Just like Mom used to make

When I was a young girl, my republican-born parents went through a weird period that I now recognize as midlife crisis. No red cars or mistresses here, though, nope, my Dad, a mild-mannered mechanical engineer by day, spent his evenings poring over publications like the Whole Earth Catalog and seemingly endless volumes of the Foxfire Book.

One weekend, I came across my father stirring a foul-smelling pot suspended over the barbecue in the backyard. It seems he had bargained with someone at church for the fat from their 4-H project pig, and armed with lye from the hardware store, he was cooking up a batch of soap. He proudly informed us that not only would we be able to bathe with it, but we could grate it for use as laundry soap! My 13-year old self recoiled in horror at the thought, and my sympathetic friends made sure I got lots of overly-scented soaps for my birthday. The experiment was only a mild success: the hard water in Redding made it all but impossible to lather with, so we figured he had set us up with camping soap for life.

Another chapter in this midlife adventure was devoted to corning beef. My mother and father must have spent hours hatching this plan, for one Friday my mother came home with an earthenware crock from an antique store and a rather large cut of beef. She and my dad spent most of the following day concocting the brine that was to transform this lowly rump into authentic corned beef.

For three months, the hunk of meat soaked in the corner of the breakfast room, in its crock covered by a board, held down by a brick (to keep the dog out). Every now and then Mom would let us lift the lid and we would make sure it was still submerged. It endured much speculation and levity concerning its future edibility, and my brother and I rushed our friends past it, hoping they wouldn't notice.

Finally, my parents pronounced it ready (not sure how they could tell). It spent half a day in the dutch oven making the house smell heavenly, and we had no problem overcoming the gross factor to consume the fork-tender flesh. Indeed, we demolished it in one sitting.

Emboldened by their taste success (it tasted a gazillion times better than anything from the store), and the fact that no one had been poisoned, my folks immediately set about making a second one. Mom even picked up a second crock so we wouldn't have to wait two months between them, and Daddy fitted them with round plywood lids.

But after a week, it was clear that something was horribly wrong: it smelled suspect, and it was clear we had failed. The remains were carried out to the curb at arms' length, and the house was aired out. We only ever ate the pink corned beef from the supermarket after that.

Nowadays, though, I can buy uncured ("grey") corned beef at the co-op, made the same way Mom used to (though I'm pretty sure it doesn't have to endure snide remarks like my family made). This year, I'm giving it the slow roast treatment in the Römertopf with a splash of hard cider. I'll add some wedges of Savoy cabbage when the time is right. And after supper, we shall head over to our Irish neighbors to raise a glass to St. Paddy.

All things Irish and chocolate

‘Tis the season to run around madly, trying to get everything done before we leave—nothing major, just a remodel and the taxes. And then there are the 1001 items to tick off our list, answering questions like, “where can I get a SIM card for my mobile phone?” “Where’s the nearest off-license?” and my personal favorite, “where will we buy our food?”

I took some time today with a map, trying to figure out just where we’re staying (and how to get there from the airport), and discovered it’s just two stops up the tram line from the Dundrum Shopping Centre, which, I learn from their Website, is open extra hours for St. Patrick’s Day. I also note, with some disappointment, that I can eat at McDonald’s, KFC, Pizza Hut, or (gasp!) TGIFriday’s, after stimulating the economy at The Body Shop, Tommy Hilfiger or even Build-a-Bear. When I can’t go any further, I can always grab a mocha at Starbuck’s.

But all is not American here: the anchor stores are Tesco and Marks & Spencers, along with one I’ve never visited before called Harvey Nichols. While Tesco and M&S are UK ‘imports,’ they do well with providing local produce and products (see my musings about flown food); however, The upscale Irish store’s marketing copy focuses on the local.

To wit: Harvey is featuring carrageen moss, traditionally used as a remedy for colds and flu, but that can also act as an alternative to gelatin for desserts and savoury dishes. Since I’m trying to fight off a cold on the eve of flying, I am sorely tempted. But then I read on, and my knees go weak: artisan chocolate bars created in Limerick, with “slightly left-field flavour combinations” such as Gin & Tonic, Sea Salt, Wild Flower, Lime & Black Pepper and Star Anise & Ginger. But wait, that’s not all: a chocolate truffle tribute to that very Irish cocktail, the Black Velvet (made from equal measures of champagne and Irish stout).

******

With chocolate on my mind, Number One Son reminded me that we needed to make a cake for Darling Husband’s birthday. Since we’ve both been trying to stick to very healthy fare before our departure (in anticipation of blowing the rotation diet in a huge way), I thought I would try the chocolate cardamom combination on a GF cake base. We took it with to the school community gathering this evening, and amazingly, there was some left, but only because the kids decamped to the carousel before we pulled the cake out of hiding!

