Irwin Winter 1999
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Live Culturesby A. Sidophilis Today's Americans don't like to think about the fact that tiny bacteria, spores, and other various micro-organisms are living all around us. Even our very skin is crawling with animals too small to be detected by the unaided eye. However, small changes in our diet or hygiene can summon up the itchy evidence of these creatures' existence. Health and beauty aids in the USA, though, (not to mention cuisine) have been subjected to such regulation in recent years that Americans have had the luxury of forgetting exactly how to cure yeasty rashes. The IC editors hope that this article will re-illuminate our lucky co-nationals, without offending those readers who are not used to reading such words as "yeasty rash" in the mainstream media. According to a commonly accepted hypothesis, human skin is constantly covered in a blanket of microbes that includes such friendly symbiosites as yeast and bacteria. The yeast frolic around and eat our sugary secretions, while other types of bacteria feast on the yeast. Thus the delicate balance of our skin's ecosystem is preserved. However, the use of antibacterial soap, for example, can disrupt this balance by killing off the predators, allowing the yeast population to run out of control. The consequences are red and itchy. Another way in which some humans destroy the natural ecosystem is by consuming large quantities of pickled or fermented foods. This results in sweat that is so tasty to little yeasties it motivates them to reproduce faster than our bacteria can eat them. Again, a rash ensues. Although many North Americans and even Western Europeans have been able to chalk these dermatological unpleasantnesses up to a sad historical syndrome which our cultures have overcome, there are people in the world who must constantly struggle to maintain the balance of their epidermal food chain. Polly Tickle, scientist, reminds IC readers that "imperialism, colonialism, and the Cold War have left more than half of the world's inhabitants in situations of minimal subsistence and reliance on highly yeasty food sources and homeopathic remedies." Dr. Tickle's words ring especially true for this reporter, who is currently living in such a situation. Preparation for winter is an existential problem for most Bulgarians, who must work and save all summer in order to pay for their heating bills come cold weather. Canning, too, is a way of life here. Throughout the spring, summer, and fall, Bulgarian women harvest the produce of their balcony gardens and buy fruits and vegetables that are in season, and therefore inexpensive, and boil them, pickle them, or otherwise pasteurize them and seal them in jars. The bulk of the canning takes place during the night, when electricity is cheaper. Especially in autumn, carefree Western tourists may revel in the pleasant olfactory side effects of roasting peppers and boiling compote for the jars. The aroma adds a quaint ambiance to an evening stroll, something in which the indigenous women are themselves too busy to indulge. What most tourists never see is the enormous quantity of jars that begins to fill Bulgarian cabinets, awaiting winter when they will be opened and their contents consumed. By January, though, even tourists cannot help but notice the absence of fresh food. In recent years, imported citrus has become increasingly available during the Balkan winter, but otherwise the only produce for sale comes in the form of roots. Falafel sandwiches and doner kebabs once overflowing with tomatoes, parsley, carrots, and peppers are now garnished only with horseradish and turnips. Summer's ubiquitous fresh salads have been replaced by dried meats and sauerkraut. Pizzas are topped with pickles and canned peas. And our delicate Western skin becomes more and more scaly and more and more itchy as winter goes on. How do the locals preserve their healthy, glowing skin throughout the winter months? They harness the natural power of microbes, fighting bacteria with bacteria. Bulgaria is the cradle of the world's yogurt culture, and yogurt is a staple of any Bulgarian diet. Eaten plain or with fruit, used as a base for garlic sauce, or drunk as a thirst-quenching beverage with water and a pinch of salt, this slightly sour dairy product and the live bacteria that give it its flavor have the ability to counteract the negative effects of the Balkan winter. L-Bulgaricus and acidophilis cultures happily devour the yeast who arise from the pickling process, and Bulgarian skin stays rash-free. Yummy Yogurt, Granola, & Fruit SaladDeveloped in the remote, Bulgarian, IC kitchen, this dish counteracted an unexpected epidermal response to roasted Plovdiv peanuts. You can use the yogurt as a dressing for the fruit, or mix it in more liberally according to your preferences. Ingredients:
