grit

In the face of inconvenience, sentimentality and grit prevail.

This is the first Christmas that my childhood best friend will soldier
through without her mother who passed away suddenly in May. It will be a
season of memories that cannot be reshaped, only burnished with the
acknowledgement that things just won't be the same. This doesn't keep the
snow from falling or the lights from twinkling. It is the unmovable and
natural movement of the world.

I sent her a note a couple of weeks ago asking if she might want to do a
foreign gift exchange. It wasn't a request without its considerations of
the logistics and the cost and the guessing game played by two very faraway
albeit longtime friends. I wanted to send her something to comfort her and
bring her a bit of joy and knowing that she would want to do the same, an
exchange would be necessary.

She agreed that it would be a fine tradition to resurrect after a few latent
years. Ideas were rallied back and forth. A massage, a robe, a good book
perhaps. We settled on two very different items that we each needed in our
own ways. I was to send a bottle of wine and she was to send a sharpening
stone for my knives. One takes the edge off while the other puts it on.

The grit of a sharpening stone is determined by the nearly microscopic
particle size of the stone. They are measured in microns which are
one-thousandths of a millimeter. Tiny. I have a 1000 grit (about 11
microns) stone from Osaka and needed a 5000 grit (2.5 microns) or higher to
really a polished edge on my knives. The higher the grit number, the
smaller the particles and the sharper the knife. But, stones are easy.

How does one measure the grit of a woman with multiple university degrees, a
full-time job and a little girl? How narrowly do we have to squint to see
the indomitable spirit of my childhood friend as she gave her mother's
eulogy, her future sister-in-law occupying her daughter in the lobby of the
funeral home? In her speech, she said that her mother had become a
transcendent force, able to not only move through space and time but able to
grow and shrink. I sat in the front row, my friend in white as is our
tradition, thinking about her mother zooming into the nucleus of a cell.
Perhaps in the needle of a Christmas pine. Perhaps in the organized lattice
work of a snowflake on her daughter's lapel or in a raw sugar crystal on a
butter cookie. Or maybe she's as big as the goodwill of men.

I will smile and bow my head as my friend toasts her mother this holiday
with well-traveled cabernet that will chill on her doorstep until she
retrieves it. "[My daughter] has more toys than she can shake a stick at.
But what she really needs are a mom and a dad, extended family to love her,
good food, sunshine, health care when she needs it and kindness and
boundaries. It doesn't change after your grow up, either." A few thousand
miles away, the soft, rhythmic brushing of Japanese steel on smooth ceramic
will herald a new year of refocus. It is the steel that is scraped away
which leaves the steel that remains in the shape that will best serve its
purpose.

out of the shell

In my office, there is a protective layer of smooth stone that shelters me from the travails of manual labor. In cubicles and in front of screens, we toil away for hours, plotting the destiny of our stores and the customers who walk through the glass doors. Glass doors with hours on them, a sure sign of retail.

Today, I along with my "corporate" office staff members walked into our stores as helpers and, really, grocery bitches. We were there to do whatever was necessary to make things easier on our store team members as Thanksgiving encroaches. We tidied displays, pulled stock from back rooms and found products for customers. I ran around the store looking for a bearded man who wanted buttermilk that we thought was out but was actually hidden. I would walk a thousand miles for any man who is buying buttermilk to cook with.

Aside from meeting friendly store employees who were bemused by our presence and my ineptitude, the dairy case was my favorite part of the day. I stood in the chilled room with boxes and boxes of egg nog, heavy whipping cream, unpasteurized orange juice, chocolate milk... it was wonderful. The glass doors would open for the searching hands of customers and I would be the shadowy figure shuffling behind the Organic Vanilla Silk Soy Milk. There was something wholesome about stocking the shelves with dairy for the thirsty public. Lactose-free dairy too. And soy. And whatever Coffee-mate is made of.

I was on my feet for most of the day and I came home exhausted. I need to sleep early but I took the time to slice up some tuna and salmon and, get excited, shuck my first oysters. Kumamotos to be exact. I was given a demonstration by Karen and I took my Swiss Army knife to the mollusks with tentative pokes. I actually cut myself but not while shucking an oyster, of course. I knicked my pinky while trying to unfold the blade. That's classic me.

The soft, creamy bodies of the oysters were dipped in variations of ponzu with green onion and lemon juice with Kosher salt and pepper. I prefered the ponzu and sat at my kitchen table, my feet aching, my eyes heavy with the briny, fruity oysters slowly disappearing. All of us out of our shells today. I suppose the body scanners at the airport won't be necessary.

food borne

My father is a chef. He is a chef of frugal ambitions because he grew up eating meals made of the cheapest ingredients. Perhaps this requires him to be a better chef than most because he has had to make low quality meat, fish, poultry, vegetable and spices into dishes that would keep his family happy, not just nourished.

I get my food love from him and today, I realized that my sister Kelly didn't get the same food love. She asked me what I had for brunch and then asked if arugula was a cheese and what brioche is and where it comes from. We came from the same two people, yet our curiosities are so vastly different. But, to my surprise, it was she who explained my love of food to my father in a way that he understood. He doesn't get spending money on food. She helped him to realize that in my world, dollar signs don't equal stars. Taste equals stars. He can understand this, can't he? Since a dearth of dollar signs may not equate a less-than-stellar meal, so does a surplus of those $$$$ not guarantee a splendid dinner.

