tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64006071577561940522024-03-12T16:25:08.389-07:00SCRATCHJessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-30861593720319601992009-11-18T18:10:00.000-08:002009-11-19T17:08:06.234-08:00THE LUXORIOUS LIFE OF A TWO-FRIDGE FAMILY<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw58YuMEjRiw_tVHDX2Lbphg7ShcIoWc3Xr3rjiLYitufsA_4vGouKZVY7Y4CU69yaAxsISFEKxH_GQh1jaj2xbZv_izuZ6fP0nwcoATny0askq11OB4o9qeMg2VSGZKIbdg6JlaUakZK/s1600/DSC_1064.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405986257442671378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw58YuMEjRiw_tVHDX2Lbphg7ShcIoWc3Xr3rjiLYitufsA_4vGouKZVY7Y4CU69yaAxsISFEKxH_GQh1jaj2xbZv_izuZ6fP0nwcoATny0askq11OB4o9qeMg2VSGZKIbdg6JlaUakZK/s320/DSC_1064.JPG" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Envy, all you New Yorkers. Tender your wistful sighs. You may have expansive culture and arts, stunning cuisine, ingredients odd and rare abounding, but where the yards stretch wide in suburban Chattanooga, we have basements with 14-foot ceilings capable of holding the ultimate cooking convenience—a second fridge.<br /><br />Here, just in time for turkey brining, is ours, a 15 year-old Amana side-by-side: full-working order, ice-maker equipped, and rusty in all the right places. Thank you, my sweet, anal father-in-law for upgrading your garage unit and bribing those Sears delivery boys with a crisp hundred to truck it to my house.<br /><br />Let me assure you, readers, this beauty won’t be all work no play. When Chris finishes his MBA next month, don’t doubt that we will hang a dart board, fill that Amana with PBR, and lounge like sorry SOBs playing cricket and admiring her sweet, cold lines. </span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-76994966845362576952009-11-17T12:49:00.000-08:002009-11-18T17:48:41.988-08:00RAREBIT LIKELY TO REMAIN RARE<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 285px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405178050032868706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDZ6LwmLO6UfOB90PRsF_S_3_VjJtBSZxtlHMW8FyVX1DxWyGTBr-5bEw6bZDpOnPgtQVBiIxMzbySDfIwVk3gHT4RY9BGAsdRV-AuKxAuQd8rZH2LhyXSInyD9-JuqMRhfEuK-oZHLYO/s320/DSC_1060.JPG" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Now that I have a baby on board, coordination is going to take a bit more, uh, coordination. So, to begin, I apologize that my first post in four months lacks any food photography, but I have included a pic of my bundle of joy, who is, as his grandmothers report, “cute enough to eat.” Potentially disturbing insinuations aside, let’s talk comfort food. Specifically, other people’s comfort food. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div><br />Last night, Chris and I exercised our jaws on the budget-friendly dish Welsh Rarebit, specifically Jamie Oliver’s Welsh Rarebit with Attitude from <em>Jamie at Home</em>: chili jam on sourdough, slathered with a yolk-cheddar-creme fraiche mixture, broiled to golden and dappled with salty Worchestershire. Delicious? Well, here’s the thing, it’s comfort food…for the Welsh. </div><div><br />As a young Pennsylvanian, I enjoyed grilled cheese (brick, preferably) with dill pickles on Sunday afternoons. Southerners love pimento cheese on soft, fluffy Sunbeam. Baseball fans, nachos and yellow cheese food. The French, brie and flatbread. And, the Welsh, rarebit. What do these fromage-centered delights share? </div><div><br />They are comfortable for those who associate comfort with them. Make them for your international friends and expect satisfied, Thanksgiving-dinner-face grins but don’t anticipate <em>oohs</em> and <em>ahhs</em>. After all, comfort food is that by virtue of our comfortable associations with it. All that broiled, salty rarebit warmth didn’t call to mind any memories of hours in front of a fire on a bearskin rug. No, instead, rarebit was forced to stand upon its own gustatory merit and to face its cheese-on-toast reality. </div><div><br /> </div><div>So, no, rarebit did not emerge as the luxurious, simple go-to I was dreaming of. For my starch-drenched-in-cheese comfort, I’ll take mac-and-cheddar or parmesan-crusted garlic toast, thanks. </div><div><br />But, gentile rarebit, do pop by for tea again sometime. Won’t you? </span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-77020947235856024342009-07-18T16:59:00.001-07:002009-07-18T17:05:14.542-07:00OVERDUE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkf6Ghvwm4-3yRUcYzFbtp2xQm6o0_7fqir4JppDR9m0OFDhdFf8N7W38Dkoerc6P_WUpDk_CQ46eroULImuh3_KVc3Bcp43npnfTap1skhosEZiHYlNZvU5krHV_z5TfhCUlXNF-hVrO/s1600-h/DSC_0946.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359954289200196146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkf6Ghvwm4-3yRUcYzFbtp2xQm6o0_7fqir4JppDR9m0OFDhdFf8N7W38Dkoerc6P_WUpDk_CQ46eroULImuh3_KVc3Bcp43npnfTap1skhosEZiHYlNZvU5krHV_z5TfhCUlXNF-hVrO/s320/DSC_0946.JPG" /></a><span xmlns=""><br /><div><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Not me, not quite yet anyway, but postings on this blog are <em>long</em> overdue. Looking back through my camera, minutes ago, I noticed that my last real food photos were from the excursion Chris and I took to Pittsburgh a few days after Christmas and the day I seriously began to suspect that I was pregnant. While that was, obviously, a life-changing time to for us, rest assured, we have continued eating and cooking and even enjoying food like normal non-expectant human beings. I was always a lover of dill pickles and ice cream and dry cheerios and so, I suppose, the second and third trimesters of this pregnancy haven't been as much a departure from me in terms of tastes as they have in terms of energy. Our meals are markedly simpler, as complexity of any sort interferes with my nap schedule. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">We have had a great deal of other changes as well. On March 31, Chris and I sold Alchemy Spice Company—trading one baby for another, I suppose. After 160 hours of consultation work with Alchemy, then, I became virtually unemployed. Finding a job for the months between May and August seemed a futile exercise, especially in consideration of my hard-to-hide "bump," so I am spending this time working to build a respectable freelance writing career, finishing my book, and, of course, preparing for our little one's arrival. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Chris and I both lost a grandparent recently as well. In March, Jerry (Chris's father), Chris, and I traveled to Springfield, Massachusetts to attend Jerry's mother's funeral. Amidst the proceedings, there was a good amount of time to visit Jerry's favorite haunts and eateries, tour his childhood stomping grounds, and get to know extended family. Best of all, we loaded the trunk with Millie's Pierogies, Chicopee Provisions hot dogs and brats, Moxie soda, and devil dogs and brought a taste of New England back to Tennessee, some foodie salve for a son in mourning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Our other loss occurred just two weeks ago, my grandfather died July 3, and, sadly, I was deemed too pregnant to travel by my midwife and, therefore, missed the services. They were reported to be a good celebration of his life and family, however, replete with the food of my grandfather's western Pennsylvania heritage: rigatoni, halupki, and ham sandwiches. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">In May, Chris visited Chile and Argentina with his MBA class and came back aglow with the energy of new cultures and tastes. He plans for us to visit Argentina in next couple of years and is especially eager for me to taste his favorite calamari at a Buenos Aires Italian joint called Broccolini. Besides the Argentinean cuisine, which he particularly enjoyed, he was impressed by his ability to purchase a good bottle of Malbec and a liter of water for three American dollars. Cheers! </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm now five short weeks from my due date—feeling very excited, large, unphotographable, and hungry. Chris is out of town for the evening, so I am enjoying one of my favorite single-girl meals, which includes a few pregnancy no-nos that I've chosen to ignore: Fromager d'Affinois double-cream brie; nitrate-free sopressata; chewy, fresh ciabatta; cantaloupe with black pepper; and heirloom tomato salad. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">In the language of road-side stands across the country, enjoy the 'maters and 'lopes!<br /></p></span></span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-66977010839800314142009-03-03T16:26:00.000-08:002009-03-03T16:37:46.364-08:00UTTERLY UNSEASONAL<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj175DHGR06uYvyxZnEy5yvwnRLmyU7Pkibq851kb9yEHbnT1WfLrema8sLDRsMCIL3SGTnmOnc_sYyA-7K6bkXbk8X6aPZCCnqcNhBo5Ry5cXFDa7P2AWwMcaZaWUtLFJustxWxpWRujqb/s1600-h/DSC_0780.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309122427861885794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj175DHGR06uYvyxZnEy5yvwnRLmyU7Pkibq851kb9yEHbnT1WfLrema8sLDRsMCIL3SGTnmOnc_sYyA-7K6bkXbk8X6aPZCCnqcNhBo5Ry5cXFDa7P2AWwMcaZaWUtLFJustxWxpWRujqb/s320/DSC_0780.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Northern born and bred, six years in the South has turned me into a full blown weather-wuss. Yes, I know it’s only the first week of March, but I cannot wait until warmth and spring—real spring not the kind that visits for a long weekend then heads to the beach when things get rough. During Pennsylvania’s long, dreary winters, the prospect of a possible snowstorm (and the sudden solace of stuck-at-home-ness) kept me anticipatory enough to achieve satisfaction. But, with nary a snowstorm in my Chattanooga history, Southern winter is reminiscent of the Oscars: lots of huff-and-puff, little payoff. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was quite happy then, last evening, to find a means to pull a bit of sunny shine into early-March: homemade pesto and heirloom tomatoes. The pesto I had made and frozen in ¼ cup pesto-pucks. The heirloom tomatoes, I’d canned. It seemed like something I should have realized mid-November, for what is better than pesto and heirlooms? But, by the grace of the gastronomic gods, I didn’t realized the pairing until I absolutely needed them: low-thirties, the teasings of a cold, and nearly a month until April showers and what follows.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As Chris and I eat a quick lunch at home at least four workdays a week, things get tedious. Tacos: ground beef, chorizo and eggs, shredded chicken mole’. Soup, soup, and more soup. Paninis, my en vogue name for less-than-glamorous deli meat and cheese pressed in toasted bread. But this little glimmer of summer cheered my morning with expectation and my afternoon with sunny contentment. Three lunches in under 30 minutes and a little culinary “save the date,” sunnier days to come.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Simple, Unseasonal Pesto Lunch Pasta</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">(In true-to-summer form, you can even eat it cold.)<br /><br />1 lb. whole wheat spaghetti<br />1 T olive oil<br />1 lb. chicken, cut into bite sized pieces<br />10 oz. mushrooms, sliced<br />1 pint tomatoes, drained and diced if necessary<br />5 oz. frozen spinach, drained<br />¾ cup pesto</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div><br />· Boil spaghetti to al dente as directed on package. Set aside.</div><div>· To a large sauté pan over medium heat, add olive oil, then, after oil has a minute to warm, chicken. </div><div>· Salt and pepper chicken, though not too heavily. You can taste and adjust seasonings later.<br />· When chicken is fully cooked, remove from pan, reduce heat to medium-low, and add mushrooms.