Directions: Mix some honey into the yogurt and add granola. Let sit (to soften the granola) while you cut the fruit. Mix it all up together. Millenio Madnessby Deb Tuckman Since the editors of this fine quarterly lay claim to the original idea of Millenios, they thought it would be fitting to have a review of this culinary delight now available at your local grocery store. I found the box quite by chance while shopping for the first time in my new neighborhood on the border of Venice and Santa Monica, CA. My roommate suggested that Lucky* was the better choice of supermarkets, so I made sure I had my checkbook and drove the short distance over the border into Santa Monica. I approached the Lucky with some trepidation: I was used to the Vons in my old neighborhood and I knew where everything was there. Now I would have to learn a whole new organizational system. What if the beer wasn't at the end of the lunchmeat aisle? What if Lucky actually put its refried beans in the canned food section and not in the kosher foods section? How would I be able to find all the ingredients for my beloved s'mores, not knowing the exact location of the graham crackers? My first visit to the Lucky on Lincoln and Ocean Park was like wandering into a new country. Everything was different, as I suspected. I cruised the aisles, making mental notes of where things were, and selecting items that I needed. On this first visit I had a heck of a time locating Craisins, and other dried fruits for that matter: after combing the store twice, I finally found a stockperson who actually knew which aisle had them. Cereal was on my list, as well as Lactaid milk. I hit the cereal aisle, steeled for the tough decision-making process which has never and will never dissipate in all my cereal-shopping years. Cocoa Pebbles always attracts me first; then I remember how quickly I get sick of them. Sugar Pops then call out my name, but I am jarred back into reality of why sugar is the first word in their name. I move to healthier horizons: Quaker granola cereal and Raisin Squares... yeesh, how did they become so expensive?! Special K, my family's favorite, with Craisins--or sometimes with pomegranate seeds, something my dad introduced me to that I have always appreciated. I spent a good fifteen minutes scanning the cereal selection and going through the exact same thought process I go through every time I buy cereal. Then I saw it. Glowing from the middle of this veritable rainbow of packaging, there it was. Purple, with a metallic glow. Millenios. How could I miss it? Three Cheerios are featured on the front, with a "2" to their right (our left). The box advertised that these cheerios were "Once in a Lifetime", and the price was cheaper than those holier-than-thou healthfood cereals. Sweetened with brown sugar, the familiar O's beckoned me to take them from their lonely little shelf in Lucky's and take them to my new home, where I would find a place for them among my roommate's numerous food products and occasionally retrieve them for a delicious, yet light breakfast (or dinner... sometimes it's all I can do to pour a bowl of cereal). Now, I don't often read food reviews because I usually cannot afford to hit those swanky, trendy LA restaurants that the Times likes to cover. So here is my attempt: The ambience was quite unique: the kitchen of a set-dresser, a woman who has collected various lovely antique salt shakers (with no salt in them, I might add, after frantically trying to boil water faster the other night) and has more mugs than the local Aahs! Store (that's Headlines for all you Bay Area folks). The bowl was a lovely creation with pictures of children frolicking on the bottom, gleaned, no doubt, from one of my roommate's many professional shopping trips. The spoon was not silver, but a lovely metal amalgam shaped perfectly for scooping O's and 2's into my anticipating mouth (minds out of the gutter, you cretins). I poured the O's and 2's into the bowl and added my Lactaid milk. You see, I am lactose intolerant and cursed to a life of popping lactose enzyme pills before every scoop of ice cream on a hot summer night, before each cheese and cracker at a snooty art opening, and before each slice of pizza during a night of lonely movie watching where I bemoan my singlehood and laugh out loud to teenagers masturbating with an apple pie (but NOT a la mode--that would be another pill). But I digress. I slid the first spoonful into my mouth. Lightly sweet, crunchy, oatie. Delicious. The taste was sublime, not overpowering, and by the end of the bowl, I felt satisfied, but not overfed. The little O's and 2's satiated my morning hunger and put a little lift in my step for the day. I felt inspired to take on any challenge that presented itself to me. I felt empowered by the idea that I just ingested all these little 2000s, and I felt ready to take on the new Millenio, um, Millenium. I have swallowed 2000 and I am invincible! I will approach this day with gusto and tell the world that I am here! A week later, I returned to Lucky and bought 3 more boxes: 2 for the meantime and one for New Year's Day. There are no Millenios left. It is now the end of January and the new year is exactly what every new year is like: standing in the cereal aisle, staring at all the boxes, and taking at least 15 minutes to decide which damned cereal I am going to buy.