Chocolate Cardmom Cake

1½ cups GF flour (Bob’s Red Mill, contains garbanzo flour, potato starch, tapioca flour, ‘sweet’ white sorghum flour and fava flour)
1 cup brown sugar
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch process; I used Green & Black)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. xanthan gum
¾ tsp. salt
1¼ cup milk (cow, soy, rice, almond, etc.)
1/3 cup butter, margarine or shortening
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 tsp. almond extract
½ tsp. ground cardamom

Preheat oven to 350°F; grease an 11”x7” pan, set aside. Blend all ingredients with food processor or mixer until thoroughly blended. Pour into prepared pan and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until cake tester comes out clean. Cool, then garnish with melted chocolate, chopped smoked almonds and chopped hard toffee.

Ireland on my mind

With St. Patrick's day fast approaching, it's no surprise that the press is trying to find an Irish angle in their living sections. And it's of interest personally, as the Emerald Isle is our first destination--we'll be eating in County Dublin a short week from now.

Hard-hitting news purveyor CNN informs me that Guinness sales in Ireland are declining, as younger drinkers are favoring things that taste better (not bitter) and--get this--don't take two minutes to pour. Stout, that deep, creamy brew, must be poured slowly and allowed to settle for a minute or two before it can be drunk, and today's youth don't want to wait that long. Rural pubs are closing, offset by the opening of non-Irish Irish pubs elsewhere.

This isn't news to us, as sensible legislation banning things like driving drunk naturally changed people's drinking habits. Since no one with any amount of self-respect in Ireland would dream of drinking stout from a bottle or can, a half-pint at the pub is pretty much the limit. Since we're living on the Luas (light rail) line, we plan to take ample advantage of the smoke-free pubs to indulge in fine local brews on tap (Yes, I've tried stout, but still prefer some of the drier apple ciders, an incredible-tasting local product). Plus, I know that wherever I can find a supermarket, there will be an off-license, the Irish equivalent of a liquor store, nearby, and I'll be stocking up on some hard cider and Bailey's.

The San Francisco Chronicle, with its Alice Watersian perspective on all things food, takes a more upbeat look at Irish cuisine. Yup, it appears that young Irish chefs took their training in France and California and then reversed tradition and returned home to celebrate their local goodness. Gone is boiled beef and cabbage, replaced by scallop and cockle (alive, alive-o) risotto and pots de crème laced with Bailey's. As one chef cited note, "The sea is just minutes away, why use imported products when there are so many excellent traditional producers nearby?"

Oh, I am truly looking forward to the local bounty-there are no factory farms in Ireland, the cows really do graze on grass. The sea is just minutes away, and the dairy products are absolutely out of this world. We shall eat local; just as we will eat locally for St. Paddy's: 'grey' corned beef from Oregon, Savoy cabbage and fingerling potatoes from Washington. And maybe I'll try that pot de crème recipe to use up some eggs and Bailey's.

********
Bailey's Pots de Crème

Makes 8

Made with one of Ireland's famous spirits, Baileys Irish Cream, these take just minutes to prepare and make a tasty finish to any meal. Serve them with homemade shortbread cookies, if desired. Adapted from "Full On Irish," by Kevin Dundon (Epicure Press, 2005).

INGREDIENTS:

2 2/3 cups heavy cream

10 tablespoons Baileys Irish Cream

1/2 cup freshly brewed espresso

18 ounces mascarpone

5 tablespoons powdered sugar

INSTRUCTIONS:

Instructions: Whip the cream in a bowl until soft peaks have formed. Place the Baileys Irish cream in a bowl with the espresso, mascarpone cheese and sugar. Beat until well combined, then fold in the cream. Divide among cups or ramekins of scant 1-cup size and refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight before serving. Serve chilled.

Eating down to the wire

We are racing to our departure for the old world with frightening speed, and my list of things to do before we go seems to be getting longer, not shorter. Experience dictates that at some point, the tasks will recede and we will lock the door behind us, but experience also tells me that I need to undertake some serious food preparation strategies.

It's always lovely to come home to a home-cooked meal. Conversely, it's really gross to come home to a fridge full of fuzzy food. So we have entered that Twilight Zone of leftovers, trying to combine what's fresh into relatively edible concoctions. Last night, some potato soup got a couple of sausages and half a quart of chicken stock thrown in, along with some fresh artichokes (first of the season!). Tonight, I'll be trying to incorporate some beans and quinoa into a tempting side dish.