<br />· After five minutes, add tomatoes and spinach.<br />· Sauté an additional five minutes then add pesto, chicken, and pasta.<br />· Toss and turn everything into a lovely amalgam.<br />· Taste and adjust seasonings.<br />· Stow away for bright lunches on wintry afternoons.</span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-67538830032514956722009-02-16T16:45:00.000-08:002009-02-16T17:09:16.410-08:00DEATH, BIRTH, & DINNER<div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">There is an excuse for the long period of silence herein—a couple explanations really, and good ones. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="left"><br />To start, there was an entirely-too-soon laptop death. I needn’t go into details, really. The fault was mine, but there was, of course, a period of denial, followed by a period of anger, followed by one of mourning in which I could not think of writing upon any tool other than my poor, dead portable. In retrospect, I can only say that never should a laptop be placed upon a cedar chest covered with a quilt—even if only for a few moments, to burn a Lyle Lovett CD for instance, as one may start to enjoy the company of one’s friends and family and return to find the laptop frizzled to pure uselessness. </div><div align="left"><br />Last Friday, however, my new laptop arrived, chocolate brown and quick and memory-rich, signaling a rebirth of independent computing, communicating, and, yes, blogging. Goodbye, office chair and bulky desktop. Hello, world. </div><div align="left"><br />But there is more <em>birth</em> in this than the computer. For the last three months have signaled a distinctly strange season of consumption in which my favorite foods consisted of canned pineapple and cheese ‘n crackers. Yep, Chris and I are expecting. And, though we are deeply excited, it has not been a period of fine dining and gustatory discovery. Chocolate milk and grilled cheese, awesome. Double-calcium banana smoothies, yum. Filetto Sopresso; quiche; lamb burgers: no thanks. </div><div align="left"><br />Happily, however, first trimester behind me, my appetite for "finer” things is creeping back. Yes, hot fudge sundaes covered in oreos still call nightly (I refuse, of course, most of the time), and Clausen pickles remain one of my favorites, but I’m regaining some degree of normalcy—a brief respite, I suppose, until August.</div><div align="left"><br />Chris and I took these pictures in Pittsburgh’s Strip District over the holidays. Our time in the Strip signaled the first moments when I actually considered that I might be pregnant. The sight of Chris’s cappicola sandwich was terribly disturbing to me, though I knew I should be delighted at the sheer indulgence of it. The Strip District is food-lover's perfection—raw and wild and expansive. Enjoy! </div><div align="left"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ueZsWysc11VOIUpKxWQF-agzRwhMg16rJK83iCerPU6duHdeF3Wb-gZsyPiv0dVhS56TSMwZ786E1yvAjal8-_tJ1wXEDKTGZ7FfQjPqDQxPP3Xh7mksQlfoaPGEYFHvu0FtIZ-TNE1H/s1600-h/DSC_0764.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303564294153303490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ueZsWysc11VOIUpKxWQF-agzRwhMg16rJK83iCerPU6duHdeF3Wb-gZsyPiv0dVhS56TSMwZ786E1yvAjal8-_tJ1wXEDKTGZ7FfQjPqDQxPP3Xh7mksQlfoaPGEYFHvu0FtIZ-TNE1H/s320/DSC_0764.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> Cappicola & Egg at Primanti Bros.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSy9BUNcsKB2Q7ZUO673KLZV4LrmJ4BU_Czm8NrydlMwREIg0LsKkte5FgPSD67TlAsOx3mtpG3BHVjj0OwaddyKW3nfAOC843-VWT5_vuq5v4uWPvQjdcmUgi0rfjK_3FlJKjEooUVR92/s1600-h/DSC_0762.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303564293585307186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSy9BUNcsKB2Q7ZUO673KLZV4LrmJ4BU_Czm8NrydlMwREIg0LsKkte5FgPSD67TlAsOx3mtpG3BHVjj0OwaddyKW3nfAOC843-VWT5_vuq5v4uWPvQjdcmUgi0rfjK_3FlJKjEooUVR92/s320/DSC_0762.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Delicious Baccala (Salt Cod) at Wholey's<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK23UIUmfdVG7aNdBfVPdKS7cZyoadksC0EqoWdjSrNC7ah7hOcSZvu3QG7sDlcx38Ks_eTsdVaN_S5bAdq9wbrsasK3KJgsw_ke_dW9L7inFvlQmfBwTokwhMS8LyGbccWxn7pDl1Zhgx/s1600-h/DSC_0758.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303564290277471714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK23UIUmfdVG7aNdBfVPdKS7cZyoadksC0EqoWdjSrNC7ah7hOcSZvu3QG7sDlcx38Ks_eTsdVaN_S5bAdq9wbrsasK3KJgsw_ke_dW9L7inFvlQmfBwTokwhMS8LyGbccWxn7pDl1Zhgx/s320/DSC_0758.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Wholey's Oysters<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJvbnXcaxC1SQ_WrhKydH7u1j9YS8rA-omU6PvWrgh3ajfGbpFXCzriTsvLU4KrKEcVvDaru5J0jbFy2xsp3x0hXg81KnV5l8GJ2m88oVGGIRkQYMc5WXo0-sY9rfqPfvWj_o6vzUAIO8/s1600-h/DSC_0757.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303564285191687986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJvbnXcaxC1SQ_WrhKydH7u1j9YS8rA-omU6PvWrgh3ajfGbpFXCzriTsvLU4KrKEcVvDaru5J0jbFy2xsp3x0hXg81KnV5l8GJ2m88oVGGIRkQYMc5WXo0-sY9rfqPfvWj_o6vzUAIO8/s320/DSC_0757.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> Biscotti's at Biscotti Brothers<br /><br /></span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gs8Br0uIOSIqtK8Y6dur2MHqPdtsB2a1-TGiDuN5RIWtuAs99lYO-vh2dach1Hpw4e5-r_tv7hpn38_emUFlK3lmQt71OmXRDbO5BNwtDQMfjVqlZ-sBumII7JUafboU5NUSfEHmMGpv/s1600-h/DSC_0755.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303564288331866146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gs8Br0uIOSIqtK8Y6dur2MHqPdtsB2a1-TGiDuN5RIWtuAs99lYO-vh2dach1Hpw4e5-r_tv7hpn38_emUFlK3lmQt71OmXRDbO5BNwtDQMfjVqlZ-sBumII7JUafboU5NUSfEHmMGpv/s320/DSC_0755.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> Fresh, Homemade Tofu at Lotus Food Market<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div></div></div><br /></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-45313510894499838312008-12-01T16:45:00.000-08:002008-12-01T16:54:23.868-08:00TURKEY IN TOUGH TIMES<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukYS0b-zOaCk090z2o4ltDhcOeEkK4qiJFs__4cAQ-wWzMvuFwR9IYeFmNcuR38q3hmQK0w9ogMKSFmvFUtu3s1M9Snr7k0ooIBDjEthmabfebhSfijf8Hy4DkPNTyB2uDYdZPH9ipFl7/s1600-h/DSC_0734.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274988063467509826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukYS0b-zOaCk090z2o4ltDhcOeEkK4qiJFs__4cAQ-wWzMvuFwR9IYeFmNcuR38q3hmQK0w9ogMKSFmvFUtu3s1M9Snr7k0ooIBDjEthmabfebhSfijf8Hy4DkPNTyB2uDYdZPH9ipFl7/s320/DSC_0734.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">I am pleased to say that I am not the only individual so driven by the craving for leftovers that they cooked a second Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, I spoke to quite a few serial-seconds yesterday at market. It’s a natural inclination, I think, for those of us who spend the Thanksgiving away from home. The bustle of the big day (in our case, ten adults and eleven kids) leaves little time for the sort of slow enjoyment that comes from snatching finger-fulls of stuffing from the fridge late evenings and eating it cold in the dark quiet of the kitchen. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div><br />Second-Thanksgiving also provides the opportunity to focus on favorites. No rutabaga or sweet potatoes for us. Instead, I made our two family dressings (a French-Canadian meat stuffing of pork, beef, and potato and a simple, buttery bread stuffing); braised cabbage with bacon and veal stock; homemade apple sauce with honey and vanilla; and butterscotch pudding topped with salty pecans. At my preference, we drank red wine, rather than the appropriate white, and fed a few bits of extra meat to the dogs. After a cold, grey day at market, second-Thanksgiving was wholly soothing experience.</div><div><br />And on the subject of market, next weekend marks the final Chattanooga Market of the 2008 season. Though I’ve now celebrated five market-season finales, this year, for a number of reasons, I’m balancing a measure of relief (free Sundays!) and sadness. To start, our good friends Susanna and Joe moved to Bozeman, Montana this week. Susanna was a constant help at the market with her happy, knows-no-stranger outlook, and Joe was actually an inspiration of sorts for conception of Alchemy, having farmed and marketed under the pseudonym “Tomato Joe” for at time. In addition to that, the current economy creates a constant supply of what-ifs for small businesses. Some vendors may return next season; some may not. Needless to say, all of us are hoping for a strong, celebratory conclusion to the year, replete with spirited buying and locally-inspired gifting. If you’re in the Chattanooga area, grab your gift list and head over. If you’re not, find some artisan outlets in your town and give them your holiday dollars.<br /><br />In closing, the final weeks of market produce came down to apples and popping corn. Pictured above is Rainbow Farm’s lovely, purple popping corn which rises to tasty fluff in a bit of sizzling olive oil. In these difficult times, if you must sit down with the Wall Street Journal or any news for that matter, I highly recommend that you have some fresh, hot popping corn alongside. It’s four ears for a buck, after all. And it really does offer some significant contentment when the final bowls of turkey soup have been slurped. </span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-86474504423614604862008-11-17T15:55:00.000-08:002008-11-17T16:09:26.686-08:00AUTUMN & ALL<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87Uct_jmtoMxb2ZtqgTJkQN5ZRHXxXp8Y582DtTymrZ-VdMWl-pi71i-zvlm0rSkwQyPVo6NSFz_TaWBdW4qGREKWiwQx9pVHfMZZhZ2w-XKNTQXbG0Yvll_vVQUYJEI4FMFK_ZEcWXKw/s1600-h/DSC_0727.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269779488205622450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87Uct_jmtoMxb2ZtqgTJkQN5ZRHXxXp8Y582DtTymrZ-VdMWl-pi71i-zvlm0rSkwQyPVo6NSFz_TaWBdW4qGREKWiwQx9pVHfMZZhZ2w-XKNTQXbG0Yvll_vVQUYJEI4FMFK_ZEcWXKw/s320/DSC_0727.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Think of this blog as your virtual Indian summer. Yes, I know, Pennsylvanians, you’re expecting six inches of the white stuff this evening, but let your mind roll back a few weeks to orchards, the apples within, autumnal leaves, and Christmas card photo ops aplenty.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br />Fall and winter are hiking season for Chris and me. Freed of my ophidiophobia (yeah for hibernation), not to mention Sunday market, we scour the surrounding counties afoot, bundled and tobogganed, a sack full of odd foods that qualify both as light (weight-wise) and filling (tummy-wise), and we intended to begin our season a few weeks ago at the Georgia commencement of the Appalachian Trail near Dahlonega.<br /><br />But we were distracted. The first of many roadside apple stands offering fried pies, cider doughnuts, bushels of dozens of apple-ly shades, and*sigh*boiled peanuts was cause for a turn about. We bought a gallon of pulpy cider (the good, unfiltered sort with matter suspended at jug bottom), one of the doughnuts, one fried peach pie (who thought that they’d offer peach in autumn at an apple stand?); a half bushel of Pink Ladies; and a sack of their boiled peanuts.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56R4xZFHQMaO23XlH4dJtzqUbfW1xdogHj_0zj1fdQGGuizhZxm-vV7B-8TAm5ICMwvDeYyWZLMSZdbwSayKgXsAEbSMoNKmnzdPADqf1twuc_LXPUfZfSP5cimf9sb2EcNZXaMUmoqoG/s1600-h/DSC_0707.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269779491119471522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56R4xZFHQMaO23XlH4dJtzqUbfW1xdogHj_0zj1fdQGGuizhZxm-vV7B-8TAm5ICMwvDeYyWZLMSZdbwSayKgXsAEbSMoNKmnzdPADqf1twuc_LXPUfZfSP5cimf9sb2EcNZXaMUmoqoG/s320/DSC_0707.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtyILzhewXjO7p3D5o3zLHkcGiNAqKAPUfVA51Nnmc_lIBHgESvJfROCncZlfhQ3nf5hv109UPFzwkECOxRbKum2_syuWWhSOiPj2gL-1P0_v1aw3_DXibp8h49Xo4h2kZ_JwWC9aQTIk/s1600-h/DSC_0708.