* Now Albertson's. I know. But it was Lucky when I first bought the Millenios and that's the story I am sticking with. Ode to Cheeseby Flyppq Orange, yellow, or off-white With the mice it's #1 We love you cheese. Variations on the Chocolate Chip Cookie You're probably familiar with the famous Toll House cookie, whose origins pre-date California's freeways, though perhaps not the spirit of early truck-stop entrepreneurs. That classic is not the standard in every American household, though, as these delicious alternatives will attest. Comparison table: The basic instructions for all of these is to mix butter, sugar, and other liquids together. Sift dry ingredients then mix in. Add chocolate chips, nuts, bake for about 10 minutes at 375 degree oven.
* Abbie's alternative: 1 cup white, 1/2 cup brown Webvan reviewby Krista Faries I feel compelled to report on my first Webvan experience. www.webvan.com For those like me who are "vehicularly challenged" (according to Kevin Dente), or if you just hate dealing with the crowds at the grocery store, here's a webservice for you. The produce prices are a little high, but the rest seems comparable and even cheaper in some cases, and they have some vegetarian and organic selections as well. I dragged myself out of bed 10 minutes before the delivery window started (you sign up for a half hour delivery window)--just barely in time since they arrived 5 minutes early. The food was packed in several large colorful plastic containers, packed light enough to carry into the house, then empty, and return right then, so you aren't stuck with a bunch of plastic bags--well, not entirely true, the produce is in bags, and some things were packed with those cello-plastic air bags, which I should have just left in the containers but I wasn't thinking. The frozen foods had been kept in styrofoam with dry ice packs to keep them frozen in transit. Once unpacked, I signed the electronic notepad and he printed a receipt. A packing slip was also included so it was easy to check the order. They made a couple of mistakes--blackberries instead of blueberries, Cherry Garcia instead of Portofino Black Raspberry Bacio. I noticed this only after he left. They also didn't have one item--apple juice--which they told me about when they delivered. Overall, though, it's much preferable to walking to the grocery store, fighting the crowds, waiting in line (while ice cream slowly melts), and hoping everything fits in my cart for the walk home. I had all my groceries here and put away within 15 minutes of waking up, so it felt like an incredibly productive morning! As far as price, most items are normal grocery store prices, except that you can't take advantage of all the Safeway/Lucky 2-for-1 or deep discount specials. I don't know if you can use coupons. (I personally boycotted coupons several years ago.) They did have a few specials (Barilla pasta for .77, Portofino for 1.96). Milk was much cheaper (2.67/gallon instead of 3.69, I think, at Lucky). Produce was, for the most part, quite a bit higher than I usually pay (bananas were normal). But since there's a great produce market nearby, I didn't get much produce, mostly large/heavy dry & frozen goods. The selection was reasonably good, including things like organic milk and produce, and Amy's vegetarian meals in the frozen foods. A cool feature is that you can save lists, so you don't have to search for items again on future orders. You can just edit a list, or use the same list, so it only takes a few minutes to order. It's probably ideal for a single person like me, rather than a household where you can take advantage of cheaper bulk purchasing. I think there is a $50 minimum order, otherwise it would be useful for frequently purchased items like milk. I got about 25 items, including several frozen dinners, frozen juice, frozen vegetables, toiletries, pasta, deli item (pasta with pine nuts and sundried tomatoes--mmm), milk, fruit, ice cream, and cereal. The total bill was $67.55, with no delivery charges, no tips accepted. I remember when we were always told we would be doing our shopping this way someday... I just can't believe I'm actually doing it and it seems normal. Magical Dietsby O. Beece With the highest obesity rate in the world (20% of adult males and 25% of adult females), Americans cannot be blamed for watching their weight. However, it seems paradoxical that Americans traveling abroad tend to pack on additional vacation pounds. Where the natives are skinny, visitors should logically lose weight, too. Or is it something other than local culinary offerings that regulates body mass index? Polly Tickle, the IC's roving scientist, suggests that any number of factors -- attitude, economic means, certain chemical dependencies (especially nicotine and caffeine), and parasitic illnesses, to name a few -- may be responsible for the anorexia-like symptoms exhibited by some regular patrons of European cake shops and steak houses, who obviously are not underfed. This reporter traveled to Bulgaria to investigate the shocking svelte of a land where one would expect to find more chub. Indeed, even visitors to this country do not seem to gain weight or volume, despite the wealth of the regional menu, which is rich not only in variety, but also in saturated fats. The expatriate community here is more likely to freeze to death (from lack of