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Four Square

Both of us were feeling a wee bit blue and tired when we got home last night. And so we treated ourselves to a meal at Four Square, because several people said we should.

We liked it. We sat at the copper bar while we waited for our table and chatted with the friendly bartender, a philosophy major from Maine whose favorite philosopher is Michel Foucault. (I recommended she check out Michel de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life and she was kind enough to write it down as if she were deeply interested.) We were intrigued by the Four Square Martini, which includes gin, vodka, and cucumbers they’ve marinated in salt water until they just begun to reach the pickle stage. It was so spectacular that I was very sad that sobriety dictated ordering just one.

I had halibut that was tender and flaky. Fred had thinly sliced ostrich seasoned with ginger, garlic and other good things. Unfortunately we did not take notes, since we went in an effort to cheer ourselves up and not in an attempt to write a review. Luckily, it worked.

But we can’t afford it very often, and so this will be just an occasional treat. The total bill, with tip, came to $160. This bought two glasses of wine for me, a beer and a martini for Fred, desserts for each of us, one cup of coffee, two appetizers, and two entrees. See what I mean about Durham being so expensive?

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Sandwiched between Stanley Hauerwas and Barbara Kingsolver

Yesterday I went back to Bullock’s Barbecue on the 21st anniversary of my graduation from Duke. Today, I went to . . . . graduation at Duke. And ate a sandwich. Both acts offer strange and possibly unrelated commentaries on my past. You be the judge.

I. Graduation

I went to Duke’s graduation primarily because Barbara Kingsolver was delivering the address. But given that this entire year has dragged me unexpectedly through the zigzagging corridors of youthful emotion that were my college days, it also seemed fitting to revisit the last scene.

This is how I came to be standing in the basement of the football team headquarters at 9:15 with Stanley Hauerwas, the only other Divinity School representative in sight, talking about his son’s impending graduation from business school. Eventually we were joined by three others. I’m wearing my academic robes, standing around with a bunch of old people in those funny velvet berets. What the hell has happened to me? We stream out of the tunnel normally reserved for football players, a team of academic athletes, running onto the field for the last game of the season.

My graduation on May 10, 1987 was a sunny day full of promise. I had hidden a bottle of champagne in my dress, which my friends and I shared. Though the champagne was split 7 ways, the warm sun, the lack of food, and the bubbles all combined to make me ever so slightly tipsy–a necessity when you are dealing with nine family members, including three and a half parents. (My dad’s girlfriend never quite made it to parental status.)

There was no danger of a warm, tipsy morning today. It would be hard to conjure up more miserable weather–mid-fifties and raining, steadily enough to require an umbrella and make everything soggy, but not so much that the exercises could be legitimately canceled. (With no viable indoor venue, Duke always holds its graduation outside).

I sat sandwiched between Stanley and my boss Wes, one chair between us to give room for our umbrellas. I had decided not to wear socks because they didn’t go with my shoes, a decision I was to regret deeply as the morning dragged on.

My only view was of water dripping on to the robe of the professor in front of me. The ceremony was interminable. They conferred about a zillion honorary degrees. The student speakers spoke. They spoke well, but I was reminded, once again, that you’re never as clever as you think you are when you’re 21. (Or maybe at 42, for that matter.)

As my feet turned into frozen lumps encased in their shoes too stylish for socks, I kept thinking, “At least I’ll get to hear Barbara Kingsolver.”

If I’d read the speech, I would have loved it. She started off funny and warm and lighthearted, full of hope just like the graduates. But then middle age hit. The speech turned into a litany on the dangers of global warming, the energy shortage, and the general destruction of the planet that would ensue in about 10 years if the Class of 2008 didn’t forgo nice houses and cars and do something–because her generation had not. “Sorry, kids, we screwed up your planet. You’ll have to fix it now. No big house for you. Have a nice life.” To make matters worse, she had fallen in love with too much of the writing, to the point that she failed to realize that her listeners were sitting in a miserable downpour, with her words the sole barrier between them, their diplomas, and a hot cup of tea on the couch.

Walking out, I overheard the following conversation between an undergraduate and her parents:

Student (now alum): “The speech–that was the worst.”
Mom: “That’s what I heard.”
Student/Alum: “She used a metaphor in every sentence!”

“Maybe because she’s a writer?” I thought. The young woman sounded like the prince in the film Amadeus, who said of Mozart’s music, “Too many notes!” But then again, 21 years ago, that would have been me.

II. The Sandwich

After this, I trudged back home to comfort myself in the only way I knew how: a hot bath and a sandwich.

