I've been paying too much for ginger

So I have a sick Finn staying at my house, and I thought I'd make a batch of my favorite cold remedy for her. Old-time Greenpoint residents will recognize this as an adaptation of good ol' Gombu's "Winter Remedy" recipe, the tried and true combination of fresh ginger, honey and lemon. Gombu got the Greenpoint Coffeehouse chopping and boiling the ginger, but I've had much more success with the following method.

Peel and coarsely chop the raw ginger, and put it in a blender or food processor with just enough water to keep the whole mess moving. Once the ginger is basically liquified, extract the juice either by putting it in cheesecloth or a jelly bag and squeezing. If I don't feel like getting the jelly bag out I'll sometimes just squeeze it with my "brutish Wisconsin hands" (as MSF once colorfully put it).

This method is way more efficient and produces a much more concentrated product than boiling, so it goes a lot further.

Then squeeze a couple lemons in there, add some honey, some hot water and you've got a delicious refreshing tonic that will soothe your throat, clear up your congestion, and taste great with a couple ounces of scotch in it.

But I just realized that I HAVE BEEN PAYING TOO MUCH FOR GINGER. I once bought organic ginger for $8/pound at a "natural grocery store" near my job. That was bad, but I was desperate and I knew it, so what can you do. Lately I have been buying ginger in bulk for a dollar a pound at one of those little Chinatown markets on Grand street. I have been so completely chuffed to carry around one of those red plastic bags, knowing I only paid 5 bucks for the whole sack. With my chest puffed out and my head high I have vainly paraded the streets of lower Manhattan for months, drunk on the joys of knowing that I had insider information, that I had found the best price on ginger. I once even got up on a stage in front of a paying audience and told them where to get cheap ginger.

But I was wrong.

Today I stopped by that little market under the Manhattan bridge to get some celery and carrots for my fish stock, and there I saw it, mocking me. Ginger, large golden cloves of beautiful ginger, for

5o CENTS A POUND.

I don't know how they're doing it, and I'm sure however they're growing it is giving the planet whatever the planetary equivalent of AIDS is, but I bought about three and a half pounds of it just for fun. And the guy charged my $1.50 for it because it was under four pounds! That comes to 42 CENTS A POUND!

Excuse me, I have to go put my head between my knees for a second.

Okay, I'm back. But if anyone knows a retail spot that has a better price on ginger, let me know so I can kill you.

fight club

Two episodes of breaking bad after waking up I was finally ready to try to eat something. All the usual symptoms, the headache, the nausea, the regret, were so heightened I had convinced myself I had a disease, plus I had a fat lip and my jaw hurt so bad could barely open my mouth. Trying to piece it all together, a couple fragments stood out pretty clearly.

I had been playing crotch-punch with D. after I got off my shift at the bar. A couple people wanted to do shots and my buddy gave me a glass of Thomas H Handy Sazerac Rye, (super zippy, lots of peppery spice, hot burn in the throat, some softer toffee and a little lingering floralness, 127 proof!) and I was into my I-don't-know-how-many-th beer, so things got a little out of hand. D. and I got tired of hitting each other in the nuts, and somehow the play-fighting transferred over to D.'s wife, K. The part I don't remember is what I did to her exactly, but I did something and suddenly she was sitting on the ground holding her mouth and mad as a hornet. I felt pretty bad, so I did what I usually do when a woman is mad at me, I apologized and said "go ahead, hit me as hard as you can." She punched me so hard in the mouth that the BACK of my head hurt. I tasted blood in my mouth and this guy who claimed to be a marine was soberly nodding his head, saying "yo, I really respect you for that." K. and I hugged, everyone laughed, and we continued along our business of getting drunk.

While I fried up some eggs and a couple slices of Quattro Farms smoked venison sausage I cut a slice of the rye bread I had baked the day before to munch on. "This'll never work" I thought as I tried to somehow chew the slice of bread without unclenching my throbbing jaw. Luckily my tea was ready, (licorice coated oolong [don't judge]) so I dipped the bread in that until it was soft enough to eat.