any blubbery padding) or pass out from hunger and anemia than it is to acquire diabetes or heart disease. And this despite a major wintertime reliance on fatty cheese, eggs, and butter in the diet (often all three at once in the same dense and greasy hunk of banitsa). It seems that inadequate public transport and winter snow and ice force Sofia residents to expend more calories walking in search of food than they can possibly consume, regardless of the energy content of the food they eventually find. Still, expats in Sofia appear utterly obese relative to Bulgarian citizens. This seems to be partially a matter of fashion. Bulgarian women, for example, continue to wear miniskirts and high heels throughout the icy season. Consequently, they shiver off even more weight than long-underwear-clad Americans, and walking requires even more caution and energy from Bulgarians in platform shoes than it does from Westerners in high-tech hiking boots. Moreover, local people tend to drink the local water, infested as it may be with worms, parasites, and disease. Constant woosliness is a good way to keep off those unwanted centimeters. The less food one is capable of keeping down comfortably, the fewer calories one is likely to ingest. Harboring parasites doubles the benefits -- one eats less because the parasites make one woosly, and most of the food one eats goes to feeding the worms, rather than to plumping up the host's hips and thighs. Moreover, the skinnier one gets thanks to the parasite or the woosles, the shorter the miniskirt one can wear, and the cycle begins again with the shivering off of yet more calories. No wonder the average Bulgarian girth hovers around 30 centimeters, while Americans are lucky to have a 30 inch waist! Finally, the presence of magical diets must be considered in any analysis of Bulgarian body type. Probably equally as many Bulgarians as Americans put themselves on diet regimes. The difference in efficacy lies in the ingredients of the allowed foods. While American diets typically encourage the consumption of cabbage soup with froofy (and high-calorie) additions such as imported feta or shrimp, Bulgarian diets consist of pills and seaweed shakes alone. No serious dieter in Bulgaria would ever eat anything over 1cc in size (unless it is augmented with pure water and nothing else). This is because dieting here is not just a hobby, it is a profession. The first month's supply of HerbaLife, the most popular diet product in Sofia, costs twice the average local monthly salary. So people dedicated to losing weight must do it quickly and effectively. And in another of Bulgaria's ever-common cycles, weight loss leads to more weight loss, as unsuspecting young adults find that they can make more money selling HerbaLife than they made at their old jobs. Since salespeople receive sizeable discounts on the size-reducing products, they continue taking the diet pills long after they have reached their weightloss goals. Thus the Bulgarian population gets skinnier and skinnier. Good or bad, this reporter is unable to make a value judgement in this case of seemingly self-imposed malnutrition. The closer one gets to the truth here, the more one loses perspective (and physical depth). No amount of fried kashkaval, oily doner, or pizza with fatty ham and eggs seems sufficient to maintain a reasonable weight in Bulgaria. So perhaps it is best simply to embrace the situation and stop trying to evaluate it morally. At least clothing here is cheap enough to make a new wardrobe in smaller sizes emminently affordable. Red Lentil Soup with Mint Another IC favorite from Ayla's Turkish cookbook, with customary ammendments, this "soup" tends to be almost a cassarole. Pleasant complements are salad and crusty, warm bread. Ingredients:
"We wanted to make it vegan," said the IC sous-chef. "So we used oil instead of butter for the onions, but I don't know a subsitute for animal products when it comes to making the thickener with flour." The Dinnerby Amanda Kabak She was coming to dinner. Not just any dinner and certainly not just any her. I had been watching her somewhat surreptitiously literally for years—three, to be exact, and I had finally worked up the guts to trip over myself approaching her. She said yes with no hesitation. That must mean something, I thought as I celebrated silently to myself and wrote down her phone number with a shaking hand. So this wasn’t your everyday ordinary dinner. In fact, this was our second and a half date. Ah, yes, this courtship had a rocky start. I had first invited her to coffee. Or "coffee," I should amend, because everyone knows coffee is almost always "coffee" unless it really is just coffee. Hell, coffee should be considered an institution, if not its own food group. Anyway, while I had interpreted my overture as "coffee," she had read it as coffee. All told, it translated roughly into one half of a date. The next time I saw her was for dinner at the Blue Stone Bistro—home of truly heavenly calzones among other tasty entrees and an appetizer called "Prairie Fire" that I particularly liked. Warm spicy refried beans and heated tortilla chips. I had been looking forward to it all day (and her company all week), but the thought of sharing a small table with her on an official date made me so nervous I had sent my digestive system into a frenzy before I even got