begin toasting the bread. Butter bread, dish eggs and serve immediately. Serves 2-4.
The Dragon Fruit: A New Understanding of Kant’s Sublime
During my university tenure, I took a lot of Philosophy classes. My adoration for thought led me to go so far as to both work for the Chair of the Philosophy department and to declare it as one of two minors. I studied everything from Fanon to Sartre to Tanabe to Paz, but it wasn’t until just last week that I came to fully appreciate the concept of “sublime” which Kant discusses in his Critique of Judgement.
Rounding the aisle at the farmer’s market, I gasped, stopping dead in my tracks. I was like a deer in headlights, transfixed by what lay before me. In all of my travels, in all of the tropics, I had never seen anything like it:
Cautiously, I moved toward the bin, reaching gently, until I held the green, spiky, magenta orb. “What the hell?” I looked to the placard above. “Dragon Fruit”. By this time, a small crowd had gathered, heaving my gasp. “What do you do with it?” “How do you cook it?” We all asked questions, yet none among us seemed to know. Intrigued, I pressed the flesh. Firm, yet yielding–like a ripe mango. I lifted it toward my nose. There was no detectable scent. I was beholden to this mystery fruit. Tearing a produce away, I gently placed two in my basket for safe keeping. I couldn’t wait to get home and show Adam and Isak, not to mention hit Google.
Isak was mesmerized. He asked, ”Dragons can eat this, Mommy?” Adam, true to his genius of Ecological Science, examined the fruit then declared, “looks like some sort of cactus flower.”
Now, it was Google’s turn. Darlene Schmidt, of About.com, had this to say about dragon fruit: Dragon fruit is a beautiful fruit grown in Southeast Asia, Mexico, Central and South America, and Israel. It is actually the fruit of a type of cactus, and the fruit comes in 3 colors: 2 have pink skin, but with different colored flesh (one white, the other red), while another type is yellow with white flesh. Dragon fruit is low in calories and offers numerous nutrients, including Vitamin C, phosphorus, calcium, plus fiber and antioxidants.
The Obama Muffin
This summer, our First Family followed in the footsteps of many our nation’s Democratic greats, spending part of their vacation on Martha’s Vineyard. As always, the community rallied to meet them, knowing the Obama’s and their crew were a social bunch. The food community came out in welcoming droves, but one cafe came in head and shoulders about the rest. Why? Because it’s where you start your day and set its’ tone.
Espresso Love Cafe is owned by Carol McManus, who also holds the distinction of baking for President Clinton, as well feuling local Vineyardites since 1992. My friend Ed at Obama-Food-O-Rama sat down and talked with Ms. McManus, drawing on her inspiration:
“Of course I had to make a muffin for President Obama,” Ms. McManus said; she not only voted for him, but worked on the campaign. “It was easy to figure out–the Obamas eat healthy, and the Hawaii thing….” Ms. McManus recounts the following on her culinary tribute to President Clinton, “I almost dropped dead when the first White House person came by Espresso Love to check it out,” Ms. McManus said.
Per Obama-Food-O-Rama, President Clinton arrived on the Vineyard on a Friday night, and the very next morning he showed up at Espresso Love. For the rest of the Clintons’ two-week vacation, Ms. McManus and her staff baked all kinds of things for the Summer White House–and told no one until the President left the island, which ensured repeat business for other Clinton visits. The Presidential Muffin remains on the daily menu at Espresso Love today, though the Obama Muffin remains the top-seller. (Read Full Story here.)
Ms. McManus says that the cafe sells about four dozen Obama Muffins a day–and that these are usually gone by early afternoon. Officially titled President Obama’s Healthy Muffin, it’s a super Obama Foodie Homage, because it contains multiple fruity ingredients that reference the President’s Hawaiian roots. Better yet, it’s easy to make (recipe below), low-fat, healthy–and kids ignore the giant slabs of chocolate cake on the counter in favor of the Obama Muffins (oh, okay–usually). But the muffin is as much Michelle Obama as it is President Obama, since one of the focal points of the First Lady’s food agenda is encouraging families to cook together with easy, nutritious recipes that are child friendly–and encouraging families to eat together, too.
Isak by my side, I mashed bananas, grated orange zest, chopped macadamias. Drinking coffee with my loved ones, the warm, tropical aroma filled the air. Holding my nephew Micah, I felt very stately, in deed. In my arms, I was cradling hope for the next generation.
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THE OBAMA MUFFINS
- 1/2 cup butter, softened
- 2 cups brown sugar
- 2 eggs
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 1 1/2 teaspoon coconut extract
- 3 bananas, mashed
- 1/4 cup applesauce
- zest of 1 large orange
- 1/2 cup orange juice
- 1 cup oats
- 1 cup whole wheat flour
- 2 cups white flour
- 4 teaspoons baking powder
- 2 teaspoons baking soda
- 3/4 cup macadamia nuts, chopped/lightly ground, plus extra for top of muffin
- 3/4 cup coconut, plus extra for top of the muffin
- 1 1/2 cups fresh or frozen raspberries
- 1 1/2 cups pineapple cut into small pieces (drain well if using fresh or canned)
In a large mixing bowl beat together butter and brown sugar. Add eggs and vanilla and coconut extract. Beat until light in color. Add the mashed bananas, applesauce, and orange zest. Beat until well combined.