Reader Survey

Okay. Just now, while gently warming some Enoki mushrooms to put on a pulled pork and kimchi beet sandwich (just tryin stuff out), I received the following email.

Have you ever tried a pomelo? They have them in the stores here and Dad is curious.

Mom

Couple of things. My parents are on an extended trip in Poland right now, so the fact that I received this message at 8:30 suggests that my mom was up and fretting about the pomelo situation at 2:30 am.

You have to understand that my dad has eaten the same breakfast every day for probably about 40 years. A half a grapefruit and a bowl of Wheaties is what the man needs to fuel himself for a day of never making any mistakes ever, and now he has seen a pomelo. Intrigued, perhaps, by its similarity to the trusted grejpfrut, yet repulsed by its difference, who knows how many nights he has lost to the wild confusion of desire before confiding his troubles in his wife, who, unable to tear her husband from the morass of temptation into which he has fallen, turns to me.

Should he try a pomelo? Perhaps all these years he has been missing out on a unique passion; the daily consumption of a citrus fruit whose every nuance seems to be moulded to his palate. And then what? If he allows himself this little deviation, what's to stop him from, within a year, having a secret second family in Cleveland, a meth addiction and six DUIs? Who knows.
Also, he might hate the pomelo, in which case he will have eaten a fruit that he hated.

Have I ever had a pomelo? Honestly, the answer is "I don't remember." Probably, but I've also had pickled tongue in aspic, unidentifiable fish, mystery rubber-hose-looking organ meat, tripe pancakes, blood soup, donkey sausage, and more. And these things stick out a little more in my limited memory.

So, dear readers, I too find myself overburdened and confused, and I turn to you for help.

Have you ever had a pomelo? Should my dad try one?

Also, I kind of can't believe they have pomelos in Poland, I remember when you couldn't get a banana there (remind me to tell you the Polish banana story some time).

Technical Difficulties

Just a quick not on the absence of photographs in the latest blog post, and in future posts.

A couple months ago I spilled an entire cup of coffee on my laptop, and it stopped working. Except for this miraculous period of two days in which it came back to life, it continues to not work. All blogging and other internet business is being conducted on my girlfriend's crappy netbook, which, even though it is less than a year old, is an unbelievable piece of shit. One of its many handicaps is that it is not able to interface with my digital camera, which is also dying.

So, there will be no more photographs in the forseeable future, until we are able to buy a new computer (or if you're really really impatient you can always make a large cash donation to hurry things along, I promise it will probably go to the computer fund).

The good news is that my mom got me a slow-cooker for Christmas, so there's a whole new world of possibilities there. My grandma also got me an twelve inch long "Marine Combat Knife" with a black blade (so that the glint doesn't reveal your position when you're marauding in the dark). I don't think this has any breakfast applications, but it's still good.

Steaming Grey Meat Sludge Breakfast

Listen, I'm really really broke right now, like "steal twenty bucks from your girlfriend to get to work" broke. The good news is that I am employed, and I've got a job with great perks. That's right, I work at the Union Square Greenmarket. Market freebies make being broke tolerable, a little more "French peasant" and a little less "crushing urban privation." Anyways, yesterday, down to my last few dollars for the third time in a week, I was chatting with the duck folks. They mentioned they had a ton of duck liver that wasn't selling. I saw that the regular price was a half pound for 4 bucks, and guessing they would give me like half off I asked for a half pound. They gave me a whole POUND for FREE! I blew the last of my cash on a discounted artisinal baguette and finished out the day. The plan; Duck Liver Pate!

I did a couple quick smartphone recipe searches (I know, I know, broke with smartphone, it's terrible I know) to get an idea of whether I needed anything. The basic recipes called for liver, herbs, duck fat, shallots and garlic. A couple recipes called for adding cognac or armagnac, which, hah, no fucking way I'm buying cognac right now. Everything else I had at home, including a couple ounces of duck fat I had rendered off of some discounted duck legs a few months ago.