there. In other words, I was so worked up that I couldn’t even think of eating something nearly as delicious as a chicken pesto calzone by the time I looked at the menu. In the end, it had been a hunk of vegetarian lasagna for her (she was vacillating between turning her back on meat entirely and inviting beef back into her life), a very plain turkey sandwich and a glass of something alcoholic for me, and a rain check on a good-night kiss I was hoping I could convince her to cash in sometime in the near future. It was now the near future. Yes, she was coming to dinner. I could show off my apartment and my culinary prowess at the same time. But what should I make? Some of my old standbys came to mind. I’d once made a wildly successful meal of broiled swordfish lightly marinated in teriyaki with steamed baby asparagus and rice pilaf. I’ve been known to roast a mean whole chicken (or Cornish hen) with onions and red potatoes. Grilled pork tenderloin; curried butternut squash soup; trout in a ginger, sesame, and soy marinade; a heavenly sausage and red wine risotto... The more I thought about it, the less sure I was about what to make. So I started to ask around. Chicken breast stuffed with couscous and capers, lobster stew, crown roast of pork, paella and so on. And that’s not even mentioning dessert. Fondue? What were people thinking? My roommate supplied the best suggestion I didn’t take: a meal composed entirely of aphrodisiacs. I decided to trust my natural charm and forego drugging her into submission. I was stumped. There were so many things to consider. I wanted a meal I wouldn’t have to tear my attention away from my guest excessively to prepare. It would probably be best to have it not be too messy to eat. I wanted it to take some effort on my part but not seem too showy. It had to be fairly universally appealing because I didn’t know her tastes well. And it had to be delicious. Have you ever been to Italy? Well, I haven’t, but my roommate spent quite a lot of time there some years back and returned with a keen sense of rustic Tuscan cooking. One of my favorites is the aptly named Tuscan chicken. In short, it is chicken (thighs, traditionally) cooked lightly in olive oil (extra virgin, first cold pressed, and green), combined in a red sauce with cannellini (white) beans and onions sautéed with garlic in more olive oil, and then baked with a sprinkling of bread crumbs and freshly grated Pecerino Romano cheese on top. It is simple and delicious. Not a dish that would impress at first sight, but at first taste … One dish, somewhat plain, but with hidden succulence, I thought it represented me well. I couldn’t pull off elegant, and I’ve never been flashy. Paired with a fresh green salad with some colorful odds and ends, some fresh Italian bread purchased that morning from the bakery down the road, and a dessert of my well-reviewed banana layer cake with homemade buttercream frosting, I felt I had hit on the solution. As my roommate vacated the premises, she reminded me that there was some good red wine if I still wanted to try the getting-her-drunk tactic. I drove across town to pick her up, the Tuscan chicken safely in the refrigerator, having been made the day before (as with much tomato-based Italian food, it is ever so much better the second day). She climbed into my truck and presented me with a wild bouquet of flowers in lieu of anything edible—for I had told her I had everything covered. A Gerber daisy, an iris, the most enormous amaryllis that ended up opening up to the exact size of my dining room, and freesia. After my nervous babbling died down, there followed the beginning of a purely enjoyable leisurely conversation tinged with a shade of tension on both our parts also betrayed on both our parts by a cycle of excessive thirst followed by excessive water consumption followed by excessive bathroom trips. At least that broke up my being physically assaulted by her presence. As she sat in a chair in my kitchen and talked to me, I washed and tore up the lettuce, chopped the carrots and the red peppers, and tossed it all together. We grazed on our greens as the chicken warmed in the oven. Then we took impossibly tiny portions of the steaming chicken and small chunks of the bread and nibbled on as the tension grew. I escaped to the bathroom and splashed water on my red hot face before emerging to cut and serve wedges of cake and pour her a mug of hot water (yes, just water, not tea or coffee, and don’t ask—she’s a singer, and that’s all I can say about it). I toyed with my cake, not terribly impressed with the frosting, and watched her sip her water. We were eating on my roommate’s china (fittingly hand-carried from Sienna), and I looked down at my beautiful plate and said, "Okay. I give up. I just have to know if I’m going to kiss you tonight or I might pass out." She admitted that she liked making me uncomfortable like this then said, "Well, I did take a rain check." I wish I could describe her expression, but it was hard to see it while I was staring at the remains of my cake. It sounded like a grin, though. "Yes you did," I managed to say, "And, you know, those things have expiration dates." She laughed, there was a pause, and she said, "Yes. I think I’ll cash it in." I think the chicken made a good impression. Food-related links
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