So thank you, Kelly. And for you, I did a little page flipping of culinary reference books (at last count I have 6). Arugula is a type of lettuce also known as Italian cress or rocket. It's got a bit of spiciness to it and is mainly used by Italians but appears in the modern cuisine of other countries like America, France and Japan. Brioche comes from France and is a yeasty dough that's supposed to be shaped by one ball on top of another larger ball. It's usually a bit sweet and is said to have been made with Brie cheese way back in the day.

poultry with a pause - part II

The chicken has been roasted.

I'd pretty much eaten the four potatoes that were diced and roasted underneath the chicken and the five tomatoes that I had cut up for two salads. The chicken, or at least the bits and pieces I pulled from its carcass after I'd carved it, was delicious. I've got two breasts, two thighs, two wings in a container ready to be divvied up as lunch. I've got a carcass devoid of any slivers of meat awaiting its stock bath.

The peach jam was a success. Its production was prompted by my addiction to Fage Peach Yogurt. I pretty much eat a $2 150g container every morning and I know that it's excessive to spend so much money on yogurt. So, I purchased a large 500g tub of plain Fage for $5 and 2 lbs of peaches for $2. I used about $1.50 worth of peaches and have enough jam for about two containers of yogurt. I've learned a little bit about pectin and I feel like a country bumpkin making my peach "preserves.

poultry with a pause - part I

When I set out to roast a chicken a few days ago, it was not as simple as it sounds.

On Sunday, I bought a lovely bird from soon-to-be momma bird Karen at McCall's Meat & Fish Co. It's one of those olive oil ingesting, happy feathered fowl from Kendor Farms. I was excited to take on my first solo roasting.

That night, I threw some overdue unpasteurized apple juice into a large bowl with an imprecise amount of salt and let the chicken soak. I went to sleep with the bird belly up and before I went to work, turned the bird belly flopped so that both sides would get an equal sugary salty slathering.

Then President Obama came to town. And while I don't have political leanings being that I'm actively uninformed and Canadian, I was happy that he was here. I was happy that he was schmoozing at John Wells' Hancock Park home with John Wells' friends paying $30,000 per couple to drop by, say hello and take a Twitpic with POTUS.

I was NOT happy that the uncoordinated, seemingly erratic and clandestine street closures prevented me from going up both major streets that lead to where I live. I couldn't get home in time to roast my brining chicken. Feeling trapped, I pulled over after being re-routed for the 3rd time and just happened to be near the apartment of two friends. My guardian gays, as they are now known, welcomed me, poured me wine, fed me chicken teriyaki and cookies 'n' cream ice cream. They saved me from a 3 hour commute and a midnight snack filled with the bitterness of a disgruntled resident alien.

Tonight, I placed the chicken on a rack above a pan and let the oven rip. But apparently, as I made peach jam while I waited for it to roast, the oven wasn't hot enough. As the planning was interrupted for the roasting of this chicken, so was its actual roasting. I took the bird out after an hour and let it rest for 15 minutes and when I cut into it, the meat was dark pink. The oven was fired up a 2nd time and now it's in there...sizzling and hopefully getting hot enough. At this point, the jam is done and I'm going to start eating my tomato and basil salad. Tomatoes from the Nozawas and basil from my "garden". It's not a big plant but apparently, many of my culinary endeavors are stunted. Stay tuned for part II when I actually can report on how the chicken tasted. And this time, I can't blame "the Man."

Codependency

Carbon dioxide is a gas which plants "enjoy". Photosynthesis is a complex biological process that I could have sketched for you years ago. But nowadays, the cycle is a generalized concept of which I rarely think. Simply put however, the chlorophyll in plants which makes them green churns carbon dioxide into carbohydrates and oxygen. As you know, oxygen is what humans use to power our body engines, expelling carbon dioxide from our mouths when we exhale and speak. They say it's good to talk to plants for this very reason.

Mo is still not well. Tonight, I had to remove another yellowing branch that serves as a visual symptom of illness. From the biology classes that are now foggy in my memory, I recall the structure of xylem and phloem, funneling nutrients from plant roots to their stems, branches and leaves. Mo is lopsided and I suspect that half of his roots on one side are suffering below the dark soil.

This morning, as I said goodbye before work, I noticed that Mo was salty. That is to say, he was dusted with what I think are bug eggs that looked grains of sodium chloride. Aphids. A few of his leaves looked to be the venues for aphid outings; tiny flat green bugs were gathered and still. Mo looked itchy and I wanted to scratch him.

Miranda reminded me of the brilliant insect food chain and the hierarchy of predators. On my way home from dinner, I stopped at Home Depot to play pimp and find Mo some ladies: ladybugs. Unfortunately, I didn't get any action as they were out so I decided to rid him of the encroachers myself. I could buy him another day's worth of time until I find a harem of spotted red coquettes for my dear tomato plant. He needed cheering up.

