September 2008

How To Do A Cooking Demonstration

There a came a moment on Saturday at The Baltimore Book Festival where I looked out at the crowd and down at the food in front of me and realized: “Holy (expletive): I have to cook something for all these people!”

It wasn’t supposed to be that way. When I was first invited to The Baltimore Book Festival, I was under the impression that all they wanted me to do was read from my book (which, incidentally, comes out in paperback tomorrow!) I’ve read from my book several times, to various crowds, and the lessons I learned from those various experiences–read slower than you think necessary, lift your head now and again–had little application when I learned that in addition to reading from my book, the Baltimore people also wanted me to cook.

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Me in Baltimore This Weekend!

Readers: if you live near or around the Baltimore area, come hear me read from my book and watch me attempt a cooking demonstration (scary!) this weekend at The Baltimore Book Festival. I’m slated for 4 o’clock on Saturday at the Food For Thought Stage. Come say hi, taste some of the food I’m cooking, and let me sign your books. I’ll even answer questions. It’ll be fun and potentially hilarious–can I be sued if I burn their kitchen down? See you there!

Molly’s Slow Roasted Tomatoes (Pomodori al Forno)

A journey of a thousand miles may begin with one step, but a recipe of several steps begins with precisely 2,408 miles. Specifically: the distance from New York to Seattle.

It was on the plane from New York to Seattle that I read last month’s Bon Appetit magazine which featured our friend Molly Orangette’s recipe for slow roasted tomatoes. The recipe was adapted from the one at Cafe Lago, a restaurant Molly writes lovingly about in the accompanying article, and a restaurant that’s back-to-back with an apartment where Craig used to live with his friends Ryan and Kristen.

The story might’ve ended there, with me reading about Cafe Lago’s Pomodori al Forno on the plane, except the story–like those slow-cooked tomatoes–gets richer as it goes along.

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Is Craig Claiborne in “The Goonies”?

For those of us who grew up with “The Goonies,” re-watching the film as an adult affords many joys. “Aw,” you might say, “look at young Corey Feldman, all before the trouble began–look how witty and innocent.” Or you might say: “Hey, look at young Sean Astin, who would’ve guessed he’d grow up to play a hobbit?” Or: “I like Martha Plimpton, why wasn’t she more famous?”

One reaction you don’t expect to have, especially if you’re a food enthusiast and a fan of The United States of Arugula, is: “Hey, is that Craig Claiborne?”

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A final day in Idaho.

This response to yesterday’s post–how you’d spend a final 12 hours in the city where you live–made me laugh. From site reader, Brandon:

“I live in a small city in Idaho. I’d start the day with coffee at a place called Java, which is the best coffeehouse in town. I’d have a Bowl of Soul, which is a mocha made with Mexican hot chocolate and tastes like the nectar of the gods.

This would probably take me about 35 minutes, and, frankly, I’d go ahead and leave after that because I assume the place I’d be heading would be more interesting than my hometown.”

12 Hours in New York (A Meme)

It all started with this bagel.

At Murray’s Bagels on 13th Street and 6th Ave., I consumed a bagel so good–an everything bagel with plain cream cheese, Scottish Salmon, tomato, onion and capers–I thought to myself: “If I were told I had only 12 hours left to spend in New York after which I would be exiled forever, I would definitely have to stop here for my favorite New York bagel.”

Then I wondered: where else would I go? What else would I do? With 12 final hours in New York, how would I spent my time?

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My Worst Restaurant Experience Ever

It’s not every day that you have your worst restaurant experience ever. Mine happened a few weeks ago, upon my return from Seattle and Cape Cod. Literally: it was my first meal back and the food gods rightly punished me for making a waste of it.

Park Slope has two sushi joints I frequent: one is Taro which, as I’ve said in the past, serves the best sushi in town. The other, ____, is far inferior; the salad a soupy mess, the sushi poorly executed and rarely ever fresh. Why, on my first day back, did I go to ____ over Taro for lunch? Because, I am embarrassed to admit, I was lazy. I was nearer to ____ at lunchtime than I was to Taro; so I went to _____. And, rightly, I was punished: but did the punishment fit the crime?

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Tim Horton & Frank Pepe

Beware: when driving back from Cape Cod to New York, be wary of any Canadians or Yalies in your car. In our case, we had Dara (a Canadian) and Amir (a Yalie) both of whom were responsible for thousands of calories consumed against my innocent, food-shirking will. Why must food obsessives force me, a health-nut, to eat doughnuts and pizza when all I want are bags of trail mix and no-fat fruit smoothies? Are you buying any of this? No?

Ok, you’re right, the Canadian and the Yalie were certainly enablers, but I was the catalyst for all the fat we consumed on the drive back. The Canadian started it. Dara spied a sign for Tim Horton’s, which you see in the picture above. I’d recalled a Canadian reader e-mailing me once about Tim Horton’s, saying it’s the Canadian version of Dunkin’ Donuts only much, much better. Dara agreed. “We should go there,” either she said or I said; or maybe we both said it. We’d pulled off the highway anyway because we needed gas and there was Tim Horton’s, where, after the gas, we stopped for a bathroom and a doughnut.

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