You have to understand that when I was a child I was initially deprived of sandwiches–at least the kind I wanted. My mother insisted on giving us wholesome, whole grain bread–it was around the same time as her wheat germ phase. And so I longed for the white bread, sometimes sans crust, that other kids got. And so my ideal sandwich is this: bread, mayonnaise, yellow mustard, and bologna. No vegetables. No fancy mustard. No asiago or sun-dried tomato or onion in the bread. Just the soft, tender bread, the salty meat, and wonderfully vinegary mustard, and creamy mayonnaise–enough that occasionally a small blob will fall onto your plate.

And so, warm and satisfied from my bath, I ate and pondered the lesson my meal could offer to Barbara Kingsolver: Remember the joys of being young, and for the love of God, don’t pile too much crap on your sandwich.

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Back to Bullock’s

Today marks the 21st anniversary of my graduation from Duke, and the 14th anniversary of Fred’s graduation from library school at Chapel Hill. We’re back where we started; we’ve returned to the scene of the crime; we’re on the old stomping grounds. And as a bit of a commemorative move, we went to Bullock’s for lunch.

When I was a student, my friends raved about Bullock’s, legendary in Durham for its barbecue. The place is your basic vinyl-boothed, gum-chewing-middle-aged-waitress, cleaner-than-average Southern meat and three, located off the intersection of I-85 and 15-501 in a forest of strip malls and warehouses. The decoration is circa 1985. There are photographs of Italy on the wall (perhaps because spaghetti appears on the menu?). But . . . .

Well, one thing has not changed in 21 years, and now I’ll put it in print: Bullock’s is just not my favorite North Carolina barbecue joint.

The barbecue itself is certainly decent. We both ordered the hand-pulled pork. The meat was tender, and the sauce is unique: spicy, rich, with a little more tomato and less vinegar than your average Eastern NC ‘cue. I’d characterize it as a cross between Buffalo wing sauce and the classic Eastern Carolina barbecue. (The sauce borders on Western NC barbecue, I think, though for once I will confess that I’m not yet well-versed enough in the difference to offer an opinion.)

Where Bullock’s falls down is in some of the sides. The black-eyed peas Fred ordered seemed to be canned, and so did the beets. The turnip greens were flavorless, even with salt, vinegar and Texas Pete added, and the collards were similarly unremarkable. And the Brunswick stew tasted as if the corn and lima beans were canned–the stew had that flat taste I associate with places that don’t use fresh or at the very least frozen vegetables.

The slaw, though, is a perfect complement to the barbecue, and I love its finely chopped texture with just the right amount of mayonnaise. And the hush puppies, though smaller and less crisp than I normally like them, are perfectly seasoned.

Still, J.C.’s Kitchen remains my favorite barbecue in Durham.

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Cake

“Cake” may well be my favorite word. Go ahead and say it out loud. Can you feel the richness of the icing in the “c,” as your mouth opens to accept the sweet lusciouss goodness with the “a,” and you close in with the “k”?

I’m at a writer’s workshop this week and so have been thinking a lot about words. Here is what I wrote yesterday about cake:

“When I’m icing a cake, my first step is to try to correct the lopsidedness that inevitably sets in the second I place one layer on top of the other. This always fails. I then take up the icing with my favorite red spatula, shaped like a large, square shallow spoon, and pile two or three globs on the top. I spread the icing over the top and sides in a thin layer with my green-handled spreader. The crumbs that break off at this stage are the cake’s dirty little secrets, entombed by the final layer, which I spread over the top and sides with the rare satisfaction that comes from having every flaw disappear beneath a silky smooth covering of cream.”

Perhaps I will bake one when I get home.

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Pork Belly

The title here does not refer to the current state of our waistlines (apt though the description may be), but to the dish I made last week. Of course, our continued love of food like this is utterly destroying our feeble efforts to lose wei–um, eat more vegetables and try to be healthier.

Pork belly, as you may know, is quite the rage these days. It’s basically uncured, unsalted bacon, and most recipes I’ve seen use a cut large enough to roast. The beauty of the belly is that like bacon, it has lots of lovely fat, which produces a wonderful abundance of porky flavor.

Our belly did not come to us as a roast, but in thick bacon-like slices. We found them at Food World here in Durham, a former Winn Dixie south of downtown that has been transformed into a Latin/Asian market. Actually, “transformed” is too strong a word. The aisle signs remain unchanged and so bear no relation whatsoever to the actual items contained therein. (I found myself staring at 15 different kinds of soy sauce in an aisle labeled “Flour, Sugar, Cake Mixes, Baking Supplies.”) It is also not notable for sparkling cleanliness–it’s not dirty, exactly, just a little rough around the edges. But the prices are spectacularly low, and the store contains a bonanza of foods you won’t find at even on the snooty shelves of Whole Paycheck. A bag of 50 or so dried morita peppers? $3.99. At Southern Season, you’ll find similar items for about a buck–for each pepper.