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269779487123018274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtyILzhewXjO7p3D5o3zLHkcGiNAqKAPUfVA51Nnmc_lIBHgESvJfROCncZlfhQ3nf5hv109UPFzwkECOxRbKum2_syuWWhSOiPj2gL-1P0_v1aw3_DXibp8h49Xo4h2kZ_JwWC9aQTIk/s320/DSC_0708.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Now, just to be clear: Chris and I adore boiled peanuts. It’s true, for years we resisted. All through grad school as our South Carolinian friend Joel raved of their goodness, we turned up our noses. To be fair, the canned versions lurking in the canned vegetable aisle—and the only kind Chris and I had tasted—are poor representatives, leaning more on their legume heritage than their nutty nature. But good boiled peanuts are a unique experience, as authentically snacky as potato chips but paired with the feel-good warmth of a shot of whisky. And then there’s the shelling: sucking the spicy juice from them, tossing them on the ground or out the window—an inherent dose of relaxation in the whole process, like pinching Royal Reds from their tails at a beach bar. </span><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPtLlTWsBrAC3GMsBjVyY18x0sFm1y4QKbcWFQqEAX6sigigCubO0_2Dk_yQ_Px-3PBx6mK9ouoUfSyIsPxV2lFdmRImot2QFckHKIRMA3C6jMlGQMf81oC0ex4dzDHfNmIa3uSbzwSYp/s1600-h/DSC_0710.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269779484899247858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPtLlTWsBrAC3GMsBjVyY18x0sFm1y4QKbcWFQqEAX6sigigCubO0_2Dk_yQ_Px-3PBx6mK9ouoUfSyIsPxV2lFdmRImot2QFckHKIRMA3C6jMlGQMf81oC0ex4dzDHfNmIa3uSbzwSYp/s320/DSC_0710.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> (the peanut boiler at Reece Apple House where we bought our second bag)</span><br /></span><div></div></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-13857635985619723262008-11-17T15:51:00.000-08:002008-11-19T06:47:40.920-08:00AUTUMN & ALL, CONTINUED<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_E_r_2jplR-kpXqzMnKcZg_P5QHXo7q0C4qD3fBqKH6q-vWNq6OZMLlUNy-PnRwlCFwhdNeWKiiAx-R-Zc19u_WhBpOSsVtk8Tdk165EErutWP37FIYzeWWl0bA5jrXMvedQ5UtIntPm/s1600-h/DSC_0715.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269778572942701506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_E_r_2jplR-kpXqzMnKcZg_P5QHXo7q0C4qD3fBqKH6q-vWNq6OZMLlUNy-PnRwlCFwhdNeWKiiAx-R-Zc19u_WhBpOSsVtk8Tdk165EErutWP37FIYzeWWl0bA5jrXMvedQ5UtIntPm/s320/DSC_0715.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">These peanuts were appropriately, but not overly, salty; they retained their textural integrity; and they were lovely, long, finger-like specimens. We enjoyed them in the car heading hike-ward, though, just as we neared the end of the bag, we were again lured from our quest by B.J. Reece Apple House, which offered not only apples, but apple <em>picking</em>. And so with a half-bushel bag in hand, we trudged into B.J.’s orchards for a good dose of vitamin D as well as Yates, Arkansas Blacks, Mutsus, Fujis, and Braeburns. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Let me assure you, the best way to truly taste apples is among the trees, enjoying one variety and then another in stomach-ache inducing succession. Wash these down with more cider. And continue until your bag is ridiculously full, bursting at its seams. If you don’t have apples rolling round your trunk at day’s end, you’re doing it all wrong.</span><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgWM6ElT5dAq9JGg4XWYdR7LZR_vUdzs9LgzrIFPZFGjM6UQI2bAxLQ0AeTEVQbFwLoMZTtHnIB-SLMtF7udg2F09MniLYruTqXr8BN36c7HQ8ZV8oJ6SYB-hBetjPEy6GQwLToHeGmov/s1600-h/DSC_0717.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269778572403817458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgWM6ElT5dAq9JGg4XWYdR7LZR_vUdzs9LgzrIFPZFGjM6UQI2bAxLQ0AeTEVQbFwLoMZTtHnIB-SLMtF7udg2F09MniLYruTqXr8BN36c7HQ8ZV8oJ6SYB-hBetjPEy6GQwLToHeGmov/s320/DSC_0717.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> (apple cannon)</span> </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChXYJfGI0phHyRi-Zqi1EoVBuaSxo2ujAu_R27zQ0Fn9mD_xBGYnu3Vn7I5TNZzwacwQu8oNaUiMMWzrmiwUb8mpsqmSVk5Yh0TwkHAoyLgxhBXD601_WMcne4u6m5mBlGKV3FgAI3i8Q/s1600-h/DSC_0722.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269778565072445714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChXYJfGI0phHyRi-Zqi1EoVBuaSxo2ujAu_R27zQ0Fn9mD_xBGYnu3Vn7I5TNZzwacwQu8oNaUiMMWzrmiwUb8mpsqmSVk5Yh0TwkHAoyLgxhBXD601_WMcne4u6m5mBlGKV3FgAI3i8Q/s320/DSC_0722.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ_O2Nde33NT73hnt2PbPJrCXHa7jUWpO5fq8J8qTwhU61Q51unSfNc2ka8B2E3Am9qFNgMTgabFMkIfu-uBIlDavUvBTOFZjYogKVrsVMwurXKbwMoDQC9tAeZcYuThvce3rsPXiM7cC/s1600-h/DSC_0725.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269778567247290418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ_O2Nde33NT73hnt2PbPJrCXHa7jUWpO5fq8J8qTwhU61Q51unSfNc2ka8B2E3Am9qFNgMTgabFMkIfu-uBIlDavUvBTOFZjYogKVrsVMwurXKbwMoDQC9tAeZcYuThvce3rsPXiM7cC/s320/DSC_0725.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">We were nearly to the trailhead when we stumbled across these obscenely large pumpkins at Burt’s Farm in Dawsonville. No, you’re not looking at a Dali here; these 50 and 60 pounders appeared to melt from the earth, antagonists to their own circumference and girth, equally beautiful and ridiculous. When we finally made it to the trailhead and climbed the 600 steps to the top of Amicalola Falls, feathered in ruby and gold, I felt much like Burt’s specimens, fully gorged on the pleasures of peanuts, cider, and apples; plumped; and as utterly autumnal as any swath of squash and scarecrow. </span><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChFLDkNpJaYwmZKen_bV756ZFzRdUegshA2ZCR4x3RtDesUCXkSzVyVBnVpWaaBK9Z-MCMfo1A2hhAuY7Uche2JAgqLpjU68VDWgBa0OhATNccDfdADyy8swbogxRXjgi-5nF9hX2x15h/s1600-h/DSC_0730.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269778563123991970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChFLDkNpJaYwmZKen_bV756ZFzRdUegshA2ZCR4x3RtDesUCXkSzVyVBnVpWaaBK9Z-MCMfo1A2hhAuY7Uche2JAgqLpjU68VDWgBa0OhATNccDfdADyy8swbogxRXjgi-5nF9hX2x15h/s320/DSC_0730.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-52443223229708013712008-10-27T12:59:00.000-07:002008-10-27T13:03:08.625-07:00SOMEONE ELSE'S COOKING<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0oYKhFpYJT0Kc335cosjpPcS23ahXu62tezm28krq3WAvtSPiAtIEh2QW6YKvw8kNFzjBFf6Kk19VgVEuAKbxAbc_C8BvQVC8Mo3ZAsbDQKB-rzY_3qIi2qQDpVWPfTtNTl3vDgBPyqP/s1600-h/DSC_0699.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261926243547351314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0oYKhFpYJT0Kc335cosjpPcS23ahXu62tezm28krq3WAvtSPiAtIEh2QW6YKvw8kNFzjBFf6Kk19VgVEuAKbxAbc_C8BvQVC8Mo3ZAsbDQKB-rzY_3qIi2qQDpVWPfTtNTl3vDgBPyqP/s320/DSC_0699.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Today, I have been fully successful at being unsuccessful at absolutely anything. Following a two-day Oktoberfest Chattanooga Market, I am simply useless, unable to accomplish a single task: house cleaning, book work, freelance writing—all of it sits untouched, like the lunch dishes yet on the dining table. I’ve been twice, thus far, to the Starbuck’s atop Lookout Mountain. I enjoyed apple pie for breakfast and again post-lunch. And I have played more than one round of Jelly Car on my iPhone.</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div><br />Needless to say, the sun room is adorned with dog-hair tumbleweeds (oh, yes, I was also supposed to brush the dogs); the recycling may soon collapse in on itself implosion-style; and I will surely resort to bottom-of-the barrel underwear (tie-dye) tomorrow morning. What’s more, and this is simply inexcusable, I have tons of yet-salvageable basil waiting to be made into pesto. There is a chance of a first frost tonight, but still I sit by the fire indulging my lethargy.<br /><br />Here’s the thing: the anxiety of uselessness builds on itself. I’m now not only not accomplishing anything, but I’m also spending so much time lamenting my inactivity, that, at 3:17 p.m., it’s as if I’ve exhausted all possibility of redeeming myself. </div><div><br />There is a bright spot in the day, however: someone else’s cooking. Though I generally love cooking in any form (talking about cooking, reading about cooking, writing about cooking, cooking itself), there are times when it’s nice to have something prepared for me—something which I won’t have to analyze for its book-worthiness. There are no notes to be taken, no precise measurements, just a little silver tray in the fridge bearing meatloaf, potatoes, and steamed carrots courtesy of my in-laws. They will need to be warmed, of course—twenty minutes or so in the oven. But they’ll be no mincing, no mixing. The flavors will be a surprise (I haven’t paired them after all); the dishes will be minimal; and I will end my day in the perfect do-nothing style in which I began.</span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-77004796185048592152008-10-20T07:15:00.000-07:002008-10-20T07:31:42.558-07:00SIZZLE, SMOKE, & A LACK OF SPINACH<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpxYtjP0us7aY2TiJIC5aH6kOkH5MEnjSOpErw_sKLlosGickAHZ18eNrL7ZOC3uTRuvoJg2CKYlqeuIncXjru_-U1dktcveGqQ_tjfFn_u00NWvaH4-7-jmO6UcUICNrmb_rI_uuXpy4/s1600-h/DSC_0693.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259242870127746450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpxYtjP0us7aY2TiJIC5aH6kOkH5MEnjSOpErw_sKLlosGickAHZ18eNrL7ZOC3uTRuvoJg2CKYlqeuIncXjru_-U1dktcveGqQ_tjfFn_u00NWvaH4-7-jmO6UcUICNrmb_rI_uuXpy4/s320/DSC_0693.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TLra49GPvoOjepmGxWK7kWt4C1nR6US2uhbYWNcYo8xQecc-7r2nWUT9u53-6N5rr5OtPPPrj7Ig0H3wqe2NIT-OijDTPJZbOdWFtmbv-WhszKmNyZ7xqBiYjySZAYQYPNhJnEHp2vv2/s1600-h/DSC_0674.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259242874717440754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TLra49GPvoOjepmGxWK7kWt4C1nR6US2uhbYWNcYo8xQecc-7r2nWUT9u53-6N5rr5OtPPPrj7Ig0H3wqe2NIT-OijDTPJZbOdWFtmbv-WhszKmNyZ7xqBiYjySZAYQYPNhJnEHp2vv2/s320/DSC_0674.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Wc8tN3gPAkHSmsO4qEksRkBXf6WzIgXTstyIL0RSPDHjzMPSXK-wi3o-5cJVMacoivK0jZ1dOASAXs0eH0VxVuUMGK4gfuRENoXR6fgK0An73-NhJXkqKBZ5lODvfI7HabaSWgfGt9pf/s1600-h/DSC_0677.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259242878844560994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Wc8tN3gPAkHSmsO4qEksRkBXf6WzIgXTstyIL0RSPDHjzMPSXK-wi3o-5cJVMacoivK0jZ1dOASAXs0eH0VxVuUMGK4gfuRENoXR6fgK0An73-NhJXkqKBZ5lODvfI7HabaSWgfGt9pf/s320/DSC_0677.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Last evening, my friends Monica and Brian hosted their wedding reception at Chattanooga’s Pot House—a lovely log cabin on the banks of the Tennessee River. The party was perfect. In the utterly brisk woods, with an old-timey band (two guitars, a mandolin, a tuba, and sear-sucker suits), we enjoyed corn dogs of various sorts (jalapeno/pineapple turkey dogs, traditional all-beef corn dogs, and veggie corn dogs) and a brilliant autumn-foliage-themed cake with a meringue layer. The crunch of meringue aside a thick layer of silky buttercream—pop rocks step aside, this is the textural sensation of the adult-set.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div></div><div>Previous to this, Chris and I were in Tuscaloosa for the Alabama-Ole’ Miss game. Here, as is standard, we visited Dreamland. Now, <em>deep breath</em>, for me, the Dreamland ribs are an aside; I’m not crazy for ribs after all, with their need for tugging and tearing, their required toothpicking post-consumption. No, for me, the very best of Dreamland is the fresh, cottony white bread and sauce. The sauce provided initially (in its neat, Styrofoam cup) is good. But the sauce that drips from the ribs and pools plate-bottom, flecked with bits of charred meat, is divine. Its vinegary bite, eased by the grease of the ribs, emerges a run-off of twangy-complexity and smokiness. And the quilty-soft sponge of Sunbeam is the ideal transport. </div><div><br />With nary a vegetable in sight, this weekend was pure Southern-style perfection--good parties, football, and an abundance of meaty deliciousness. </span></div></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-61629355053056280652008-10-06T12:13:00.000-07:002008-10-06T12:23:01.059-07:00SOMETHING WONDERFUL (WHICH I MAY KILL WITHIN THE WEEK)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuQlaeBGo_zv1wG8oLmsh1IKPzg6-Dt-wRXl9mLFv7OWyZXE85ZJs6iUyegljVU-ZqQKW26wHFDP8xRN9iMgnvhqRrSDVRHQykbKMu1VfhN-IaF1ao1ZMWZTjdM5B2PpIIcTgc5RVzBj8/s1600-h/DSC_0654.