The livers were kind of gross to clean; there's weird connective tissue you have to pull off and occasionally a blood vessel will burst and suddenly things get surprisingly bloody, but the stuff that comes off is a real treat for the dog. Once the prep is done it's a pretty easy process, melt the fat (you could also use butter or lard, of course), soften the shallots, then throw in the garlic and herbs and the livers and cook for a couple minutes on each side, deglaze the pan with a little booze (I used a couple teaspoons of Dolin sweet vermouth, but you could use cognac [you rich piece of shit] or sherry, port or brandy), pour it all in the blender, buzz it, let cool and refrigerate for a couple hours. Easy.

A couple gross things that happened: When the livers were in the pan the heat got too high for a minute and I'm guessing blood vessels deep inside the liver started to burst. The lobes, which were turning grayish, would make this little popping sound and quiver a little bit. One lobe popped so hard that it jumped about three inches and a spurt of maroon/gray something hit me in the face and sort of slid down my glasses lense. Later, after the first couple seconds in the blender I opened up the lid and looked down into a steaming mass of gray sludge. When I stirred it with the wooden spoon it made slurpy/sucking noises.

I let it cool and put it in a shallow tupperware thing in the fridge for the night. This morning I melted a little butter in the skillet and threw in a couple of slices of baguette and two eggs. I cooked the eggs over very very easy, and just sprinkled a little salt and pepper and rosemary on top. I spread the liver on the toast and ate the shit out of all of it, dipping the toasts in the rich yolk as it ran out onto the plate. I felt like a fat king. You should also know that I've had about three more pate toasts while I've been sitting here typing this up. If you're reading this today, get in touch with me NOW and maybe you can come over and have some, I doubt it will survive in this house more than a day or two.

In summary, this was a rare poor man's treat, the whole thing costing me less than 5 dollars for what will be several meals. But even without the freebies, you could make this for under 20. Here's where everything came from. Incedentally, these purveyors are the ones I consider to be the best in each category.

Duck Liver: Hudson Valley Duck at Union Square Mondays
Garlic: Anthony Road Winery at Union Square Saturdays
Shallots: Don't Remember
Sage, Thyme and Rosemary: Keith's Farm at Union Square Wednesdays
Baguette: Buon Pane at Union Square Mondays
Eggs: Knoll Krest at Union Square Wednesday and Saturday

other ingredients
Vermouth: Dolin Sweet
Salt and Pepper

More French Second Breakfast

After a few weeks in Brest, my traveling companion and I had a few days to explore Brittany. Due to a stroke of good luck, we were able to base our operations out of the same hotel we had been staying in. On a shoe string budget as we were, every day I packed myself the same ham and emmental on mini-baguette from the hotel breakfast. Here are a few photos of some of the places this sandwich was enjoyed!


Nature Conservatory in Brest


Le Conquet

Ile d'Ouessant

Mont St. Michel


Foret de Paimpont


Back to Brest

Brestfast

Part 1. French Hotel Breakfast

Oh man, it was so good! D. mentioned later that he felt like he had finally had the "complete breakfast" that cereal commercials used to taunt us with. So right! I had a little bowl of muesli with mixed fruit and yogurt, a tall glass of "jus de pamplemousse" (one of the best words in any language), some scrambled eggs (not wet!) some delicious smoky bacon, and a piece of whole wheat toast. I dined not alone, but with myself. The only interruption of my pleasures at table came when I tried to work out the coffee situation. There was no coffee in the room, just an automatic espresso machine, and a, well, not waitress exactly, but breakfast attendant zipping in and out of the kitchen and rearranging tables. I missed a chance to flag her down for a coffee before she disappeared, and after a few minutes I just decided to make myself one. I think I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but I did it anyway. As I groggily tried to tamp down the espresso in the filter which I had clearly overfilled, the breakfast attendant suddenly appeared behind me and shooed me aside. I thought about arguing with her (I am a professional after all), but thought better of it. Banging out the handle, she completely started over. She was nice about it, I'm pretty sure that a good 85% of the judgment I felt pouring off of her was projected. Anyways, the coffee was pretty good, and gave me enough alertness to savor my meal. Before I left I took advantage of one of her lengthy absences from her post to make myself a little sandwich for later, and to grab a pear from a very rustic looking bowl of fruit.