So, in a silky black blouse with cream colored lace trim, I stood next to the kitchen sink. I ran Mo's branches gently under a steady stream of water from the faucet. I tilted the pot with my left hand while the aphids were swept into the current of water circling the drain by my right thumb. I brushed the leaves with my finger tips, his spiky hairs rough to the touch. I didn't speak but I breathed deeply and gave him much needed attention.

After the bath, I cut open the new bag of fertilizer. I detected a faint note of delicious cocoa, spooned out the prescribed dosage and mixed it with the soil. Then, an ample shower followed by a patient draining of the excess water. Quick trim of the weakened branch and a few leaflets and he was done.

He's back outside in the cool night air. Tomorrow, I'll try another nursery for Mo's ladies. I'll move him into the sunlight on my way out and hope that he'll be warm and comfortable for the day before I blow him a kiss goodbye. He enjoys the carbon dioxide.

no you don't, Mo

When I read books about ingredients or "food encyclopedias" as they are called now, I particularly enjoy the entries for various fruits and vegetables. Bereft of recipes, whether it's the Food Lover's Companion or a 1961 Larousse Gastronomique, the produce listings always have detailed illustrations or color plates to demonstrate the painterly allure of everything from artichokes to a strawberry. The description will include the biological origin of the species, the proper names of a few varietals, general directions on how to consume it and maybe a dish name or two. Often, the phrase "out of hand" is applied to how a fruit or vegetable can be eaten. This I know how to do.

What these book don't tell you is that humans are not the only organisms that enjoy fruits and vegetables. I suppose it's not a botany book or a biology book. When the bugs come to nibble at the same succulent kernels of corn, you pretty much have to accept it and salvage what you can for leftovers. Bug leftovers.

I stood before the rainbow of produce at Chino Farm on Sunday, bewildered by the array of perfect specimens. Swiss chard in various hues. French carrots in milk, saffron, carrot, salmon and beet colors. Kale, at least 5 kinds. I can't do justice to these things yet. I cannot wrangle the boldest iteration of a butternut squash using heat and forged, sharpened metal. All I can do is photograph the cornucopia of California's bounty. For Mother Nature's efforts, my respects are paid by holding her gifts gingerly as I taste them, preserving her work and enjoying each masterpiece out of hand.

When I returned to the city and its soot stained palms, I felt a stronger desire to tend to my own plants. I'd been moving Mo, the tomato, to the sunniest part of my walkway but he was still looking spotty and unsure. I'd been told that Mo was ill and that I needed to protect him from the bugs which were slowly eating him alive. The other night, I went to Home Depot and Whole Foods to find an organic pesticide. I couldn't bring myself to purchase anything I saw. The bottles were either horribly marketed to be safe (Home Depot > Ortho "ecosense" all lowercase, pretty pastel colors hiding chemical names pesticide) or expired (Whole Foods > some random probiotic spray that was safe yet 2 years old and probably dead inside). I decided that Mo needed to see a doctor.

So, before work this morning, I took Mo and my basil plant to the Hashimoto Nursery on Sawtelle. The basil plant has been suffering as well with huge holes in its leaves. Someone clearly has been enjoying its sweet flavor, leaving me with nary a whole leaf for what I would call the world's tiniest caprese salad.

Admidst the narrow dirt paths between flowers and vines and pots and bagged soil, I teetered in my fancy shoes; Louis Vuitton purse on one arm, Mo and the basil plant in the other. I showed them to the man at the nursery. Deadpan, he told me that Mo wasn't going to make it and to throw it away. I told him that I didn't want to give up. He didn't seem moved. He suggested a bigger pot, no water for a week because I'd been overwatering and then some fertilizer. I asked him about pesticide and he said not to use any as I'd want to eat the tomato. Tomato. Singular. I'm hopeful that Mo can squeeze out just one, red orb. As for the basil plant, it needed more water and also a bigger pot. Later in the day I would remove two green worms from the underside of its leaves. Hopefully that would make a big difference.

I purchased two new pots, a bag of potting soil and a small bag of fertilizer for about $16. Tonight, after whipping up a batch of cookie dough, I set about putting Mo and the basil plant in their new containers. In lieu of insecticide, the nursery man told me to just use water to wash the bugs away. A shower in both senses of the word. Down the drain the bugs went as I ran the kitchen faucet over the green branches and leaves of Mo and the basil. I even removed a tiny millipede and a worm by hand. Not wanting to leave out the thyme, I put it in a new pot as well even though the thyme is flourishing like a weed. A weed. Not weed.

These plants are under my care and I will not give up their health and wellness without a fight. I know that Mother Nature is responsible for bugs and soil and all the rest, but I'm not letting them get Mo. I cannot cull culinary brilliance out of a bushel of perfect produce but I know how to care for things, especially those that cannot care for themselves. When I shucked an ear of corn from Chino, I tore into the home of a thick green worm, somnolent from carbohydrate overload. I touched it with my fingertip and it twitched at the sudden pressure but didn't feel the need to shrink into the cornsilk and husks. I stared at it for a moment before cutting off that bit and tossing the end and the worm into the trash. This time, I was about to eat it out of hand and house and home.