Eating Local and Squash Carpaccio

So in the interim before I take possession of my new kitchen, I've occasionally been using other peoples' kitchens to cook. Recently I was inspired by Sur La Table's new cookbook, 'Eating Local -- The Cookbook Inspired by America's Farmers.' Normally I'm a little skeptical of cookbooks based on locavore/seasonal/ecological principles, not because I don't agree with these ideas, but because many locavore-oriented cookbooks are written by people who are not truly cooks at heart -- they are activists who also like to cook, and it shows in the recipes. Since I myself am just such a person (an activist who also likes to cook), I look for cookbooks that inspire me to become a better and more subtle cook.

When the farm I work for (Amy's Garden) was one of 10 small farms across the country profiled and referred to in this Eating Local cookbook, I was excited, but somewhat dubious about the quality of the recipes that would appear alongside all the pretty farm pictures. The book is, as many cookbooks today seem to be, just as much a coffee-table art book as it is a culinary resource. And that's great, because the pictures in it are absolutely lovely. For some reason, they make me excited to be working on a farm. As for the recipes...well, they're not bad. In fact, I actually kind of like them. They're cute and trendy and really fit with my cooking style, which means they don't cross seasonal boundaries, they specifically refer to and use many common market crops, and they're definitely not boring. So, with the first round of Zephyr squash on the table at the market and Eating Local under my arm, I actually went and cooked something.



This is my version of Eating Local's squash carpaccio. And yes, 'cooking' is a figurative term, since I didn't heat anything, but at this point in my culinary career, even this little salad is quite an accomplishment. I'll rewrite the recipe for you here since my version is diffferent than the one in the book.

2-3 medium-sized Zephyr yellow squash
1/4 bunch sorrel
walnuts
block of parmesan cheese
lemons
olive oil
salt and pepper
garlic

Cut the tops off the squash and peel off thin strips using a vegetable peeler. Mix up a nice vinaigrette with lemon juice, olive oil, salt and pepper and a clove of garlic. The proportions here aren't incredibly important, though I used a little less olive oil than I normally do, maybe just adding enough so that I had it in a 1:1 ratio with the lemon juice. Toss that vinaigrette with the squash strips. Toast walnuts and chop them coarsely, then add them as well. Chiffonade as much sorrel as you like, and toss that in. Now use that same vegetable peeler and add in nice thin pieces of parmesan. Add a little fresh-ground pepper when serving.

Food Snobbery (mine) and Strawberries to Dispel Cynicism

Since I do so hate my current kitchen, I have been eating out far too much in recent weeks. I am soon to be the proud owner of a new kitchen with a nice white stove and ample windows, and the moment I am there, my new cooking life will begin. Until then, I have a few thoughts on restaurant food.

At one time I greatly appreciated food theatrics -- the more dramatic the presentation or weird the conception, the more excited I was. And I still seek out the strange and unusual when I look at a menu. However, as my foodie life has slowly evolved, I have found myself seeking out a sense of heart and true purpose in the food I eat, longing for a depth that is often absent, especially in dishes that are reproduced thousands of times on the line and engineered for profit rather than fulfilment. I have recently encountered several such dishes that I feel compelled to mention here.

1. Sashimi in a martini glass. I always fail to be impressed by sushi restaurants in this town, not because I don't like sushi, but because it always tastes the same no matter where I go. Really, the deliciousness of sushi is based solely on the quality of the fish, and no matter how you try to hide it, Richmond is not a coastal town. So we slather tiny pieces of fish in mayonnaise, wasabi and sriracha and ignore the fact that the delicate, melt-in-your-mouth, nearly-alive freshness of a good piece of raw fish is universally absent. Apparently in some cases, the drama and fanfare isn't limited to sauces and fancy arrangements of colorful cylinders; one sushi restaurant I went to last week served a $12 seared tuna 'salad' in a standard martini glass. This came complete with strawberries around the rim of the glass and curly pieces of carrot hanging down from the sides like party confetti. Setting aside the fact that the salad was tiny and the tuna was bland, the dish deserved rejection based on the fact that it was hard to eat. Food in a martini glass is too high to comfortably pick up and consume. Stemware is meant to deliver liquid directly into the mouths of drinkers. When we're eating, we want lag time between picking up a bite and consuming it. We need that space between our food and ourselves -- that's where the pleasure of eating out materializes, in the air at the table, where we chat, laugh, and slowly fill our stomachs. The martini glass was a strange and uncomfortable interloper in that usually-pleasant process. I am never a picky restaurant customer, but I admit I asked for a plate.

2. Cilantro custard. I have been in the habit of drinking lately in expensive places. One such restaurant, which shall remain nameless, serves a spicy black bean soup that comes with this weird cilantro custard squatting gooey and green in the middle of a low bowl. I admit I actually ordered the dish because I was intrigued by the idea of an herbal custard, but as I ate the soup I realized that what I seek out in a black bean soup is a depth and robustness of flavor in the soup itself. Pomp and circumstance aside, if the black, beany part of the soup isn't good, nothing else matters. This soup? Well, it was okay. But having gummy, not-so-flavorful pieces of custard in my mouth as I was trying to appreciate the soup's spicy creaminess didn't add anything to my experience of the dish -- rather, it distracted. Cilantro custard for the sake of itself becomes a glaring knob on what I believe should be a profoundly minimalist and richly delicious article of food.

I do now feel obligated to try to relate at least one truly satisfying food experience I have had in recent weeks. A blog post consisting solely of complaints about the inevitably dissatisfactory nature of restaurant food won't exactly go down in internet history for its interest or originality. So as I contemplate what I've been eating and when I've ever felt truly connected with my food, I realize it's rarely been in restaurants, and I leave you with this image, one that should serve to dispel my latent cynicism: me on a gray, somewhat rainy Tuesday evening at the farmers' market snatching countless strawberries from the tops of the quarts we've been hawking at the market all May. I dig the green top of each berry out with my thumb. They've finally reached the peak of sweetness after a good break from the rain (wet weather washes out the color and density of flavor in strawberries). My lips and fingers are stained red and I've got seeds in my teeth. I eat them until my tongue hurts and I feel alive.