Part 2. The Last Man on Earth

After buying some really stereotypical French groceries at a fantastic market (more on that soon), I wandered across the estuary to a street I had read about in the guidebook, Rue de Saint Malo, the only 17th century street that survived the Allied bombing of Brest during the Second World War. The Germans were using Brest as a base for their U Boat operations, you see. Here's the street.



The whole thing is only about 2 or 300 feet long, its derelict buildings adorned here and there with traces of hippyishness. Only one building has been largely restored, the elements kept out of the 400 year old foundations with a roof made of large sheets of ridged plastic sheeting.

When I got to the street, there was no one there. In fact, as I wound my way through the maze-like suburban neighborhood trying to find it, I barely saw a soul. Feeling somewhat adventurous (and partly driven by the need to find somewhere, stat, to take a terrible, terrible shit), I poked around inside the ruins. Within the walls some wooden party related structures had been built, painted garish shades of fuscia, and scrawled with anti-fascist slogans. A few impossible looking outhouses, a stage of sorts, even a bar with a smattering of found chairs arranged haphazardly around it. Down at the end of the street, at last, I found a reasonable seeming outhouse that even had about a half a roll of toilet paper in it. I thought to myself, "I will return yearly to the streets of St. Malo and stock all the outhouses with TP, in gratitude for the respite I feel this day." The system in place was that you were meant to cover your tracks with sawdust, a great idea, except it requires you to turn back towards the abominable thing you have just done. I muscled through the horror and got back out into the sunlight and brisk Atlantic wind.

I climbed the stairs at the end of the street, which led to a small car park from which you could look down on the street, and over it to the estuary and the bay, the skyline dotted with massive shipping cranes towering over the ancient embankments. I decided to go back down into the ruins to have my Second Breakfast. Heading down the stairs and back into the ruins, I found this little spot.



Thanks, hippies! It was a great little spot, up a small set of stairs high enough to overlook the main level and collect a little sunshine, but nestled underneath some larger walls. And quiet, except for the seagulls and the occasional distant sputtering of a Peugot. I unwrapped my meal, a simple ham and swiss on mini-baguette, and one of the rustic looking pears.

The sandwich was good, and the pear reaffirmed my belief in pears. The cold rush of juice in my mouth made me think about the American grocery store and its need to have shelves full of identical fruits, and how the modifications needed to make this happen have given us a hard, bland pear. The bowl I had picked this one out of looked motley, with a splotchy, misshapen collection that I instinctively knew were going to be delightful. As the juice ran onto my jacket I took another bite of my sandwich and watched the cats come and go. Washing up in the fountain, I felt the satisfaction of someone who has sated their needs alone in the wilderness, and the happiness of the last man on earth.

WIHFB in France!

Breakfast was a plastic tray with a syrupy Dole fruit cup and two packages of crackers with margarine. Come on, Air France. Thanks to W. for the cryovaced muffin!

Second Breakfast.

We arrived in Charles de Gaul with a 4 hour layover on a sunny Saturday, coming out of a two day blizzard in New York. Midway through the hour-long process of navigating the glistening white curves of the terminal buildings, we stopped at a little sandwich shop to fuel up. I ordered a Camembert sandwich on sesame bread and a black coffee, having forgotten how harsh and oily French coffee can be. We went outside and enjoyed our sandwiches and coffees on the curb next to the shuttle bus stop. As the sunlight warmed my puffy and sleep deprived face, I thought of all the things I wished I had packed, the letters I wanted to remember to write, and some details of the trafficking I had enlisted N. to participate in. But my eyes were too raw, and I was too far from any possible solution, so I turned my attention back to my first breakfast on French soil. The lettuce in the sandwich was surprisingly fresh and crispy, its’ tender bitterness offsetting the rich creamy Camembert. Really quite good for an airport sandwich. The aggressive coffee produced a BM almost instantly, which I had to run inside to take care of real quick. I came back outside for a moment, showed O. some of the Aichido techniques that I had been learning until some cops drifted over our way. After our brief break in the sun, we gathered ourselves up to head back through security to catch our connecting flight to Brest. Forecast; 9 days of rain.