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254122006326070466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuQlaeBGo_zv1wG8oLmsh1IKPzg6-Dt-wRXl9mLFv7OWyZXE85ZJs6iUyegljVU-ZqQKW26wHFDP8xRN9iMgnvhqRrSDVRHQykbKMu1VfhN-IaF1ao1ZMWZTjdM5B2PpIIcTgc5RVzBj8/s320/DSC_0654.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Lettuce. (I know, I know, it doesn’t sound like much, but check this out.) </span></div></span><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">My sweet market-neighbors Carol and Walter of </span><a href="http://http//www.rainbowhillfarm.biz/"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Rainbow Hill Farms </span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">sold me this still-in-the-dirt head, and informed me that, as needed, I can pull mature leaves from the bottom, keeping the rest intact. The head will continue to grow and produce (sunny spot, watered and fed, of course) indoors, over the winter, indefinitely. Fresh lettuce via countertop all year long! </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Need a few leaves to add some crunch to warm roast beef and provolone on rye? Rather than buying a whole head at the grocery, just clip a few and crunch-away.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Hungry for a salad? Lob the whole head off with a kitchen knife and continue to feed and water the roots. A new head will blossom in a few weeks. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">I suppose I should count myself lucky for all the hours I’ve spent peddling spice blends out-of-doors among growers and artisans and bakers and happy shoppers. (At 35+ markets a year, that is roughly a minimum of 6 weeks of my life in total; yikes!) But, I have to be honest, this time of the season, market starts to feel like a drag. Sunday mornings, I want to lay in bed with my husband watching Meet the Press; I want a mimosa-accompanied brunch, damnit; I want to laze in the web of a two-day weekend. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">But here’s the thing: just when the season starts to lull and the summer’s tomatoes disappear, there’s something new—be it veggie or bookmaker, coconut cupcakes or big band festival—that makes the market new again. This time, it’s lettuce. And if I can keep it alive and thriving, it is sure to have me satisfied until the first arugula glows its verdant glow on the spring market tables.</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-71880181899286642932008-09-29T12:11:00.000-07:002008-09-29T12:17:48.862-07:00FIRE THE MARKETING DEPT.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGS5I29hyphenhyphenvISQ0CFrrBXOjDAQbRrO_rSxb2ficuj-gR8Ai_mRA-_zt4SDPr__71I5jv1IHf1Lrs8hND6PHA2Qp5V1p1UKNernkntT9J3pSVOHH-X-3fZZCLa1pRxNDYD9PdItY9Vh9fwq/s1600-h/DSCF0165.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251523061988317474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGS5I29hyphenhyphenvISQ0CFrrBXOjDAQbRrO_rSxb2ficuj-gR8Ai_mRA-_zt4SDPr__71I5jv1IHf1Lrs8hND6PHA2Qp5V1p1UKNernkntT9J3pSVOHH-X-3fZZCLa1pRxNDYD9PdItY9Vh9fwq/s320/DSCF0165.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The spacing here leaves a great deal to interpretation. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Can't decide? Try the <em>Plates.</em></span></span> <div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-90275320335026762522008-09-26T08:01:00.000-07:002008-09-26T08:11:51.410-07:00BROWNIES & BRAIN POWER<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19PFX-0vs7hfI8LEERfSkjOvgOIjDDUVXLom94YKez65YPs4SZIeQ_n4HfwkULA3pEzFODXIEHIWDVC4PQ6IsO4NmrRailk7bGbHHREoROuko1Bkw9p3wTSwHslNj6V9aHMvuD5Jt9wtS/s1600-h/DSC_0649.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250347430454394594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19PFX-0vs7hfI8LEERfSkjOvgOIjDDUVXLom94YKez65YPs4SZIeQ_n4HfwkULA3pEzFODXIEHIWDVC4PQ6IsO4NmrRailk7bGbHHREoROuko1Bkw9p3wTSwHslNj6V9aHMvuD5Jt9wtS/s320/DSC_0649.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">This afternoon, I’ll be up to my elbows in Alchemy’s brownie mix, as they’re being featured on <a href="http://www.onegoodie.com/">onegoodie.com </a>through the weekend. And looking at the One Goodie website this morning, I had <em>that</em> feeling again, the artisan thing, the weird dichotomy of the creator, the <em>did I really make that?</em> moment. I’ve had the same feeling as a writer. Last year, I re-read my thesis novel and found myself engaged. It made no sense! Engaged as a reader in my own writing?</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div><br />The something-funny with food is easier to nail down. As an artisan, you become, at once, connected and unconnected to the idea of the food as food. Of course, following procedure regarding cleanliness and packaging, etc…, you’re aware that what you’re making is a “consumable,” but you rarely think of the fact that when it leaves your hands it will become a part of folks daily lives: beside them as they’re wearing pajamas, stirring a pot of a curry on the stove; a signifier of what their kids will remember as <em>dad’s cooking</em>; a part of their pleasure of eating dinner in the evening. </div><div><br />When Chris and I were shopping for a house a couple of years ago, we had the strange occurrence of opening cabinet doors (checking out the space, of course) and finding Alchemy spices. Sort of surreal. It’s in these moments that it takes extra brainpower to process the fact that your hands created that blend, labeled that bottle (which now, gasp, looks like a real grocery item!). Kind of like raising a kid, maybe, and finding at some point that they’re their own person; on the store shelf or in someone else’s kitchen, even things you’ve created cease being yours and actually become “products,” unto themselves.</div><div><br />Which reminds me of a story that my college writing professor Dr. S.S. Hanna told; attending a fiction reading, one evening, Hanna was surprised to see the author turn his novel sideways, mid-reading. The author was, of course, including an edit he’d made in the margin of his published book! A wild twist on separation anxiety or, perhaps, pure denial? It makes you feel small after all; regardless of all your concern and care, once something can stand on its own, it's completely beyond your grasp. </div><div><br />BTW, my husband Chris and our friend Blythe kayaked out to what they thought was an unpopulated island last spring and found an organic farm, completed with sheep, chickens, and an airstream trailer. Pretty wild! Here’s an article about the Williams Island crew: </span></div><a href="http://www.timesfreepress.com/news/2008/sep/25/farming-williams-island/"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">http://www.timesfreepress.com/news/2008/sep/25/farming-williams-island/</span></a><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Compare this to the touted Outstanding in the Field experience, a “restaurant” staged in the fields of working farms and charging $200-plus per plate (well, five plates, really) for food that is enjoyed at its source (shouldn’t that be less expensive given the zero-carbon-footprint thing?). While the table settings are idyllic and the food, most certainly, is delicious, I’m awed to see each coming dinner marked “sold out.” The experience is, most assuredly, not an authentic farm experience: it’s polished to a sheen with sterile table cloths, china, and servers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s lovely. But farm-to-table in the truest sense? I think not.</span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-3167369199654698762008-09-18T17:18:00.000-07:002008-09-18T17:31:20.093-07:00LOTS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9FlkTQu_mCpwOZMzSLU9EVoXim8IZcHP984Qngm5T5phJQ34b49RDk3oWry2ZGW82FMEIgncu5yuXX1CfmfjSsHdZQTsUFWwfjQvSl7PxVJ_cDOUt9ZAYAiDrWXWdLaCZMqbt2EalS8W/s1600-h/DSC_0600.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247521291390004162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9FlkTQu_mCpwOZMzSLU9EVoXim8IZcHP984Qngm5T5phJQ34b49RDk3oWry2ZGW82FMEIgncu5yuXX1CfmfjSsHdZQTsUFWwfjQvSl7PxVJ_cDOUt9ZAYAiDrWXWdLaCZMqbt2EalS8W/s320/DSC_0600.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPD_2lqI4i6X-um7E-9mjNAttyLlnfs6lD-LPnrgsO0udwdG9u3JYbYavuK00r42_p7hhhelYiZxgC2C97bhz-2TRydsR8OlcI0xbGH5AkRj6blljiZ4UTx2r9ASE50TY2TIuHI89Gtb2/s1600-h/DSC_0612.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247521296095713890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPD_2lqI4i6X-um7E-9mjNAttyLlnfs6lD-LPnrgsO0udwdG9u3JYbYavuK00r42_p7hhhelYiZxgC2C97bhz-2TRydsR8OlcI0xbGH5AkRj6blljiZ4UTx2r9ASE50TY2TIuHI89Gtb2/s320/DSC_0612.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Excesses, it seems, are my M.O. this week. Last night, I canned a bushel of heirloom tomatoes (which melted into 12 quarts). I had considered simply freezing them, but satisfaction-wise there is nothing as fulfilling as rows of home-canned veggies. For both the sake of pleasure and pure, unadulterated conceit, I will store these in plain sight, where guests will be forced to ask, “Did you can those?” (That’s right, bitch, I’m totally stocked-up for winter. What about you?) </span><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZSmkKMcTTIVBZbsLlqdapskP0EpXnW-hD3Ly7oytR6Wb-s3PNYuXtAMbgn7S9YhqVBx28brGLs0kWpwtOCpfemjVpKvF_QCzGP67V_bMiRzEYvUf2mAiJNZyf5blp-p5GMiUKkHpS5AK/s1600-h/DSC_0605.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247520792449840978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZSmkKMcTTIVBZbsLlqdapskP0EpXnW-hD3Ly7oytR6Wb-s3PNYuXtAMbgn7S9YhqVBx28brGLs0kWpwtOCpfemjVpKvF_QCzGP67V_bMiRzEYvUf2mAiJNZyf5blp-p5GMiUKkHpS5AK/s320/DSC_0605.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzs2FKpG5N2CL7h2zrWU0VSXMcqx1VEWBMZKGPAYgGTtQNQxiuC3hkCxtJcbmh4yg-bQscgorTH6ZdUYK_iDKqCIDtNCWDOdZEoLYSynBbU84hCltBmOuM3Mr3dhu12UT9uqOZ4KxjuMT/s1600-h/DSC_0620.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247520802149075266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzs2FKpG5N2CL7h2zrWU0VSXMcqx1VEWBMZKGPAYgGTtQNQxiuC3hkCxtJcbmh4yg-bQscgorTH6ZdUYK_iDKqCIDtNCWDOdZEoLYSynBbU84hCltBmOuM3Mr3dhu12UT9uqOZ4KxjuMT/s320/DSC_0620.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHgI2JkmdYMHftL0pXjt8-FA_4SUcFtesOp3KH82_dPzgdzUsI5Ac_DwNFEWgQ-8i2lb5tI4COisQm8uqrPFDUhcIZiSRoBuk1CtdUNdvwPc128HmFya1cJMHbPcdmPRPpnGdehDV32az/s1600-h/DSC_0619.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247520798150709842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHgI2JkmdYMHftL0pXjt8-FA_4SUcFtesOp3KH82_dPzgdzUsI5Ac_DwNFEWgQ-8i2lb5tI4COisQm8uqrPFDUhcIZiSRoBuk1CtdUNdvwPc128HmFya1cJMHbPcdmPRPpnGdehDV32az/s320/DSC_0619.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Up for tonight, apples. Our good friend Mike found a bountiful apple tree on the property of an abandoned house (location: for a multitude of reasons, undisclosed). On Tuesday, after some pub food and beer, he announced that he had “something” to “unload” on us and “could we go to your car?” Illicit substances? An abundance of marked bills? Paraphernalia? No, a backpack-full of apples. Gatherer Mike was taken with considering the miniscule carbon footprint of the hand-harvested, local fruit. Canning and saving seemed to honor his eco-conscious concern and be a good nearly-carbon-neutral approach, so when Christmas comes around, our dessert will be both succulent and sustainable. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div><br />But wait a sec, that’s too idyllic; I’m lapsing into food-writing la-la-land here. About halfway through the peeling and coring, I had forgotten about going green and Mike’s generosity and ailing Mother Earth, all I could think of was the poor bastard who had to sell industrial-strength apple corers to make ends meet. What’s the emotional sell? Door-to-door or phone sales? Key marketing points? And who, exactly, is the audience? </div><div><br />Housewives? At $140-a-pop, Mrs. McCafferty had better be baking more than a few apple pies. And she’d better have some muscle behind those pin-curls as well. Generally, it takes not one but two whacks in order to propel the apple over the blades and into the waiting receptacle. When it comes to the third blow, and you begin thinking, “Damn, I’m glad this thing doesn’t have feelings,” it’s time to change your technique. </div><div><br />Restaurateur? “No really, chef, give it a try. Just insert the apple, then smash the f**k out of it with this handy, maneuverable top part.”</div><div><br />Starry-eyed, hippie-type entrepreneurs? This is where they got Chris and me. Fresh out of grad school, we thought it sounded fun to travel to markets and festivals selling apples with caramel sauce and peanuts. But there’s the residual splatter/spatter (yes, think crime scene here) that makes the whole things less attractive to the consuming public. “Oh, I’m sorry, little boy, but that seed lodged in your cheek is totally lucky. Good thing you had your eyes closed.”</div><div><br />I’m well aware: this may unleash a storm of salesmen on my door step, whispering “Are those the people who bought the apple corer?” So let just me say now, we’re not in the market for grave plots; vacuums; large tubs of popcorn; international orphans needing sponsorship; meat, fish, or pre-seasoned poultry products; encyclopedias; human-grade dog food; or...No? Fruit you say? Well, come on in. I know just what to do with that.</span></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHmxriq9mHaW3ip7YG2NW_jmFAWEn989PdUtETr6vMw6RejVNjhIe1p_rW2ntQ2TkGSitgLYJ4dB4EcYrggOEK1_6TGSngudl_VDJ0IG1ZzXceU3e6N_pSJP4J_LJz_qQ2HvVeE9km9U9/s1600-h/DSC_0605.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9pziNk-BmZMQ0JOc2z0nzx35s4sDWlGEAZN4oSITOF11od2VpRpVa48hT0iRUDPY9kVkWtGdl2kpA4AsoZOW2WRIy0bLhtaXJ5JbfUauFGXrvoi5NfDOnUTPj97QARfF3EKO2tl7PRjo/s1600-h/DSC_0600.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8tL23KMoXV9Ww1mHy-ASp8oBL967MQL28LVv9aibs14-t9cJ0HDBgGPYsbfKpfnsBFz3v4pfD79hI6QeRDxJfZTM7G4RVVxlUhijsKFci6qGE75AySXQloo2UoDldOZJ7BAru7c6Qh-ZI/s1600-h/DSC_0612.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-19811541781509750862008-09-11T19:15:00.000-07:002008-09-11T19:33:24.845-07:00LE CREUSET LOVE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3v0gqxLu8fOHS5EtA6U3bFkWUAdKBu69mHOiD7hwwtaA-TgtmTkiy-MzKP0FjYUvvLYIBcj8GlpMpeh_8_6yrq9dqtW04plxxY8ExCrx1QM6A5nzr6KcYIXNSHlRsaMvEkACzFHsRXAA/s1600-h/DSC_0578.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244955561625318002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3v0gqxLu8fOHS5EtA6U3bFkWUAdKBu69mHOiD7hwwtaA-TgtmTkiy-MzKP0FjYUvvLYIBcj8GlpMpeh_8_6yrq9dqtW04plxxY8ExCrx1QM6A5nzr6KcYIXNSHlRsaMvEkACzFHsRXAA/s320/DSC_0578.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLrf0E8yv-yQYsaj-oxZOVmag2yslDKLPqjbWnlXABA4XkTJFvn20NDzjAl6wMofdL71vxHe48XtIxsXxJRvc4sOCmSDqMFqQHV22ssaT4_hPLTvr8uPN1Ilt7dAA7NZb0pCrDUMebId2/s1600-h/DSC_0580.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244955565292484306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLrf0E8yv-yQYsaj-oxZOVmag2yslDKLPqjbWnlXABA4XkTJFvn20NDzjAl6wMofdL71vxHe48XtIxsXxJRvc4sOCmSDqMFqQHV22ssaT4_hPLTvr8uPN1Ilt7dAA7NZb0pCrDUMebId2/s320/DSC_0580.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">All my life, I’ve heard folks prattle on about their cookware crushes. A French butter keeper? I’ll take it or leave it. Mandolin? Give me a good chef’s blade, and I’m happy. Fancy double-boiler? A pan and bowl, please.</span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot that I appreciate: good knives, appropriate tools, even my pizzelle maker is valued come holiday time. And I adore my All-Clad copper; it’s perfectly practical and lovely to look at—who could ask for more? I certainly didn’t think that I could—until my Le Creuset came along.<br /><br />There are three distinct rationales for why my 7.5 Quart Dijon-Hued French Oven is flawless.<br /><br />1. The light interior. While cooking demands effort from each of the senses, sight is high on the handy-in-the-kitchen list. I like a clear view of how things are browning, crisping, caramelizing, and nothing is as lucid on the flame as the creamy white of a Le Creuset interior. Dimly-lit kitchen beware: I can now cook into all hours of the evening.<br /><br />2. The even-keeled convection. Let those flames lick. My Le Creuset will distribute them across the surface with ease. Lamb chops on one side, okra on the other—each has its share of heat, and nothing comes out black-n-blue.<br /><br />3. The practicality. A serious piece of cookware in a pretty enamel coat. Isn’t that what most women are after anyway?<br /><br />4. The clean-up. Bring on your ugly, your fond and your sear, your sticky balsamic and brown-sugar salmon. My Le Creuset will take nothing more than the coarse side of a kitchen sponge to wax spotless. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">I know, I know, it’s the expense, but, at some point in your life, they’ll be a perfect moment: it will start with a glance across the showroom; then a touch, maybe (accidental or intentional?); you’ll think of a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t, but none will matter. When you take her home, she’ll be everything you expected yet full of surprises; and, at some point, a lifetime won’t seem like long enough.</span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-16183769349995082732008-09-03T13:28:00.000-07:002008-09-03T13:37:19.507-07:00DUCK CONFIT: LESSON ONE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkMcbkQ2PtZMwJtDnwpB7ugeZSvtzr-Mb1AOslk-feshSan_ZSPcSwxYKbUVak_FBbRJOGRoWay9KIZrhw586Uo_ICiKqc8ko_GuLRDt_jrAux-GL-ADE2L5z9kEQ5BTJ2VyyXLG7r8_a/s1600-h/DSC_0566.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241896160880447986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkMcbkQ2PtZMwJtDnwpB7ugeZSvtzr-Mb1AOslk-feshSan_ZSPcSwxYKbUVak_FBbRJOGRoWay9KIZrhw586Uo_ICiKqc8ko_GuLRDt_jrAux-GL-ADE2L5z9kEQ5BTJ2VyyXLG7r8_a/s320/DSC_0566.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IazDGtT9hcyywpMBfIMtyA7P4eLMulyYcJdFQlZWjYyLyjatYK4IDlXZN9XB2SK-1Y2sc78RIeuOaZvIk2sRdf_0hT9H0kj1Lh74oVU2cGcUcP8VkOS1_vGDjJxYlHDLAx2QnB6jsX28/s1600-h/DSC_0569.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241896163992543458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IazDGtT9hcyywpMBfIMtyA7P4eLMulyYcJdFQlZWjYyLyjatYK4IDlXZN9XB2SK-1Y2sc78RIeuOaZvIk2sRdf_0hT9H0kj1Lh74oVU2cGcUcP8VkOS1_vGDjJxYlHDLAx2QnB6jsX28/s320/DSC_0569.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ONI1sNz9m1g8KfZLx_tve6v3SVvhVSuddLSAf5raAU0igQHtIMsPxuUqPWgRWB7uY5p_Mc6V5fAvtUY2JyB7jKhpWUrJg1IJs5RhWbI6CJRwbKXzLajFthYpzs7EJokbdoQq5ONNvlhyphenhyphen/s1600-h/DSC_0569.JPG"></a><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Everything is important; nothing is waste: bones, fat, skin, drippings. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Low-n-slow isn’t just a pork thing: the fat yields slowly and eases the duck meat to succulent perfection. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Think Waits’ <em>Alice</em>: gothic but sophisticated, raw yet refined, as lovely in process as product. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Rich food isn’t necessarily rich food (luxurious/$$$). </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Though generally the thinking is otherwise, time can be not only ally but enrichment to meats. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">A little duck fat is not enough. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">In the food world, the things that sound the fanciest are often the simplest; and the simplest are often the finest ala William Carlos Williams <em>This is Just to Say</em>. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Old as history; new as yesterday.</span></li></ul>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-88546120680816461192008-08-28T17:56:00.000-07:002008-08-29T06:51:29.978-07:00P'DOGS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Rhyphenhyphenutitis199_3dXL_SgZQgo-lfeRw_svO0OWu0lhjG6BmBXQGXZEBJJzmVkwL_Ixs9eBHbvzTSyOkNKxPGIFYR6xiAfMe-DyVipaG5UdJUZOagp4ocj5UvQrE4j8uqYBN-msZOFFKIR/s1600-h/DSC_0563.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239738172467232882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Rhyphenhyphenutitis199_3dXL_SgZQgo-lfeRw_svO0OWu0lhjG6BmBXQGXZEBJJzmVkwL_Ixs9eBHbvzTSyOkNKxPGIFYR6xiAfMe-DyVipaG5UdJUZOagp4ocj5UvQrE4j8uqYBN-msZOFFKIR/s320/DSC_0563.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Tonight amid duck confit and lamb kebabs preparations, I needed fuss-less, folky fare to balance my food equilibrium. Ta’da: P’Dogs!</span><br /></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">P’Dogs (short for Panini dogs) are a close cousin of the Waffle Dog, specialty of a short-lived Chattanooga hot dog shop. In a way, P’Dogs are health food. Deep-fried hot dogs in cheesy cornbread batter too much for your diet? Then try these hot dogs in cheesy cornbread batter that are toasted—not deep fried—to chewy perfection on a hot Panini press. Not enough to soothe your health-conscious soul? Then dip them in veggie-rich, spicy remoulade, and, hot damn, you’re golden.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>P’DOGS<br /></strong><br />1 cup flour<br />1 cup cornmeal (not self-rising)<br />1 ½ tsp. salt (less if you’re using a salty seasoning) </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">1 ½ tsp. cajun seasoning (preferably Alchemy Bayou Ya-Ya)<br />1 tsp. baking soda<br />¼ tsp. baking powder<br />½ cup sharp cheddar cheese<br />1 ¾ cups buttermilk<br />8 all-beef hot dogs with natural casings (or veggie dogs, of course)<br />½ cup cornstarch<br />Wax paper<br />16 wooden skewers<br /><br />· Preheat your Panini press; I set mine to medium-high to achieve a crunchy, chewy exterior.<br />· </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Mix the first six ingredients (dry ingredients) thoroughly.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">· <span style="font-size:130%;">Next, toss cheese in with the dry ingredients and, following, add buttermilk. Stir until just combined.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />· Insert the skewers into the hot dogs (2 per dog, side by side), pushing them to within one inch of the tip.<br />· On a large piece of waxed</span> paper, spread the cornstarch and roll each skewered-dog in the cornstarch until thoroughly cover; tap off excess.<br />· Empty the batter onto another sheet of waxed paper and thoroughly cover each dog in its entirety.<br />· When press is fully preheated, introduce the dogs and cook for seven to eight minutes apiece.<br />· Yep, a bit of batter will puddle at the bottom, all toothsome and crusty and golden. Enjoy it dipped in rich, mustardy remoulade.<br /><br />· Nota Bene: We order our hot dogs from Chicopee Provisions.