Creating a meal for ourselves on our return is fun: we try to choose something comforting and heavy on vegetables, moist and refreshing. Things will be in the freezer, ready for popping into the oven while we shower. Before we leave, we'll change the sheets so fresh beds invite us. We'll also make sure that there is some breakfast food for the next morning, as we will be up long before the sun, and long before the real stores open.

I also have to pay attention to the flight itself. Airline food has a well-deserved reputation for being unpalatable, as well as unhealthy. First up, we try to order special meals, since not eating on a ten-hour flight isn't realistic: one kid's meal (usually heavy on the sugar, but tends to have a lot of variety); one pure vegetarian (so we have something not smothered in cheese--I always laugh at how they provide diet margarine for this meal); one ovo-lacto vegetarian (there's usually a fair amount of cheese and egg here); and one fruit plate (we don't need a lot of calories, and fruit can be refreshing). I'm not expecting to be able to eat any of it, since in addition to wheat, dairy and eggs, I can't eat pineapple, bananas, peanuts and hazelnuts.

So yes, in addition to this "normal" strategy, I'm planning to bring my own food. The looks I got from the TSA agent when I packed a chicken salad on the last flight was pretty funny (yes, she even opened the deli container to determine it wasn't a gel or liquid), but I'm planning on bringing dried fruit and nuts, an avocado and a selection of 'energy' bars (Luna Sunrise are tasty and made with real food). I'd love to bring things like juice, but there's no way we can fit it all in the regulation Ziploc bag. (As an aside, it appears Europeans are having a bit of an issue with the baggies when they fly here, as they're not readily available over there. Seems they form an iconic part of our culture.)

Last up is to put together a shopping list of things to buy our first morning over there. We will be staying in a 'self-catering' apartment in Dublin, and they usually provide what they call a welcome packet, which consists of soda bread, Irish butter (of course!), black tea and milk. We'll be arriving late, so our flight stores will have to last us through breakfast, until we find the nearest Tesco or Sainsbury's. If shopping when you're hungry is not a good idea, shopping while jet lagged is a recipe for disaster, so we try to make the list up in advance. It's hard to know what the stores will have, so we tend to put real, whole foods, like apples, potatoes, rice, oatmeal, and Green & Black's drinking chocolate on the list.

And yes, I will board with a bar of some decent chocolate for my mental state.

Bringing us up

At the end of an incredibly busy week, I spend an indulgent hour curled up reading. The latest issue of Mothering magazine is on top of the pile, and I dive in. The news blurbs tell me that that stodgiest of institutions, the American Academy of Pediatrics published an article showing a link between in-utero exposure to an insecticide and sub-par mental and motor development, as well an an increased risk of behavior problems. The chemical studied, chlorpyritos, is banned for residential use, but still in use in commercial farming operations. It strikes me that since the study focuses on urban dwellers, we're talking about a lot of kids, since it's unlikely they grow their own.

I read in the paper (online--save a tree!) that pregnant women are reeling in the wake of a new study that indicates that women who don't eat fish during pregnancy may be doing a disservice to their progeny's brain development. But wait--another study says that they should avoid fish, due to the high concentrations of mercury. Different articles have different lists of fish that have relatively lower mercury levels, to the point that what's safe on one list may be listed as unsafe on another.

I have to laugh at some studies: my particular favorite was one from Emory University that came out when Number One Son was an infant, saying that they had verified that children do indeed grow in spurts, usually while sleeping.

When faced with all this information, what are parents to do? Likewise, do we really need a study to verify what is painfully obvious to any parent who has had a tot outgrow their pajamas overnight? And why on earth must we prove the harm in spraying food destined to be consumed by children?

If we look backwards a bit, we may find solace in the wisdom of ages. Traditions tell us how to eat, how to sleep, how to behave in a social manner. Biology, which we arrogantly push aside in favor of the new god science, must be heard. We may poke fun at the stereotypical cravings of pregnant women, but wise women know to trust their bodies. I was fortunate to have midwives who supported us. I gave in to my cravings and aversions, different as they were with each child: I ate mac & cheese daily with Number One, and had the occasional glass of wine; for Little One, only tempura would do (lots of shrimp, very greasy), and I couldn't stand the sight of tortilla chips.

Pregnancy and parenthood is work, yes, but it should be a time of joy. Our focus on the material is making it a minefield of hazards, both real and perceived. Worse, we are watching, waiting: one false step, and society crashes down the gavel of judgment.

Let us instead celebrate these people who have decided to build our future, these brave women who are just beginning their voyage, by feeding them well. If we can't pass up enriching the bottom line for our own sake, then we should clean up our act for them. Let's feed all children, and all parents, and while we're at it, everyone, good, clean food.