Tomorrow, French hotel breakfast!

Such Lovely Dinners

I wish I could tell you of the wonderful dinners I've been making the past couple of nights, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's not in this blogs mandate, you see. I'd love to discuss at length the reasoning and economics, and flavor profiles behind Slow-Roasted Salmon with Preserved Lemon Vinaigrette, or Acorn Squash Risotto with Mascarpone and Marjoram, but this humble blog is about a much simpler meal; the most important meal. Breakfast.

Today I had peanut butter and jelly, and a protein bar.

Guests!

Last weekend I was fortunate enough to have some very distinguished guests to breakfast with, my sister and her boyfriend (thanks to A. O. for the lovely pictures). The day after their arrival I was up first, so I got a little head start on breakfast.
I had been thinking about what to do with the leftover pickling liquid from a jar of pickled fennel carrots I had made a few days before, (they were delicious, thanks!) and realised that they would make a perfect seasoning for a potato salad. I had some leftover red potatoes, a red onion that needed to get used up, some parsley, mustard, etc. In short, I had all the necessary ingredients. By the time my guests were up the potatoes were happily boiling, the onions and parsley were chopped, and the vinaigrette was marinating.
We made a little tea (Earl gray, if I remember correctly, or possibly jasmine green). To go with the potatoes I made some simple egg sandwiches. Two fried eggs (over easy), tarragon, and a couple thin slices of raclette melted briefly on the eggs, and the last few little dabs of the moutard aux fines herbes I had brought back with me on my last trip to France. Here is the final plate.



Was it delicious? Let's see if the most discerning gourmand I know wanted any.

WIHFB is back in the kitchen!

Yours truly in unemployed, back in the kitchen and cooking up more anonymous breakfast fun! Sorry for the radio silence these past few months, but I think the coming ones will be a bountiful season for breakfast blogging. I'm trying out some new techniques, reading up on some breakfast theory, and checking out some new ingredient supply lines. Plus I've got some breakfasts of the past that I'd like to lay before you. Thanks for sticking around, and welcome back!

Good morning. What do you want for breakfast?

Crown Heights breakfast

On Saturday night N. and I passed out in the bed with all our clothes on and the lights on, about 12:30. Around 2 I woke up and realized I still had to walk the dog. I put my cammo windbreaker on and headed into the drizzly Crown Heights night. I couldn't shake the fuzzy head, just thinking about going back to bed. It was quiet. Too quiet, even for that time of night. Wondering where everyone was, I peered ahead into the distance, and realized that hundreds of my Lubavitch neighbors were massed on Eastern Parkway in front of a major synagogue. Curiosity got the better of my fatigue, and I slipped into the crowd to investigate.

Upside down milk-crate with a live chicken inside.

Lubavitcher on his cell phone, holding a completely passive chicken by both wings in the other hand.

Three semi truck trailers, doors open, doing a brisk live chicken business to crowds of Hassidic families directly out of the truck.

Hmmmmmm. Interesting, I thought, and headed around the block to head back home. I turned on to Albany and then onto President St, trying to shake it off. When I got to Kingston I saw a couple cops and some stacked barricades, and a few people hanging around in the street. Knowing that Yom Kippur was coming up I figured they were making some preparations for festivities the next day, and kept going down President towards my house. When I got halfway down the block I realized that there was a big crowd down on the corner, and these little tents set up. I thought about turning around, but I was tired and it seemed a long way to go all the way back around the block, so I pressed on into the crowd again.