<br /><br /><strong>REMOULADE<br /></strong><br />½ cup onion (one medium yellow), chopped<br />½ cup green onions, chopped<br />½ cup celery, chopped<br />¼ cup, 2 T spicy mustard<br />¼ cup lemon juice<br />¼ cup fresh cilantro<br />2 T horseradish<br />2 T ketchup<br />2 T roasted red pepper<br />1 T sirachi or hot sauce<br />1 tsp. salt<br />1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper<br />¾ cup olive, vegetable, or canola oil<br /><br />· Add all ingredients except oil to food processor and process until moderately homogenized and smooth but with lovely specks of cilantro-green and pepper-red throughout.<br />· Add oil slowly—a thin, even drizzle—as if making mayonnaise.<br />· Serve immediately or store, refrigerated, in tightly-sealed container.</span> </span></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-30326718421596741882008-08-18T14:29:00.000-07:002008-08-20T06:23:58.247-07:00HOW TO BECOME A FOOD SNOB<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">A hundred small choices. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">1. Belgium beers<br />2. muddy espresso<br />3. good farmstead cheeses (from farmers that moonlight as academics)<br />4. tellicherry peppercorns<br />5. freshly-ground cinnamon<br />6. nutmeg grated on a rasp<br />7. rosemary that you snip just before you eat it<br />8. fresh basil<br />9. melted sweet onions<br />10. roasted garlic<br />11. Wagyu beef<br />12. heritage pork cooked low & slow over a fire<br />13. vinegary, homemade BBQ sauce<br />14. tomatoes with names like Old Ivory Egg<br />15. fish that your dad caught<br />16. spicy boiled peanuts<br />17. hot dogs with natural casing that pops<br />18. gelato<br />19. Jack Daniels<br />20. drunken mushrooms with dry red and fresh herbs<br />21. lamb from a farmer with whom you’ve shaken hands<br />22. muscadines<br />23. vegetables grilled on a fire<br />24. olive oil that tastes of green apples and warmth<br />25. twenty-five year old balsamic<br />25. tart, homemade yogurt<br />26. La Chouffe<br />27. lobster rolls in Narragansett<br />28. fried sage leaves<br />29. perfect salads<br />30. fresh lemonade with rosemary<br />31. homemade pierogies<br />32. warm chocolate chip cookies<br />33. chocolate pot de creme<br />34. raw tuna with avocado and spicy mayo<br />35. Royal Reds at the Gulf<br />36. baba ghanoush<br />37. flat bread made in unauthorized kitchens and hidden behind the grocery counter<br />38. briny dolmas (lamb/rice/hot/ cold)<br />39. coconut-milk curries<br />40. homemade paneer<br />41. avocado<br />42. chocolate ganache and fruit<br />43. crispy fish tacos<br />44. homemade birthday cake<br />45. dark rye bread with sweet butter<br />46. Mexican-style shrimp cocktail<br />47. chorizo and eggs<br />48. chip wagon poutine<br />49. buffalo burgers<br />50. hot baguettes<br />51. bacon fat<br />52. duck confit<br />53. just-mixed vinaigrettes<br />54. dijon<br />55. artichokes<br />56. crunchy slaws<br />57. maple syrup<br />58. red beans and rice in New Orleans<br />59. butter<br />60. a freezer full of bones for stock<br />61. lots and lots of cilantro<br />62. ribs at Dreamland (but only the one where the roof leaks)<br />63. sesame and walnut oils<br />64. vanilla powder<br />65. kielbasa<br />66. crispy apple fritters<br />67. wild rice from a reservation<br />68. sexy, sexy bulgur<br />69. homemade pasta<br />70. basil pesto on homemade pasta<br />71. remoulade<br />72. gouda that crunches with saltiness<br />73. pilaf<br />74. eggy tapioca<br />75. wood-fired pizza<br />76. tacos from a road-side trailer<br />77. crisp, juicy roasted chicken with mustard<br />78. perfect mashed potatoes<br />79. lamb stew<br />80. pork and sauerkraut with applesauce<br />81. lobster pot pie<br />82. cornmeal-dusted hot fish<br />83. risotto<br />84. homemade mayonnaise<br />85. crisp, tart apples eaten out-of-hand<br />86. filet with herbed compound butter<br />87. roasted asparagus<br />88. corned beef and cabbage<br />89. coconut cake<br />90. plantain chips<br />91. crispy carnitas<br />92. jasmine rice<br />93. ricotta<br />94. toast with butter<br />95. salsas made from market veggies<br />96. ‘nana pudding & chocolate mousse pie<br />97. roasted peppers and Asiago<br />98. funnel cakes<br />99. scrambled eggs with lots of black pepper and ketchup<br />100. a thick, medium-rare Kobe burger with onion rings</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">Chris adds:</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">101. salmon caught from the Kenai River, blackened, and eaten outdoors within four-hours of its final swim</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">102. sausage</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">103. fried chicken (beside velvet wallpaper) at Lamar's</span>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-73880663794524339002008-08-07T10:18:00.001-07:002008-08-07T11:00:52.521-07:00SUMMER SHOTS & A COCKTAIL<div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Some quintessientially summer pictures that I had to share...</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURCgOcE7LUTy457gpuFmumHt4paN77AHAsZzBmxBLDxCmzfgraj-PNNleDW9gtPUjMAVY_ipVD4cI6FZcdrfS9e0IcZQg2yx4lp4jQE2d0Ae5UO8cXXyMq4_Di2SfSBdpx8riIwyXSP14/s1600-h/DSC_0450.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231827288899350002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURCgOcE7LUTy457gpuFmumHt4paN77AHAsZzBmxBLDxCmzfgraj-PNNleDW9gtPUjMAVY_ipVD4cI6FZcdrfS9e0IcZQg2yx4lp4jQE2d0Ae5UO8cXXyMq4_Di2SfSBdpx8riIwyXSP14/s320/DSC_0450.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">a lovely heirloom tomato BLAT with basil mayo</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">(bacon, lettuce, arugula, tomato)</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><div align="center"><br /></div><p align="center"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM54HE42gi0mdOeBjWmjgQjCnxQtOS_Su9HArP7Bjra5YI66cAdjBbnh8fvQtx0aZXf1MCOjwxl9VcS44I7bUyjhun483aaEfo-Coqw90ignHXiLglzwV-8g3oWAPk24hv-MvTRn_bHh3-/s1600-h/DSC_0489.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231827290396119602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM54HE42gi0mdOeBjWmjgQjCnxQtOS_Su9HArP7Bjra5YI66cAdjBbnh8fvQtx0aZXf1MCOjwxl9VcS44I7bUyjhun483aaEfo-Coqw90ignHXiLglzwV-8g3oWAPk24hv-MvTRn_bHh3-/s320/DSC_0489.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"> kegs, cases, & cans</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Driving home for lunch a few weeks ago, I saw this: an overturned tractor trailer of Coors Light. Do you think all of those made it to the trash heap? </span><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRBkd8xJ4ay9PbLIXqBRO_ibmbyngzpCWh4t0mkOneDAC89hJUyoZrrBYEXJDi1Vv0XkpK8Zfg_CsNpGh0GmOt0ZDzyHrKUr-MPikMNlAnIbwJkgy74w1EwCCR3tt4T5zeO3Wx7HGrj6L/s1600-h/DSC_0493.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231827291124765922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRBkd8xJ4ay9PbLIXqBRO_ibmbyngzpCWh4t0mkOneDAC89hJUyoZrrBYEXJDi1Vv0XkpK8Zfg_CsNpGh0GmOt0ZDzyHrKUr-MPikMNlAnIbwJkgy74w1EwCCR3tt4T5zeO3Wx7HGrj6L/s320/DSC_0493.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">farmer's market find</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Quite possibly the best farmstead cheese I've tasted: Bonnie Blue's Cave-Aged Camembert--soft, 'shroomy, and silky. This ain't feta, folks.</span> </span></p><span style="font-family:arial;"><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">And the cocktail...</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Lem'onade Motlow-Style</strong></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">These are certainly the dog days of summer--burning, bright, and drippingly humid. Lem'onade Motlow-Style will either cool you down or make you hazy enough to ignore your discomfort. </span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">3/4 cup raw sugar</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">2--4"stalks of rosemary, washed</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">1 cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jack Daniels</span></p><ul><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Add sugar and rosemary to a two-quart pitcher and muddle them with a wooden spoon to release the rosemary's oils. </span></div></li><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Next, add the lemon juice and stir until the sugar dissolves fully. </span></div></li><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Add water to the two-quart mark. </span></div></li><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">To each tumbler, add ice.</span></div></li><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">According to taste, add one to two shots of Jack Daniels per glass.</span></div></li><li><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Fill with rosemary-lemonade and enjoy.</span></div></li></ul></span>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-27878893991229077852008-08-03T11:09:00.000-07:002008-08-07T11:17:23.472-07:00LOST SOULS & STAYCATION<div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2nv2WKBZZY00-HUgdosQodYYwwwcS9NI6F7pDiYQft9ySnMFvgy-a6Qwp5gQVXj7mu23vqEflq5sHaYzUBsB6ICKJ1it8cgdEMQFJDdpHTp17lBN2YrnQiIjuMtlAcsX3Qedi2bjU4vJ/s1600-h/DSC_0500.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230355342779334482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2nv2WKBZZY00-HUgdosQodYYwwwcS9NI6F7pDiYQft9ySnMFvgy-a6Qwp5gQVXj7mu23vqEflq5sHaYzUBsB6ICKJ1it8cgdEMQFJDdpHTp17lBN2YrnQiIjuMtlAcsX3Qedi2bjU4vJ/s320/DSC_0500.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">The Incomparable La Chouffe</span></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTgOcN6P3AHb85CTLPbSAojTr2YSi0yWLblhmEtgXPVPvHi5Op4JUheV7sLvZXGw469nW-Dy6Vv3k_3yW7-vrekvmmiDGT5-gFG6nTbUhDGQryQwx9-UtoCz-7XnHJtg0XfoVdr-Apymr/s1600-h/DSC_0501.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230355339785748882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTgOcN6P3AHb85CTLPbSAojTr2YSi0yWLblhmEtgXPVPvHi5Op4JUheV7sLvZXGw469nW-Dy6Vv3k_3yW7-vrekvmmiDGT5-gFG6nTbUhDGQryQwx9-UtoCz-7XnHJtg0XfoVdr-Apymr/s320/DSC_0501.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Sweet Grass Dairy Holly Springs, Pecan Chevre, & Hopeful Tomme</span></span></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">We’ve had a couple weeks of ownership shifts and relaxation. To start, my iPod was stolen from our car. Now, we have two other iPods, but mine was a 60-gig. I have a strong instinct to narrate nearly every instant of my life with the exact song at an exact time. There is, of course, a moment when only Dylan’s <em>Frankie & Albert</em> will do (and another when only Taj Mahal’s will). In my life, there are many of these moments necessary to my creative stimulation and overall mental health, and only a big-gig Pod will meet these musical demands. Right now, I’m having severe Felice Brothers withdrawal, “My baby told me, <em>Darling, if you don’t get a pardon better get a parole</em>.” And I truly want to believe that some little brat is going to get a serious slap on the hand for stealing my muse. </span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><br /></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Second to that in my lost-and-found theme, a puppy. Down-and-out-dogs are kind of our thing, as you may have gathered. Needless to say, our parents held their collective breath, for our newly-found-on-the-street Adelle (hard A, A-dell, as in “Put your titty up, Adelle,” Brad Pitt in <em>Kalifornia</em>) was possibly the cutest puppy ever: a brindle American-bulldog/pit/boxer mix. Our Gracie loved her; Stella abhored her; Jed was indifferent; and Chris and I were semi-smitten. But our little bungalow is simply too small for four big-wilds. Thankfully, a good forever-home presented itself with a fun dad and a Chihuahua named Whitten. And we were able to send her onward. </span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We spent last week on a cobbled together staycation (a vacation for the financially-challenged): camping at a kayak-in site on a North Carolina lake; two nights in Decatur, Georgia at one of our favorite bars; and lots of laughing and partying with our friend Mike in the interim. Which brings me to food.