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.

Smells Candies

On La Cienega Boulevard, just south of Jefferson, a large white building houses the See's Candies factory/plant/calorie cloud from heaven. I assume this building also serves as a distribution center, watering the West Coast malls and airport stands with their milk and dark chocolate bits.

They're making minty chocolates today, the scent of menthol puffing out of a vent somewhere. I can usually smell the day's work when I drive by every morning and you can imagine, for me, how amazing this opportunity is. I probably eat See's Candies twice a year but the yummy smells on La Cienega make dodging LAX-bound taxis every day infinitely less annoying.

Epilogue

Today, I write from a gardening workshop in Little Tokyo. Not knowing that the workshop would be conducted almost entirely in Japanese, I'm quietly typing away as the room of Japanese speakers takes notes on handouts. I've heard a few words I know; "soil", "loam", "mulching", "tomato"; but without the context of their usage, they are just gardening basics that will be Wikipedia'ed later.

Yesterday afternoon, behind a bowl of leftover ramen with its slices of fatty pork, I sat down to watch "Food, Inc.", lent to me by a co-worker. We both love food and gardens and we both work for a grocery store. At the end of the film, this last similarity would affect a sentiment in me that would not have existed 6 months ago.

I own "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and I haven't read it. Most of my "big food" information is gleaned from Chef Dong Choi's nighttime rants about corn or diabetes or from the fan postings on the grocery store's Facebook fan page wall. It's interesting that supposed fans wander by their own free will onto the pages of companies of which they clearly are not fans. It's so un-American (read broadly: socialist).

The film's chapters take you through the costs, secrets, consequences and coersions of the food industry. Nevermind the visuals of chickens who can't walk, their swiftly fattened bodies outpacing the maturity of their bones. Forget the image of a cow with a rubber stent into one of its stomachs and the scientist happily digging around to test the E. Coli it the ruminant (the verb of and after which this blog is named). Forget the shock value. The most disconcerting statistic I learned is that 4-5 companies in the United States produce about 80% of its beef. And the largest customer of beef (and potatoes) here is the McDonald's corporation.

It's nothing we haven't heard piecemeal or assumed. The scope of this continuity of supply and demand makes me lose my appetite. I don't eat a lot of meat and now, I can't look at the steaks and chops and thighs at the grocery store, at my place of employment, in the same, salivating way. I was lucky that I had already finished my ramen.

In an act of precognition, the producers of the film evaded the sense of helplessness pervading the bulk of the film and included a literal epilogue. In it, reminders and suggestions were typed onto the screen. Shop at farmer's markets...plant a garden...change the world with every bite. Stop working for a grocery store that sells questionably raised meat was not among them.

While I didn't understand the lecture, like any good student, I'm still taking my homework seriously. I'm about to pay for thyme, basil and tomato seedlings that will hopefully flourish in the indirect sunlight that finds the top of my air conditioning unit. In size and distance, it's far from a field but it holds my dreams of being a honorable and informed food enthusiast. Delicious.

A Birthday

When you're 13, you don't know to be modest. You might be shy or bashful but you won't deflect flattery whether justified or convenient with a gracious smile. When you're 13, your birthday means your wishes come true with your pimpled friends, a cake and pizza.

The day I turned 33, I was modest. I hadn't planned a party or a fancy dinner or a masquerade ball in the French Quarter with doormen and coat check girls like I've always dreamed. My plan was to hang out afterhours at McCall's Meat & Fish Co. and maybe eat a hamburger. No cake.

Instead, at the last minute, one of my closest (in proximity) friends got tickets to see David Sedaris speak at UCLA and he invited me to go. David Sedaris is one of my favorite writers; his calm, resigned observations bring giggles up from my belly like bubbles in ginger ale. This friend and I once sat at my kitchen table, me with David and he with a script for a pilot TV show. I sporadically laughed so hard that I had no choice but to read passages aloud. One passage was about Halloween candy in a chapter from "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim". My friend knew how much I loved Mr. Sedaris and I was grateful that he remembered.

On the evening of May 5, since my friend had already had a snack, my birthday dinner was eaten from its plastic wrapper in the car on the way to UCLA. I had a leftover fresh&easy Italian Sub Sandwich with spicy, salty sliced meats, provolone cheese hugging slowly drying ciabatta bread. Pepperoncinis were pretty much for decoration as they packed a tepid but helpful punch. I was so hungry that the sandwich was delicious.

What might have followed as a cake monstrosity in previous years was replaced by kind and witty company and a writer who was funny, inspiring and shared with an auditorium full of people. For he's a jolly, good fellow and I was satisfied by just being there. The gift of presence was more than enough.