The tents were set up over blue tarps, and a steady flow of blood was flowing from each one. Everywhere around me chickens were being waved around, husbands were flailing them over their wives heads, over their own heads, muttering. The chickens were completely calm, maybe for the first time feeling the awakening of the dream of flight in their hearts, before they were handed off to suited men in the makeshift abattoirs.


In the morning we made salad with "sassy baby blend" greens, cucumber, crisp gala apples, shallow-fried lemon pepper unchicken, a surprisingly and delightfully bluey havarti with dill, and lemon mustard vinaigrette with a touch of thyme honey.

And coffee.

Polish Country Breakfast

As I sit here in my underwear eating a box of Nutter Butters that miss N. foolishly brought over, my mind turns to breakfasts past.


















This summer, after being on tour in Poland and Russia, I was fortunate enough to be able to stop by my Aunt and Uncle's summer home in the north of Poland for a few days. Not only was this an opportunity to revisit the happy place of my childhood, but also to experience a couple days of great breakfasts.

This is how it went. I would wake up around 9 or ten, much later than everyone else. I would stumble upstairs into the morning light, and be greeted with a fully laden breakfast table, the contents of which were pretty much just carried upstairs from my aunt's home canning station in the basement.









































We had a couple of her jams in play while I was there, including one made from "czeremhy," which even my father, a linguist and professional Polish-English translator, couldn't really identify an English equivalent for (subsequent internet search provides "bird-cherries" [?]). Turns out my aunt was growing them next to the house. The preserves were wickedly tart, something similar to black currant. Good luck getting this anywhere but at your Polish Aunt's house. She was also really proud of her commercial pectin-free raspberry preserves. Made from local raspberries.

















Other breakfast items included a small jar of unprocessed honey I had bought from the beekeeper himself at a market in the nearest village, some home-made cheese called (rough translation) "stinker" with fresh chives, delicious fresh baked rolls, farmer's cheese, and sometimes even scrambled farm fresh eggs with dill and just-picked-yesterday-by-my-uncle chanterelles. Delicious. Oh, and fresh blueberries I picked from the patch I found down by the creek.









After breakfast we would usually sit around talking shit for a couple hours, or help my uncle rebuild his fence.

And then, every day, once my breakfast was two hours behind me, I'd run to the lake and take a swim in the clear cold water, the sound of the wind in the pines mixing tranquilly with the overweight lifeguard's copy of Legend.



wssshhhhhheylittlesistersshhhhhhhhdontshednotearssshhhhhhh

Pathetic Breakfast

Ran out of peanut butter yesterday.

Today's breakfast was two spinach and vegetable flour tortillas that my old roommate left behind when he moved last week. It's not clear how old they were, but in the absence of carbon dating technology, my mouth suggests between 50 and 60 thousand years. I sprinkled the last of the Sargento Taco cheese blend on each one, and topped one with the last drop of chipotle salsa, and the other with the last two jalapeno slices. My mouth is hot and my stomach is no longer digesting itself. Probably I will have deeper regrets in two to three hours.

If I don't get to a grocery store soon, breakfast tomorrow will probably be wet cardboard and hot sauce.

Russian "Breakfast"

Technically, this was a mid-afternoon picnic. But since it was the first thing we had eaten that day I think it qualifies as a breakfast, and you know what, goshdarnit, I want to write about it, and it’s my blog. So there.

After a couple weeks of Polish hotel breakfasts, we were glad to finally be on our own. We had gotten tipped off to a good market just one metro stop away from the lavish apartments we were staying in. We arrived at the market

















rolling about 8 deep, and immediately split up shopping duties into basic food groups. I took charge of cheeses, and bought a kind of creamy, mild swiss type thingy, and an object that looked like 100 thin strips of leather, braided together and tied in a knot. When we tried it later, it turned out to be a delicious salty, smoky sheep’s(?) cheese. Which just goes to prove my rule of thumb; when traveling, ALWAYS EAT THE THING THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE FOOD. It’s bound to either be disgusting or taste pretty good.

