What not to eat if you are a dog.

If you haven't noticed, Lorenzo is a dog with an extremely refined palate, which is why I am not surprised that he chooses to eat only the most expensive of my possessions.

If there are no expensive shoes, watches, electronics, or classic midcentury furniture to be found, he might be tempted to go low brow on occasion and tear the stuffing out of one of his toys. Once he starts disemboweling a furry friend, however, it quickly turns into a maniacal thrashing of imagined prey. I like to think he is really acting out some repressed feelings-- the canine equivalent of comfort eating. 

Which is why it was especially concerning when a trip to the doggie ER revealed this:

What is worse, the vet seemed to think this was not the first time. Lorenzo hung his little head in shame.

It's clear that this move has been tough on Lorenzo, and the stress has manifested itself in some unhealthy compulsions. We will both be on a bland diet for the next few weeks as we try to get in touch with our feelings.

Full Circle Sub

Innocence Lost.

You might remember my extreme, yet inconclusive reaction to the turkey sandwich from No. 7 Sub a few months back. It was a formative experience-- a rite of passage, even-- that left me a bit blue cheese-shy ever since.

After that trial-by-sandwich I felt older... wiser. I found myself ready to conquer even the trendiest of sandwiches, thumb my nose at avant garde food trucks, and down even the most experimental of popsicles. In fact, upon reflection, that turkey sandwich was kind of like other rites of passage--like prom, or one's first Pearl Jam concert--overly-hyped, confusing, slighlty uncomfortable, and ultimately, not what you were hoping it would be.

But like most milestones, that sandwich led me to bigger and better things. Maybe it was something in the MYSTERIOUS AND CONCERNING SUBSTANCE, because soon after that epic hoagie, I decided to leave one foodie city for another and decamp for the land of milk, honey, and excellent sausages:

But hang on, back up. Before I moved to Chicago, where all good sausages hope to go when they die, I had some loose ends to tie up in NYC.

First things first: I had to put aside whatever differences I ever had with Mike the Butcher.  All in all, that old man was a godsend. There are some pretty hard core butchers in Chicago, but never will I find someone that invites me behind the counter for a tutorial on de-boning a lamb shoulder. God bless you, Mike the Butcher. As penance, I offer this Yelp review (see if you can guess which one is mine).

Next, I had to go to all the hot new restaurants I had been hearing about. Since I only had about a week to hit them all, I figured I should average about 6.5 a day. The problem is, I started off at the John Dory, and the food was so good that I ate so much I went into a food coma and woke up four days later curled behind the raw bar. It was totally worth it, though.

Since my time in NYC was quickly running out, I figured I should get down to business and drink my face off. What? I had a lot of favorite bars to say goodbye to.

Which brings us to an extremely hung over second to last day in New York. I had been having so much fun saying goodbye that I was starting to wonder why I was leaving New York at all ( I was also wondering why I left my the floor of my bathroom at all, I was in such bad shape). What could possibly cure this oh-too-familiar situation? 

After a bite of this Brooklyn haute dog, my faith was restored-- and by that I mean my faith in the supremacy of midwestern encased meats. Let's be real, any hot dog is a good hot dog, and it certainly helped my headache, but I knew this wasn't the real thing. No self-respecting Chicagoan would put pickled cabbage on a red hot.

I had one more stop to make before I fled town, and I had mixed feelings about it. Yes, I knew I had to visit No.7 Sub one more time, to face my fears and a certain pair of sideburns.

Armed with Alka Seltzer and my life coach on speed dial, I walked right up to the counter and challenged the pair of sideburns in front of me, "What's the wackiest sandwich you've got?" This is kind of like challenging Charlie Sheen to give you his best crazy.

Before he could answer, I shouted "I'll take it!" And proudly looked around at the other sideburns, waiting for their sighs of admiration.

A few minutes later I was gingerly unwrapping the package like a live grenade, half expecting deep fried caviar or fish sauce compote, but found only these roasted brussel sprouts, russian dressing, and a sheepish piece of cheese.

Brace yourselves.

Really, sideburns? Really? This was the best you could come up with?  Hmm.... I don't know if I can handle so much iron in one sandwich! Brussel sprouts on a sandwich?! Now that's just crazy talk.

But wait! weren't there supposed to be potato chips in this sandwich? Aha! Was it the chips that were going to shake my worldview like the MYSTERIOUS AND CONCERNING SUBSTANCE had? I fished around in the sandwich and could find only one, sad little potato chip. A real chip, that is-- not a postmodern riff on a chip. What's the deal here, No. 7? What's with all the identifiable ingredients? There must be a catch, I thought.