But back to the belly. The bacon cut is more typically of Asian food (the label was in Korean, I think, which was mercifully translated), but since we had purchased so many wonderful Latin American foods, I decided to make a Latin version.

Chipotle Pork Belly Slices with Potatoes

8 slices pork belly
2 medium onions, finely chopped
Olive oil for sauteing
2 large potatoes, cut in 1/2″ pieces
4 cloves garlic, minced
4 chipotle peppers, crushed and minced
1 tablespoon sea salt, or to taste

Boil potatoes gently in salted water, covered, until just tender, about 10 minutes. Drain. Preheat oven to 350. Saute onions in olive oil until translucent. Mix garlic, peppers, and salt in small bowl. Place four slices of belly in bottom layer of roasting pan. Sprinkle with half of garlic/pepper mix. Add potatoes. Add onions. Cover with remaining pork belly slices. Sprinkle remaining garlic/pepper mix over top. Bake for 30 minutes.

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The F Word

Fat, that is.

Last week I went in for my annual physical and the scale revealed terrible, terrible news: I weigh the most I ever have in my life. Not much more, but that’s not the point. Apparently the desserts, the bacon fat, the butter, the steaks, the pasta, and the wine (the last purchased and consumed to cope with the outrageous food prices here in the RTP) have taken their toll.

And so, Fred and I have embarked on a . . . an effort to improve our eating habits and get in better shape as middle age attempts to settle itself around our waistlines. To that end, we bought shares in an organic CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture). The farm will deliver a box of fresh, organically grown vegetables to us each week at a mere $18 a pop–about the same amount as a small bag of lettuce at Whole Foods.

I made some particularly tasty dishes on our maiden voyage into the die–um, more vegetable-oriented food waters. One surprising effort was this soup:

Tomato, Cauliflower, and Ground Beef Soup

Serves 2 with leftovers

1/2 lb. ground beef (for vegetarians, omit beef and saute vegetables in 4 tbsp. butter)
1 medium onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2-3 stalks celery, chopped
1 head cauliflower, cut into very small stalks about 1″ in size, or chopped
1 16-oz. can crushed tomatoes (I had home-canned, but Muir Glen or another good brand would do)
2 c. chicken broth (if using canned, use low salt)
Salt and pepper to taste
1 – 2 tsp. crushed red pepper
2 tsp. thyme

Brown beef on medium high heat in medium to large soup pot. Drain all but 1 tbsp. fat, or leave fat in if you are not di–increasing vegetable consumption. Add onion and saute on medium high heat until translucent. Add garlic and stir. Reduce heat to medium; add celery and saute about 10 minutes. Add remaining ingredients. Cover and cook on medium heat until cauliflower is tender, about 45 minutes.

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Why Is Durham SO EXPENSIVE?

Fred and I sorely miss many things about Atlanta, but aside from friends and family, what inspires the greatest sadness and deepest sense of loss is the Dekalb Farmers Market. I mentioned it briefly in a post last year on this blog, but then I did not fully appreciate its splendor. We failed to understand that finding whole bean Ethiopian Yrgicheff (how DO you spell that?), Columbian, Sumatran, and Kenyan coffee at under $6 a pound was not something you found every day. We balked at Hawaiian Kona coffee that cost $13 a pound. We took it for granted that we could buy fresh wild caught Alaskan king salmon, Chilean sea bass, halibut, and sashimi grade tuna for under $15 a pound. And cheese. And grass-fed beef, and quail, and free-range chicken, and goat, and many vegetables I’d never seen in my life.

Now I stand, heart palpitating, at the few places where we can find these things here in Durham, wondering how a 30% salary increase could disappear so quickly. Instead of standing next to immigrants from Ethiopia, Mexico, India, and Russia, poring over inexpensive “speciality” items together, I’m now pointy-toe-to-Birkenstocked-toe with Volvo-driving, self-righteous Chapel Hill liberals who are gushing over $22 a pound Hawaiian Kona and free-range local chickens that cost $23 each. I am not joking–TWENTY-THREE DOLLARS FOR A FOUR POUND CHICKEN. I don’t think there’s a font size, or exclamation points, that will adequately convey my shock and horror.

(Side note: I still won’t vote for a Republican.)

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Fred . . . Can . . . Cook!

I rescind every smarmy comment I made about Fred’s tendencies to sear plastic to the top of the stove and live on corned beef and cheese. Last night, in a display of deep devotion–and probably a desire to avoid certain destruction because I was very irritated that I have to work ALL THE TIME–he made a lovely and perfect supper. Drawing on the best techniques of his bachelor days, he baked a perfect, flaky, tender potato; assembled a salad topped with perfectly boiled eggs; and garnished the whole thing with cheese and sliced apples. And as I sat working on a grant proposal, wondering why I was working past 6 p.m. instead of cooking, he also brought me a plate of sliced cheese, crackers, and sliced apple–lovingly presented, perfect complements to each other.