L. bought some Greek style yogurt, also on a tip, that turned out to be about 30% fat. Also a hit. We got some local honey from a lady who kept insisting we all try a little spoonful of each of her many kinds of honey. Both charming and delicious. Some dried sausages, of course, some bread, little cookies and cherries. And pickles. I think we each spent under 300 rubles (roughly ten bucks) for a feast that would wind up lasting us two days.

The plan was to head to the river, catch a ferry to Peterhof, (Peter the Great’s summer getaway on the Gulf of Finland), walk around a little amongst the opulent fountains, and find a little picnic spot.

Well, after getting losing half the group, realizing we didn’t have any silverware, and eating half the smoked leather cheese, we got on the boat. That’s where we first noticed that anything sort of touristy in St, Petersburg has two prices; one for Russians, and one about ten times that amount for foreigners. Not having even the faintest hope of scamming the system, we reluctantly paid the 400 rubles. The ride was lovely, especially the approach to the palace, its golden roof glistening in the sun. The ferry deposits you on a little dock, where you are given two options, pay 300 rubles (50 rubles Russian price) to get into the gardens, or pay 400 rubles to turn around and go back. What happens if you don’t have any cash, I don’t know. Barnacle duty, I guess.

Well, we walked around a bit among the fountains





































































oops












Until we found a suitable picnic spot, not too flashy,



















and set up shop. What followed was a fifteen minute feeding frenzy of which I remember very little, only flailing arms, bodies circling the park bench on which we had laid our goods, and sausages being ripped apart with fingernails. Once we reached our gustatory orgasm, we descended gently into the arms of cherries with incredibly fatty yogurt. My favorite thing was to take two cherries (preferably joined) and dip one in the yogurt, one in the honey, and place them simultaneously in my mouth.


I was roundly mocked for this.


But I am not ashamed.

Polish Hotel Breakfast

Based on a survey of upwards of two (okay, three, actually, if you must know) different breakfasts, a sort of “industry standard” seemed to emerge. Wet eggs in an unwarmed warming pan, some uncomfortable looking hot dogs, good bread, totally decent cheese and salami, pickles, tomatoes and cucumbers, maybe a radish, served with choice of Nescafe or Lipton, and assorted crappy juices. Then there are usually a few “variable items.” At the Hotel Katowice (God forgive the sinners who designed, built, currently staff, and hesitate to destroy it) this meant cat food floating in what S. says I generously called “aspic,” and eggs slathered in mayonnaise. The eggs were pretty good, I thought, but the cat food aspic thing was absolutely revolting. The gelatinous texture failed to distract the mouth from the taste of offal within. At the Royal Hotel in Krakow there was a boiled vegetables and mayonnaise salad , a fairly common Polish dish (I go nuts for this stuff, have ever since I was a child; the pattern that seems to be emerging here is that I love mayonnaise). Thinking back to last year, this standard seemed to apply in Romania as well, where the “variable item” at the Hotel Agape in Cluj-Napoca was a Greek salad with the worst of all possible “feta” cheeses. In fact, it was only in the context of the salad that I would have thought to guess it was feta they were shooting for. Taken alone, I would have guessed “salty white cardboard.” Corn flakes and/or muesli are always provided as an “out” for the cowardly or nutritionally inclined.

vacation!

In response to anxiety over the long time between blog posts, I must inform you, dear reader, that I am on sabbatical in Eastern Europe. Rest assured, I am collecting stories and images, and will begin backfilling upon my return on July 21st. In the mean time, please enjoy the new user profile photo.

Mediterranean Breakfast

Sometimes our actions are born of our discontent; hunger drives us out into the world in search of nourishment. Thirst drives us out in search of the oasis. Loneliness drives us into the arms of others. Not having soaked the sun-dried tomatoes overnight before making an omelette makes us want to soak sun-dried tomatoes for some other purpose.

I remembered I had a can of chickpeas in the cupboard (and Yes, I have tried soaking dried chickpeas, but I've found that, even if I soak them overnight, the ensuing "homemade hummus farts" are twice as deadly with dried). Luckily, I also had a box of Near East falafel mix and some flatbread. Tomorrow's breakfast was really shaping up!