</span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Our days in the forest with freeze-dried dinners and instant oatmeal were a bit surreal. Chris assured me that Mountain House meals were the best on the market (synonymous, it turns out, with <em>the only edible on the market</em>), but, amid a torrential downpour in a 15-year-old tent and bear-proofing, a girl wants something not just substantial but substantially comforting and tasty and fresh. Rest assured, I am now terribly taken with the idea of homemade, pack-in camp food: light, compact, but fortifiably domestic and delicious. </span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Following the woods, we hit Atlanta, a jarring not unlike our transition from Death Valley to Vegas in 2002. Our mecca was Decatur’s </span><a href="http://brickstorepub.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">Brick Store Pub</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">—no neon; beautiful punk and Kings of Leon-looking staff; and an all-Belgium bar atop. Plus toothsome, vinegar-drenched fish and chips with house-made remoulade. Plus </span><a href="http://sweetgrassdairy.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sweet Grass Dairy </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">cheese boards and warm baguette. As if that’s not enough, at the Brick Store, each beer is served in its own brewery-issued glass. Perfection. </span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">When we needed a (brief) break from the rich Belgiums, we ventured outward for dinner at </span><a href="http://cakesandalerestaurant.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">Cakes & Ale</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">. Chris ordered the Cakes & Ale Burger with Fries. He often goes <em>burger</em> in upscale joints and judged this brisket-and-pork-belly version to be “good,” though not so good as our own </span><a href="http://stjohnsrestaurant.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">St. John's Meeting Place </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">kobe burger. My meal, however, was excellent: Sliced Wagyu Roast Beef with New Crop Potato Salad, Tomatoes, Horseradish Sauce, & Greens. The beef, at a ¼” thickness, was pink, soft, and buttery. The potatoes and lettuce were tender as only the freshest, small-garden vegetables are, and the horseradish sauce melted airily but distinctly with each element. I loved the meal and would order it again this evening. And tomorrow evening as well.</span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Following that, we enjoyed three courses at </span><a href="http://www.thechocolatebardecatur.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Chocolate Bar </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">across the street: Goat Cheese Mousse with Raisin Toast and Grape Confit, Chocolate Banana Ganache with Olive Oil Crumble and Banana Sorbet, and Chocolate Pot de Crème. Though I was stuffed and hesitant to lemming-along with the course idea at first, I loved the progression—light to rich, savory to intensely sweet, a patchwork of complexities—and scratched at each serving dish with my little spoon for sticky remnants. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">One last note, a found staycation souvenir and something I’ve been searching for: a purse-sized pepper grinder. Yep, I’m an extremist, but I simply can’t endure the stale, tasteless pepper offered in restaurants and bars. Now, I won’t have to. And if you’d like to avoid the same torture, you can find the three-inch GSI Outdoors lexan beauty here (</span><a href="http://www.gsioutdoors.com/detail.aspx?s=7&c2=3&p=73490&lu=%2flist.aspx%3fs%3d7%26c2%3d3"><span style="font-size:130%;">http://www.gsioutdoors.com/detail.aspx?s=7&c2=3&p=73490&lu=%2flist.aspx%3fs%3d7%26c2%3d3</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">&). </span></span></p>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-87905034023753302892008-07-19T16:13:00.000-07:002008-07-19T16:30:20.735-07:00DOG BLOG: A BRIEF BREAK FROM FOOD<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-v82APfU1dd0N-0zQ9uVF5vKki392faJo964y2I6ZHD8d47S-WD4eX_8YNURCxq9kJemq6gHSRzrj_B6Slnb4pSPyGYS0k7FSZR_X-R1N7d2Ah3564XbjTvj1gETo0wfTYIGK9Ti5yBnc/s1600-h/76130002.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkt7QhntYYknoAZMxHNTyLo6yezx8F_XDfiS6YHtft1_9FB8eS0xhd6Dq-6ZyjMgMRZmrJUERFnWQDi8xR8ynJBDmQQGrvkH_F_1MSCjnnFemThK-OxtGybXvOgbTf7Du2xW9Gi0iylgd/s1600-h/76130001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224871332968103170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkt7QhntYYknoAZMxHNTyLo6yezx8F_XDfiS6YHtft1_9FB8eS0xhd6Dq-6ZyjMgMRZmrJUERFnWQDi8xR8ynJBDmQQGrvkH_F_1MSCjnnFemThK-OxtGybXvOgbTf7Du2xW9Gi0iylgd/s320/76130001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwXm-jwM8mMB5-IWpfhTuS2TLUkxDB2OF208QCyvmgBaMLCGg81dkfrKzpZr5ioaOseE5fB8p5yJj2DaQgbOHME2TsnMYHoC8yT-_8c5l70QWM-_mYxD_my1Ucn54xxfqTg2LLVioJxVo/s1600-h/76130002.jpg"></a><div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41QdP_QpEO3jRwVHvwGetc-Tw1JrVcRvgp3zyTxOLz6h-RoS7HKMBNm7HpbyuwUEXdQ7CO0TAhWaF4TqiZjUuL_kYCQBkZNwteg3XIT5AcEhvUVuVTV9ZYCRXtqBtjRXEiEAtTbo1KCiA/s1600-h/76130002.jpg"></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">A Young Bowser, Circa 1993<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WawjH37fb7ro9809eB7akXcwqD7m1QadEXXlOyoKBhrkvzUILiEKd2IhgYaAM42a1QYg9dorsC40anCvTCm0HtW2seEYza7iwtdUu51EcqiWkiWT_8SQ7iydYmqu-wW_oSHOZ_b3ybwS/s1600-h/76130001.jpg"></a><br /><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLv0gZJN6mC3Kz6KWk3XF0oTfzgJ8dx8pwzkh19nzX0KL5nceSlz4xEBlhq4bP4nFHknlNCY3JwK-daeXz_45LQJ3tYskvXi6-Qd_LKGaGhL4-sAlSe0eYd2TMC36_lOv8FmXtpoVi7mw/s1600-h/76130002.jpg"></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">We lost one of our family dogs this week. Bowser was 15 ½ years old (a pure mutt of Collie, German Shepherd, Irish Setter, and St. Bernard) and escaped from his pen at my parent’s house in Pennsylvania while they were here in Tennessee visiting. My father kept the news from us the entire four days of the trip, not wanting to ruin our time together; once home, he burst into tears in the kitchen. We still have hope that Bowser will trot back with burrs in his fur; it’s only been a week. Even as I am writing this, there’s been a false alarm: the rangers from Keystone State Park, less than a mile from my parents’, called to say that they’d found him. But it was another dog—shorter, furrier, not our old guy. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br /><div align="left">My father hopes that, “he’s getting a piece of ass.” I hope that he’s found adventure: deer to chase, a pond to swim in. We don’t say what we fear: that in his deafness and blindness he’s lost, scared, and alone for the first time. My father raised him from birth, after all. His mama, Sweetie Pie, was our dog (a runt hand-fed from an eyedropper by my mother), as was his grandmother, Tassie. Bowser’s the last generation of the family of dogs that extended from my second year to my thirties. </div><br /><div align="left">We didn’t treat those dogs as we treat our dogs now: they lived outside, stinky and matted but loved. Bowser’s enclosure opened into my Dad’s workshop and garage. He slept there on an old couch and when my father went into the garage, Bowser would ease up on his old back legs and grin, a really big grin for my father. </div><br /><div align="left">I suppose it’s fair to say that my Dad’s often misunderstood in the human realm—interpreted as gruff and harsh, which is really his mask for emotion or social unease. With the family dogs, he’s always comfortable. A few years ago, he began giving them middles names—Maizee May, Kenai Florissa, Gracie Louise, Stella Elizabeth, Duncan Diesel, Jedidiah Linston. And when our Kenai died in May of 2006, he wrote her a song, “Kenai Florissa, we’re sure gonna miss ‘er.” He’s working on songs for all of them now. Bowser’s, too, will be a posthumous honor. </div><br /><div align="left">For a dog of Bowser’s size, his life span is off the charts. True, he was never coddled or brushed, but he had his fun killing groundhogs, slipping his collar and tearing across the corn fields, and, of course, barking at anything barkable. It must have worked for him, for he was a happy dog. A few years ago, my sister, Maria, had him groomed—those poor, underpaid groomers!—and tried to gentrify him for a life in the house. Bowser sprayed everything in sight: wood burner, couches, kitchen chairs, walls, doors, and toilets; he feared the tile flooring; and he escaped out the door every chance he got. Back outside, Bowsie Boy was content even as he lost his senses, cooing for attention anytime he sensed a family member. In this late great adventure, I hope he’s sitting tall and proud with his tan mane fuzzily framing his face, grinning at some new unexpected joy and, just maybe, getting a piece of ass.</span> </div></div></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-10895600720308253572008-07-18T08:17:00.000-07:002008-07-18T08:36:14.437-07:00LUNCH & LIFE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0_8twQNHwi7Ow9UZiTS_NLCDHXWm7PrQbvZ776xXEtD2DZrL6nl3R7wUqv6-wwx_cbLEscpcu1gIPOxI6D_oG51MBWTdww19Kcak0gUY1f_KzUWI2BU-bs695Sp9HgBxx0ZIazqZt3Vw/s1600-h/DSC_0452.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224374043924502066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0_8twQNHwi7Ow9UZiTS_NLCDHXWm7PrQbvZ776xXEtD2DZrL6nl3R7wUqv6-wwx_cbLEscpcu1gIPOxI6D_oG51MBWTdww19Kcak0gUY1f_KzUWI2BU-bs695Sp9HgBxx0ZIazqZt3Vw/s320/DSC_0452.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMzfa0vcie5wqY81MUvHwo43vSE65dr-X5w-tlXqn_aasvOt90pTOejBH65smrn5n4b_YSXyqSlbgCqlGU5XNqMjGFeJ-an3U07T9uHazXAtCMjfoW7X5DiabwKYEXymJjOgTk4skFQRg/s1600-h/DSC_0454.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224374046957762258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMzfa0vcie5wqY81MUvHwo43vSE65dr-X5w-tlXqn_aasvOt90pTOejBH65smrn5n4b_YSXyqSlbgCqlGU5XNqMjGFeJ-an3U07T9uHazXAtCMjfoW7X5DiabwKYEXymJjOgTk4skFQRg/s320/DSC_0454.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvWeVVuKldO8gqteml_T0L0SO4lS2vl7sFdTObefXaH7oHKxrY4jhBjrw1ZCsp0xC7PVTeipu0qghfz-Ry5Sno8x-EECzUvJWvTkIDISId1laAbwQgHHX6xHQQUpjxzeTS2eWHn_1yKgy/s1600-h/DSC_0455.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224374051483870066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvWeVVuKldO8gqteml_T0L0SO4lS2vl7sFdTObefXaH7oHKxrY4jhBjrw1ZCsp0xC7PVTeipu0qghfz-Ry5Sno8x-EECzUvJWvTkIDISId1laAbwQgHHX6xHQQUpjxzeTS2eWHn_1yKgy/s320/DSC_0455.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewv_Q9P9nFvRhQa8cijlO3KEiBLQGWyVu9Ibu7Gp-wPAAcgAhgu1CeGXmNJ3ERLqPuLCXjLly-llfJUoMi12ik4YEbZ4eI-u30Z7SpEwu1TMAZvS5gO3WoHJisfarfKwTQkBGUs7w33uz/s1600-h/DSC_0453.JPG"></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">We were out of place; no question. Even as we walked towards the first car, its truck open, forty men glancing down into its recesses, every head pulled towards us: Chris’s button-down and my all black dress get-up didn’t help; Warren, in his shorts and t-shirt, offered the most credibility to our group. Chris reached into his pocket and pulled a crisp twenty into view, which seemed only to confirm their discomfort. Cocaine? Illicit weapons? Black market baby? </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br />Nope, we were after lunch. And lunch was in the trunk of that car.<br /><br />There were three cars in the lot actually, positioned strategically to serve hundreds of Hispanic workers at two of Chattanooga’s many condo construction sites. This car, a big old coupe with a cooler of Cokes in the backseat and a trunk-full of three-compartment Styrofoam meals, was operated by a chunky man with a Hawaiian shirt and a ponytail. “No more,” he told us, though a number of containers remained.