I took a bite and was only pleasantly surprised. This is a good sandwich, I thought. Not groundbreaking, not earth-shattering, but pretty tasty. Would I name my firstborn after it? No. But neither was it as scary as I had expected. In fact, it was exactly as it had been described... can you believe that? An honest sandwich in Manhatttan, with no schtick or anything?

I sat in the park with the sandwich and wondered, was it the sub shop that had changed, or was it me? This was a pretty straightforward, tasty sandwich, and I liked it. That's right, I said it. I guess sincerity is the new irony. And with that, I moved on.

I heart you.

Another V day, another batch of red velvet cupcakes. It's love.

Feed Me.

After weeks upon weeks of a twig-and-berries detox, I was ready for some real food, and I don't mean quinoa. Yes, the detox left me feeling very svelte and "flushed", but let's face it, cheese and I can't stand to be apart for very long. And by cheese, I mean wine. And, well, cheese, too.

I was itching for something hearty and delicious... a cassoulet, or maybe polenta and short ribs with a yummy bordeaux. That's right, that's what Tuesday night dinners look like at my house.

The only problem was, my fridge only had overly healthy ingredients like Señor Almond Milk staring back at me, taunting me with their smugness. Señor Almond Milk and I have not been getting along so well lately, and I had had just about enough of his cheek.

What, you couldn't make it through a little cleanse? Had to go back to your dairy, didn't you? You cow-lover, you! Cow lover!!!

Shut up, you soymilk wannabe. You taste like chalkboard erasers.

Oooohh look at me! I looove me some cows! I'm a cheeeeese junkie! 

I do not need you. I am totally ok with my relationship with cows and their byproducts.

Tell that to your colon, sister! Heeeeheheheheee!

I slammed the refrigerator door shut and set out with Lorenzo to drop some serious money on dairy products, and any other ingredient that I had been living without.  Meat, carbs, wine, butter, cheese, sugar, eggs... could I really make a meal that involved all of these?!.

I opened the door only to realize that we were in the middle of the biggest storm in the history of the earth. The frozen tears of underdressed hipsters whipped all around me as Lorenzo and I skated down the icy sidewalk. A trip to all the way to the food coop was looking less and less likely, so I stopped into the wine shop to reassess what was most important.

With a bottle of wine in hand I felt better already, but that still left the problem of where to acquire my fancy ingredients. We all know that I am totally fine with settling for less, so faced with a very wet and unhappy dog, I chose to hedge my bets with the bodega on the corner.

Now, the stoic Indian man behind the counter at the bodega and I like to play a little game called, how crazy can I look every time I come in here?  This time was no exception. Lorenzo and I were both sopping wet and absurdly dressed-- me in my "32 days till pie" tshirt and flip flops, and Lorenzo in his oversized cableknit sweater. Bodega man didn't even bat an eye.

My glasses were pretty fogged up, so I couldn't tell if the bodega had any of the ingredients in cassoulet among the toilet paper and US Weeklies. Hey, it's Park Slope--you never know.

"Say, do you have any short ribs?"

Bodega man leveled his deadly serious gaze at me, no doubt wondering how the shattered pieces of his former life had crystallized into the wet, petulant foodie in front of him.

"How about some sausage?  Do you have any sausage?"

"No. Sausage."  He said in a slow growl, trembling with indignation. I fully expected the cumulative wrath of a lifetime of injustices to come raining down on me in a matter of seconds. I had forced him to speak-- who knew what would happen next?

I grabbed the closest food items to me, and at the last second, a package of bacon I spied next to the 40 oz. beers and hightailed it out of there.

When I got home, I looked at what I had to work with: bacon, eggs, butter, chocolate chips, some questionable spaghetti, and a copy of US Weekly.  Within fifteen minutes I was cracking an egg into my bowl of spaghetti and bacon lardons, watching as it magically transformed into carbonara. Bodega Man, you have outdone yourself this time. You are quite the gourmand!

So maybe my carbonara wasn't quite as good as I remember it was in Rome, but it was glorious on a dreary Tuesday in Brooklyn. And who needs cassoulet when you have a bodega and a wine store nearby?

I win this round, Señor Almond Milk.

a brief cake interlude

No, cake is not officially a part of my detox plan, but neither are birthdays.

My cakes are totally kicking butt lately. Check out the roses!