My favorite thing to do with sun-dried tomato hummus is to add lemon and dill. Unfortunately, I didn't have dill or the inclination to go get it. I did have some saffron left over from a trip to Hungary a couple months back, which I thought would go nicely. Now, this saffron available in Budapest comes in big bags and is super cheap, but it's not the same as tiny threads that you may have in your supermarket for absolutely insane prices. It does color food quite nicely, but you have to get a little heavy with it to get even a hint of the aroma of better saffron.

So, in the food processor I started with
1 Tablespoon Tahini (storebought this time, but homemade Tahini is pretty easy and delicious)
2 garlic cloves, crushed
2 dried chili peppers
1 tablespoon cheap Hungarian saffron
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Processed until it formed a paste, then added
1 can chickpeas, drained and liquid reserved.

Processed again, then
Ran the food processor, slowly drizzling about a half cup of olive oil in through the pusher hole thingy as it ran, and a couple tablespoons of the reserved chickpea water.

And then we had...


Not bad! I had added a little too much chickpea liquid, making it a little too runny, but a night in the refrigerator pretty much firmed it up.

The next morning
Breakfast was pretty quick to put together. We just had to soak the falafel mixture for ten minutes and then shape it into balls, make a smoothie (banana pineapple),




and fry the falafel.





And this was the finished plate!

A confession.

Okay readers, it's Truth Time.

I don't make breakfast every day. In fact, most days I don't make breakfast. If you're wondering what I do on those days, well, I'm getting there.

Sometimes I really pull myself together, and have a bowl of cereal.

But most times... I'll just... have a little...












































Sometimes, if I've got it together, I'll spread it on bread.
Sometimes, it's just a spoon.
And then there's the days when it gets a little rough.
I'll just...

Brooklyn Breakfast

Brooklyn Breakfast
Walking through the Prospect Park farmer’s market Saturday afternoon (even after all that food) I was inspired to make an old standard for Sunday morning breakfast. It was time for Stinky Sandwiches!

I did all my shopping right there, I just needed some bread (organic seven-grain or something), Apples (Organic Fuji this time, maybe something a touch more tart next time, like a Pink Lady?), honey (the waxy looking totally raw semi-local kind [which was really good, but I always feel let down by honey now, nothing compares to Francois’ grandfathers’ honey from France, [which tastes like a childhood in a beautiful place, in a field with many yellow flowers] or even the other farmer’s market honey there, which often tasted like the flowers right there in the hillsides), and most importantly, some cheese.

The Cheese
I saw that the good people of Cato Corner Farms in Vermont were closing up shop right as Ruby and I wandered in to the market, so I jumped over there as quickly as I could, hoping to get a half pound of Hooligan (if you ever stop by that market, check this stuff out). Unfortunately they were out of it, but they did have some of their Fromage d’Or, Hooligan's stinkier uncle.

This stuff is intense. After handling it, and washing my hands several times, my fingers smelled like toe jam for hours. Really, at first you don't want to get near this washed rind cow's milk monster, but once you get it past your nose (or learn to love these pungent aromas) you are rewarded by a sweet, creamy, lightly herbal bonanza of delight.

The Sandwich
Two slices of organic 7-grain bread, one side spread with honey, one side spread with strong dijonnaise
Thin slices of apple (one layer)
Thin slices of sweet sopressatta
A couple chunks of a soft, creamy stinky cheese (in this case, Cato Corner's Fromage d'Or)
Assemble. Eat!

Later on, we...
were going to see "Up" in the theatres. I packed some sandwiches (bagged, wrapped in foil and bagged again) to make a picnic, but SLUG was a half an hour late so we smuggled them into the movie. As the lights went down, I quietly unwrapped layer after layer, as the sweet stink wafted out into the theatre. We ate them, giggling as our neighbors wondered at the source of the delightful/horrifying aroma.