<br /><br />His anxiety was no surprise. Chattanooga’s Hispanic community has been on edge since the raid of the Pilgrim’s Pride poultry plant this spring; over a hundred workers were arrested. Even the Hispanic Festival at the Chattanooga Market, generally bustling and colorful, was reserved, poorly attended, slightly mournful even.<br /><br />At the next car, a man and woman spoke rapidly to one another at our inquiry, a sort of should-I-or-shouldn’t-I back and forth. Finally, the woman said, “Carne only. Eight dollars.” The gringo price for sure, but we were hungry and pleased at their willingness. We gathered our armfuls—napkins and spoons, foil-pouched tortillas, sodas, and Styrofoams—and went to sit on a flowerbox.<br /><br />Poor working-man’s food: meat—mostly bones—that most of us would discard, veins jiggling and gristle, in a tasty gravy, floating delicious sauce-soaked chunks of potatoes; rice and elbow noodles with a scattering of bagged mixed vegetables, seasoned with Goya; chubby red beans in sauce; and homemade corn tortillas. I made “tacos” of the rice and beans, dipped them in the spicy red meat stock, and gnawed the meat from the bones.<br /><br />The workers around us lounged, some napping, in spots with a snatch of shade, enjoying their few minutes before the return to bricklaying and building in burning sun. By the time I went to wash my hands, they seemed comfortable with our presence, pointing me towards the lady’s room and smiling from under the brims of their ball caps. For Chris, Warren, and I, it was a memorable lunch, a lunch of experience: politics and culture, thrift and sustenance, homemade and open-market, beans and rice and bone and marrow. </span><br /><br /></span>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-91601932320709825942008-07-09T13:04:00.000-07:002008-07-09T13:39:44.201-07:00OFF THE WAGON<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5w4IfmdICXl8nzoOdxsicEyjgvXHtobQ2h2sb98JPZv5ZW71EamXrMsjxgN7ATzPU82lDsfBTwUEmo_OOwojrc5d6y_oB_lMN0u_2M9rnDwzNk9nD3eBVDHFFTAKyCy63p2CoiHNom4r/s1600-h/DSC_0334.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221109773285975170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5w4IfmdICXl8nzoOdxsicEyjgvXHtobQ2h2sb98JPZv5ZW71EamXrMsjxgN7ATzPU82lDsfBTwUEmo_OOwojrc5d6y_oB_lMN0u_2M9rnDwzNk9nD3eBVDHFFTAKyCy63p2CoiHNom4r/s320/DSC_0334.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> The Past Week</span></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">The past week has been a hectic feast of picnicking and near-miss food adventures, a fall off the cooking wagon as it were. Over the days preceding the Fourth of July, my sister-in-law with her husband and five boys (ages 10, 5, 2, and eight-month-old twins) ascended on my in-laws. Chris and I were invited for dinner each evening and had lovely, raccous times which included bottle rockets and jumping jacks; bratwursts and gazpacho; ‘nana pudding; various magic tricks and associated bets; a rosary presented by our sweet, five-year-old Burkley to help “Gramma Kay quite smoking;" the sneaking of cigarettes; gin-and-tonics; <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whoopie_pie">whoopie pies</a>. </span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br /><br />In the middle of it all, Chris and I slipped off to Birmingham for <a href="http://www.tomwaits.com/">Tom Waits’ </a>Glitter and Doom tour appearance at the Alabama Theatre. The first time I heard Tom Waits, I was fourteen, riding in a Cadillac Brougham with my friend Caleb’s dad at the wheel. “Step Right Up” spiraled nearly-out-of-control on the stereo (everyone’s a winner, bargains galore…something for the little lady, something for the little lady, something for the little lady), and I was sucked in; have been ever since.<br /><br />For the record, Birmingham is a beautiful downtown of potential and nothingness. We found a single bar, packed to the gills with Rain Dogs and a lone slow-motion bartender; no luck. So we were back on the street, searching for dinner, when <a href="http://www.hollyeats.com/PetesFamous.htm">Pete’s Famous Hot Dogs</a> beamed brilliantly through its grime. Ever on the search for a good dog, Chris was drawn in and even more so when he swung open the door to be hit with the scent of “boiled meat, steamed buns, and onions,” as he describes. Sadly, the hunched, aproned man behind the counter apologized that he’d cleaned up for the evening, and we, ultimately, were left to theatre drinks and dirty-sock popcorn.<br /><br />We had a similar miss yesterday for my birthday breakfast, when Chattanooga’s Koch’s Bakery was closed for family vacation. It was apple fritters that we were after. I choose the crispiest fried heap that I can find, glazed in simple confectioners-frosting, and feathery soft crumb inside: an ornery treat reserved for birthday morning, serious hangover repair, or early-morning barbeque-team relief. Oh well.<br /><br />Tonight, we’ll be hoisting back onto the wagon. Tomatoes are here, and, damn, does this first harvest of Brandywines look promising. I hope my sad little basil plants are ready to be ravaged.</span><br /></span>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-46658790817248468162008-06-30T11:29:00.000-07:002008-09-10T12:26:52.787-07:00POLITICS & SWIZZLE STICKS<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaE4VU3xW19QjW4AWycgbYAtbsW9IIDawMBjTdbf3H7aJ9lfxznZ30_44r_1HqR2hRhtc3vVAUbcFsVeg0B8F82jfEK94xq_IEn3wiPlF6xuXoKvxMZqThiAl0Wm6uzcpqPIO9LnhN-qbI/s1600-h/DSC_0393.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217758152940507874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaE4VU3xW19QjW4AWycgbYAtbsW9IIDawMBjTdbf3H7aJ9lfxznZ30_44r_1HqR2hRhtc3vVAUbcFsVeg0B8F82jfEK94xq_IEn3wiPlF6xuXoKvxMZqThiAl0Wm6uzcpqPIO9LnhN-qbI/s320/DSC_0393.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"> Zulu-Lulu Swizzle Sticks</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-nRHwUgiU4yiUmGMW6l31hLrMNDKhTSoXCClJfK4eq8eLxAGThH6pldbsI4WdS7p_y7rqF4Csr9SxCWylZWxJi4TpSxhUUpIF3tFEyvihAJJ5gQPUErVcs6uSy8Q_DwX2X16RYQBSJJH-/s1600-h/DSC_0398.JPG"></a><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><br /></div><div align="center"><div align="left">In my last blog, I edited out a statement about the politics of food in the Chattanooga community. But, this morning, shuffling through my desk, I found these: Zulu Lulu Swizzle Sticks. </span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"></div><br /><div align="left">Chris and I purchased them last fall at an estate sale on Lookout Mountain. They manage to be ageist, sexist, and racist all in one! Congrats 1970’s dinnerware! </div><br /><div align="left">Offense aside (all people of color, women, and <em>anyone </em>over the age of twenty-five), these Zulu Lulu’s are a good reminder that food is, in fact, a political medium, and another reason to consider what your food dollars are funding.<br /><br />A strong advocate of menu-planning and from-scratch meal preparation, I recommend highly that you start weekly menu development at your local farmers’ market, for here, eliminating the middle man, hardworking farmers receive a premium for their products. And you, happy buyer, find ultimate freshness for your buck. Look at your local market as a place to start a menu, not to supplement one! </div><br /><div align="left">In that vein, congratulations to <a href="http://www.theplaceforcooks.com/">Mia Cucina’s </a>staff chef Anna Scott for her win in the <a href="http://www.chattanoogamarket.com/">Chattanooga Market’s Five Star Food Fight </a>and, more importantly, for demonstrating what gustatory wonders can be produced of tasty local goods. Celebrating our bounty of veggies and other local offerings, Food Fight contestants use market products to create their masterpieces in one hour. Smothered in spectators, simmering in heat, and limited by the resources of a temp kitchen, Anna pulled out a win with her Jerk Chicken & Blackberry-Balsamic Reduction (using <a href="http://www.alchemyspicecompany.com/thejerk.html">Alchemy Spice Company’s Jamaican Jerk</a> blend, of course). Anna’s recipe will be posted on the market site in the next couple of days. </div><br /></span><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="left"></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6400607157756194052.post-29470308615280396832008-06-30T11:13:00.001-07:002008-06-30T11:28:07.875-07:00PORK PULLIN' & EATS ENJOYIN'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_W5KXc6F1iVMKq06Pl1KprAHPVCi__bEmnaLG60-9wtEha7anfN30BZ1YKwQYUvD1_XZV56ENjrD_TZx65m-sbgnh89gAHJ5UdnHRxrXFWC_OiMSa5EBnR28yNb4Sp2SXjJ5ubL6HKcor/s1600-h/DSC_0320.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217742547486074418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_W5KXc6F1iVMKq06Pl1KprAHPVCi__bEmnaLG60-9wtEha7anfN30BZ1YKwQYUvD1_XZV56ENjrD_TZx65m-sbgnh89gAHJ5UdnHRxrXFWC_OiMSa5EBnR28yNb4Sp2SXjJ5ubL6HKcor/s320/DSC_0320.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWPnfDt4nmQcK6i1UuGN_Esl6ydU7YNIND1KVr2zZYemUYnV4X6sOxv8IKfvlHjKY9FP4LFeBkYWzHloXn-s2K8rm1rNuBsCEfH4zoa7RJiaZUNQlKXfdLfXXVPN4blGkX1LRpvoFGAaQ/s1600-h/DSC_0323.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217742551147014914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWPnfDt4nmQcK6i1UuGN_Esl6ydU7YNIND1KVr2zZYemUYnV4X6sOxv8IKfvlHjKY9FP4LFeBkYWzHloXn-s2K8rm1rNuBsCEfH4zoa7RJiaZUNQlKXfdLfXXVPN4blGkX1LRpvoFGAaQ/s320/DSC_0323.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCEXANVzbJr0w7ydfIe7D0jKGG1Tu1QlKGeQyfEun77vbDgdk9mwol-RJu21GNttcgtZs-ufcdNGhJx-GsQvaAtV7iU9iPH2wL5UBzKwb1eKOT35MV36xknoYc93TABS7fb_RRX1mCHIj/s1600-h/DSC_0312.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217742560867049266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCEXANVzbJr0w7ydfIe7D0jKGG1Tu1QlKGeQyfEun77vbDgdk9mwol-RJu21GNttcgtZs-ufcdNGhJx-GsQvaAtV7iU9iPH2wL5UBzKwb1eKOT35MV36xknoYc93TABS7fb_RRX1mCHIj/s320/DSC_0312.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2w63SiKz7qo14tCwb6wjNDm6JC_vb5Mo2GrD-ejHFpAejivsTeD8EjOfVhwVcDD4dlN0qxjDBd3vh09hYU4VMW8y3vo3vFiOFmBIzcoxJ31Xf5DFXJx13vGYVk82utejyzPUgteFjgQ7U/s1600-h/DSC_0310-1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217742569692598914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2w63SiKz7qo14tCwb6wjNDm6JC_vb5Mo2GrD-ejHFpAejivsTeD8EjOfVhwVcDD4dlN0qxjDBd3vh09hYU4VMW8y3vo3vFiOFmBIzcoxJ31Xf5DFXJx13vGYVk82utejyzPUgteFjgQ7U/s320/DSC_0310-1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtuwYyV4yCjM9UuZ76uKxBO3zgpWyp9sYrbkvuqFNdztudR-XAJULGuTD2HF95Zo97WWY2eNty9z-NnE_yBhDBl5OBHIDdKcvXrTj4m4gXW92I8mUNN3OFsml9691W_8bKWxry2Ibjzk9/s1600-h/DSC_0323.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXFKo9aog5ED7DYTP-g8l4MMyeCkFZGk3yOyWT_Ov7ZRhGmGcRPHwX8jOmdTy02NvaYSZ6yRoPaGdGfdRoB8n9tSr9bBDVmr7Y-Gte9avS4zOWG4EtHnx69Qtl_9i-DttQhmzJCVOLWYq/s1600-h/DSC_0320.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgeaoAgRfWV89HaiPZvZTNIZqJA4NJhFBww7Ghsx6nstS5ij5RzLy0GP3u2XdASYn5D9WvYALhVV4vOkXun7i2hoFgMJcH5FzSQWVMfUvA-A52wXd2agh7Yn4F48Q6LuGSzrUXEzfgX_W/s1600-h/DSC_0312.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisC_p0Fo6ORAMik8qB17O6BwqIrpWJdjvhWr5ikV4yOJB-9Rz_bwS9Dsq7hbxVaM537YzKagkVokbNyHr7A7m22iSMWQr5zswPrkErdA-FXR16lwnR9RHmVrY4VEiY-twUn2sSOQ2zY6oR/s1600-h/DSC_0310-1.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1HMlB1Zij8CT0yDuGMSJnAzOGPKfUwbDAHBR3avX3alNPjqWhNQpcVQF_NSnJ1pMAQ992YJNV0xjFRP0KJanG0MmAuZFYKqR0Xd6ya7Oe_fwRyZG3Gb1U5SMhyphenhyphen5IPR35nPRxKX-KzI1-c/s1600-h/DSC_0312.JPG"></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="CLEAR: both; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"></a></div></div>Jessica Capets Chevalierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12291783652652774933noreply@blogger.com0