In another bowl mix together the oats, whole wheat flour, white flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Slowly add the dry ingredients beat until just combined, and then alternate with the orange juice. Continue until everything is combined ending with the dry ingredients. Add the macadamia nuts, coconut, pineapple, and raspberries and stir by hand. Scoop into muffin tin with paper liners (I sprayed my non-stick tins with cooking spray. Muffins lifted out with no problem.). You might have more than 12 muffins because there are so many ingredients in this muffin…so enjoy more! (I had 12 large muffins, and six small, using 2 large and 1 regular size muffin pans.)
Sprinkle macadamia nuts and coconut on the top of the muffins.
Bake in a 350 degree oven for 35 minutes or until a knife come out clean when poked in the middle of a muffin. Let cool slightly before serving. Wonderful tea, brunch or snack muffins. They are very moist, and are great for breakfast on the go.
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Recipe and italicized text courtesy of Obama-Food-O-Rama.
Wedding Night Andouille
A little more than three years ago, Adam’s BFF and my brother-from-another-mother, Amit, got married. Isak had just turned six-weeks old, and we boarded a plane for Washington, D.C., hurling ourselves toward a weekend full of brevity. As was the custom at our wedding, we lodged with him and his lovely bride, as did Manny. It was also on this visit, that we found Isak’s infantile colicky cries could be soothed with the mere spinning presence of a ceiling fan. No Pink Floyd or stereo equalizer necessary.
Adam and I were non-profit workers and activists at the time of our wedding (read: we didn’t have a pot to piss in). Were it not for the generosity of my mother-in-law and the Atlanta gay mafia, I have no idea how we would have pulled it off. Similarly, Amit was just finishing law school (Georgetown Law, people! Gotta brag. Human Rights Law, at that!), and he and Eileen upheld our credo of doing as much as you could yourself, your way, and saving the money. In absolutely no way did this diminish the fun, however, at least for the guests. I danced with Isak strapped to me in his Baby Bjorn until the wee hours! After our nuptials, Adam was mopping up an over-flowing toilet at 1 a.m., at his, Amit was breaking down stereo equipment until it was nearly midnight.
When I think of those nights, however, it’s not the mopping and cleaning that comes to mind. Sure, it makes for good retelling, but what really stands out was the quality time we had together, on what is usually one of the most harried and hectic days of one’s life. We didn’t want to cloister ourselves away with romantic notions in a hotel room–there was a lifetime for that. What we all wanted was to cherish that defining moment together for as long as we could.
When we returned home after Amit and Eileen’s festivities, Amit broke out one of the best Desi fusion meals I could have ever conceived. We were so giddy, so tired, we couldn’t even think of a name–all we knew, is that it was good! And, it was so simple, it was genius. I only wish I had thought of it first.
We lounged on the floor, eating and laughing, sipping cold beer. We finally retired around 3 a.m., the newlyweds up at 6 a.m., to make their honeymoon flight to Hawaii. Bleary-eyed, we embraced. I went back to sleep, and dreamed of food and love.
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WEDDING NIGHT SAUSAGE
- 1 pkg. Andouille Sausage, 4 count (I prefer Garrett County Turkey Andouille, cold smoked. They’re pre-cooked, too, and make for simple heating.)
- 1 medium container plain lowfat yogurt
- 1 small bunch cilantro, chopped
- 1 jar Major Grey’s Chutney (this is a mango chutney)
- 4 pieces of your favorite naan bread, grilled–just blacken it on your gas burner like a tortilla or chapati, or lightly toast it. Oval shaped pieces are best. (I have used everything from homemade to store bought. I really like Kontos Masala Naan for this recipe.)
- Enough broth and splash of wine to coat bottom of small pan
Pour about an inch of broth and a splash or two of wine (your choice, I always use a white) in a small frying pan. Place the sausages in pan, and heat over medium-high heat. Turn the sausages several times, so that they heat evenly and stay moist. You don’t want them to burst, save for the ends a bit. Grill or toast your naan while sausages are cooking. When they have thoroughly heated and your naan is toasted, now comes the fun part: Split a sausage, then lay it into a naan, yes, just in the fashion of a hot dog. Top with a couple of dollops of yogurt, followed by chutney. Top with cilantro. Consume immediately, and enjoy the flavor explosions of spicy, cooling, fragrant and sweet. Extra tasty with beer and a side of fresh mango. Music and giddy friends make the meal. I highly recommend What’s Goin’ On or Lovely Day on repeat.
Lost in Translation IV
Said Ethan, “You know your local Chinese joint has got to be ‘good’ , if they’re using this as a garbage can!” I can feel myself swelling….
Photo: Ethan White, Brooklyn, NY August 2009