Tonight he is making French fries and hamburgers, as I get to indulge in a tiny bit of writing. It is wonderful to be loved so much.

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Pasta Primavera, and My Life

I work all the time. And so I have time to cook but not to write about it–except for the article I wrote for the April Oakhurst Leaflet. The advance copy is published below for your reading pleasure.

I never understood why T.S. Eliot said that April was the cruellest month until I lived in the Midwest. Expecting the warm spring temperatures of my native South, I was stunned when the end of the month found me in sweaters and the same awful boots I’d been forced to wear almost daily since October.

But luckily we don’t live in the Midwest. We live in a beautiful,warm, sunny climate, where peas and carrots and other delicious things are growing themselves for our tables. There’s no better way to celebrate than to throw these vegetables that are happily sunning themselves in the garden, or snuggling together in the bins at the grocery store as they enjoy the occasional water spritz, into a nice pasta primavera.

Pasta primavera means simply “spring pasta” in Italian. There are zillions of recipes for this dish, but a recipe to my mind destroys the stunning, simple, brilliant concept: Take vegetables you like, cook them a little, and serve them over pasta with oil or in a cream sauce. You can also make it as heavy or light as you like, depending on your current feelings about appearing in public without a sweater.

Instead of a recipe, then, I offer these pasta primavera guidelines.

Ingredients

1 lb. sturdy, thick pasta: (farfalle, penne, rigatoni, spaghetti, linguini, or fettuccine. I don’t suggest cappellini (angel hair) because it easily overcooks.
1 – 2 large onions (chopped) and 2 – 4 cloves garlic (minced).
Butter or olive oil for sauteeing
3 – 4 cups vegetables: carrots, celery, peas, zucchini, broccoli, mushrooms, asparagus, and peppers are excellent choices. Cherry or grape tomatoes are nice too, but don’t cook them–add at the end. Cut the vegetables to suit the texture of the pasta: sliced or chopped for short pastas, julienned or finely chopped for long.
Salt and pepper
Basil, thyme or oregano. If fresh, use 6 – 8 stems of each; if dried, 1 – 2 tsp.
Up to 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Up to 1 cup cream or half and half (optional)

Preparation

Cut vegetables and grate cheese. Put salted water on to boil and cook pasta as you prepare ingredients. Saute onions in butter or oil on medium heat in large skillet. Add garlic and stir. Add vegetables and stir. Add herbs. Cover and cook until just tender. Add cooked pasta. Garnish with cheese.

Swimsuit version: Use olive oil to saute. Add herbs to onion and garlic after sauteeing. Steam vegetables. Pour over cooked pasta; add cheese and olive oil to taste.

Shorts version: Use butter to saute. After vegetables have cooked, add up to ½ cup half and half. Cook on medium heat, uncovered, for 3-5 minutes, until sauce has thickened. Add additional half and half or butter to coat pasta, if needed. Garnish with Parmesan.

Sweater version: After vegetables have cooked, add 1 cup heavy cream and cook on medium heat, uncovered, 3-5 minutes. Reduce heat to low and gradually add 1 cup Parmesan; stir until melted. Garnish with additional Parmesan.

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Wilted Lettuce Update

The more I seek to uncover the mysterious origins of wilted lettuce salad, the further they disappear into the murky depths of culinary history. Over the weekend, I found a reference to the dish on Thyme for Cooking, a very nice blog with some lovely recipes. Sadly, I’ve mislaid the direct link to the post itself. But the upshot was that Katie, the blog’s author, had included the dish in a list of recipes that she characterized as typical of Midwestern church cookbooks.

“Midwestern!?” I thought. “That can’t be!” I mean, when I see bacon fat and vegetables nestled together in a pot, I assume we have Southern cooking on our hands–a mishmash of African and English food that somehow migrated from black cooks to the poor whites who lived nearby.

So I wrote to Katie to see if she could shed some light on things. Did she know when the wilted lettuce salad recipe first appeared in the church cookbooks she was describing? Would she have any clue about the dish’s origins?

Katie wrote back quickly and said she’s posed my question to her mother. According to Katie’s mom, wilted lettuce salad is an ‘old German’ recipe and is a “standard,” traditional among the older people in her home state of Wisconsin and especially the first generation immigrants.

I was in shock. My ten years in Madison, where those immigrants did not typically live, did not prepare me for this. And yet, it might make sense. Growing up, I’d always heard from my grandfather that one of my Appalachian ancestors had come from Germany–so perhaps this “Southern” dish came from there. But I still don’t know.

And there’s another twist: James Beard’s American Cookery, which I should have checked in the first place, calls wilted lettuce salad “the oldest and probably most functional of salads” (p. 39). And he offers an Italian version made with dandelion greens.

The plot thickens.