Detox:Retox

You may have been wondering where I've been for the last few weeks, or more likely, what I have been eating. Well, mostly, things like this:

 

and maybe a few of these: 

and if I'm lucky, a little of this:

Needless to say, it's been rough. Why put myself through food purgatory? Well, if you're like me, in the last month you've had a few too many:

• christmas cookies
• champagne cocktails
• yule cheese logs
• baby shower cupcakes
• hairs of the dog

And again, if you're like me, you've probably made some optimistic resolutions about your future relationship with pork belly, frosting, and holiday office parties, knowing full well that they will not last past February.


But no matter, January is for optimists, which is why I have thrown myself into a New Year's detox plan to reset my taste buds and feel something like healthy again, if only briefly. Unfortunately, what will be good for my "colon" will not be so good for my "blog".

So for the next few weeks you will have to bear with me as I forego:

• dairy

(I think dairy deserves a moment of silence here.)

• eggs
• sugar
• caffiene
• alcohol (except on thursdays)
• gluten

I'm sorry that it won't be very exciting around these parts in the immediate future, my dear readers. I could tell you about the kale I had for lunch, but I think it might drive you to take up hard drugs and gambling.

But bear with me! With all this tea and tofu I have a feeling I am setting myself up for an epic retox, which can only be good this blog. So here's to looking forward to refined carbs, delicious pork products, baked goods, and the deluge of blogging they will necessitate. I raise my glass of hot water and lemon to you, carbs of the future!

The Christmas Diaries: Part III

Oh... hi! Thanks for coming. Here, come inside and warm your hands by the oven fire. Its a Christmas tradition. Would you like to toast a marshmallow?

Ok, yes, I did cause a small blaze during Christmas dinner. Is this the first time that has happened? No. Was the meal ruined? No. Did the smoke and fire seem to bother the guests that much? Also no. What can I say? They are related to me, after all.

Let's go over the facts of the night:

6 am: I preventatively remove the fire alarm from the wall and place it outside, where it is carried away by squirrels. Merry Christmas, everyone.

6:15 am: I make a cranberry frangipane tart and a chocolate pear cake. Some of the cake batter may have spilled over onto the oven floor. I am not concerned.

8:00 am: I roast brussel sprouts, acorn squash, and a potato-chard gratin. Pfff...I could do this in my sleep.

12:00 pm: I realize just how much meat 14 lbs of prime rib is:

 12:30-3:30: I am under strict instructions to let the meat rest at room temperature for at least 3 hours before roasting it. So first, me and the meat take a nice Christmas nap together (I was the big spoon). Then, we lay around in our jammies and watch Eat, Pray, Love, and get a little teary.

3:30: After being massaged with oil and spices and seared all over, the prime rib goes in the oven at a low, slow roast.

3:35: Cocktail hour! This year's featured aperitivo is an Aperol and Champagne spritz, which requires much taste testing before I get it right.

5:30: I take the beef out of the oven. Using the age-old tradition of eyeballing it, it looks about done to me.

5:35: the Yorkshire pudding batter goes in the oven. I am still optimistic that everything will turn out well.

5:40: I start to worry that the rest of the vegetable sides will be served cold. Even though Cook's Illustrated specifically states that the Yorkshire Puddings are to be baked with the oven door closed, I reason that if I move very quickly, I can get the other dishes in there to warm before dinner is served.

5:45: I am still jostling with four roasting pans in the oven. I am sure by now that not only will they not all fit, but that the yorkshire puddings will be ruined.

5:50: I serve a salad of arugula, roasted golden beets, roquefort, and fried shallots. I am quite proud that I was able to precariously fit all the pans in the oven.

5:55: I am vaguely aware of the smell smoke while eating my delicious salad. This is a given of cooking in my world, so I am not alarmed.

5:56: I turn to look at the oven and see smoke escaping the doors and a festive holiday fire inside.

5:57: I stage whisper "fire!" to my father across the table. He stage whispers back, "not again."

5:58: Dad throws salt on the flames in the oven while I create a distraction by shaking a bottle of champagne and popping the cork.

6:05 Dinner is served. Somehow, nothing tastes like smoke.

Post Mortem: It turns out that making yorkshire puddings in precariously arranged mini muffin tins is not a great idea-- and yes, I'm looking at you, Chris Kimball. When the puddings souffle, the beef fat will overflow, land on the oven floor, and catch fire. Most of the yorkshire puddings didn't even make it, and the ones that did were so small and deflated they hid under the gratin in shame. I've got beef with you, Kimball. Oh I've got beef.

The good thing is, this Christmas oven fire did not necessitate a fire extinguisher, as they have in the past. If I'm not mistaken, that means that my cooking is improving.