The ALISON/DRAGONWAGON PROJECT

Pardon the clip-art-rific picture. Dramatic (comedic) effect.

A little more than a year from now, I fully expect to have Amy Adams playing me in a movie (the long-haired Amy Adams, if you please). The ever-adaptable Meryl Streep can play Crescent Dragonwagon, the Julia Child of the vegetarian cooking world. Dragonwagon’s 2002 tome “Passionate Vegetarian” has all the delicious memoir and instructional detail of Child’s own masterful French cooking volumes, if you couple them with “My Life in France,” the book she published a few years before her 2004 death.

In promos of this blockbuster fantasy, screenwriting superstar Nora Ephron will talk about how she just couldn’t resist adapting my blog into a movie. We shall sit side-by-side on The View’s semi-circular banana-colored couch. I shall cajole her, telling her, hey, “I Feel Bad About My Neck,” too.

Just as Julie Powell of “The Julie/Julia Project” turned to cooking to escape the ennui of her bureaucratic existence, I turn to my kitchen for solace from the stress of being a journalist. Even at this moment, I sit in court awaiting a jury’s verdict on a 25-year-old bush-ax triple murder case. A pregnant wife and her two children slaughtered in their home in 1985. A birthday present lay unassuming on the kitchen table, ready to be whisked off to a Burger King bash the four-year-old girl was to attend that evening.

The gory crime scene photos should leave a normal person nauseated with no appetite. Not me. I’m no monster, but I have to hope for my next meal, the ripe tomatoes and peppery basil kicking their feet up in my fridge right now. When I’m not nourishing the public with information, I just want to nourish myself and others with food. I wish I could bake “A Small Good Thing” for the victims’ family as in Raymond Carver’s story about loss. I should love to break open a crusty loaf of whole grain bread and hand it to the elderly parents of the woman killed, hand a portion to the family of the accused, break off a bit for the judge and the exhausted jury members.

My fantasy does turn into reality, but you’d never know it. I can’t be bothered to blog when I return home from work, when all I want to do is bruschetta-up those tomatoes and that basil. Indeed, I’ve been too much of a glutton for my own consumption that many a fine meal has gone undocumented, long digested before I remember that, oh no, I should have written about those crispy-baked zucchini fritters.

The brilliance of Powell’s brainchild was that it provided a structure that many other self-indulgent blogs lack, my own included. But with the force of Dragonwagon’s abundance behind me, I hope I can wade in her vegetarian-vaguely-veganese prose, further testing the waters of a food lifestyle I am swiftly adopting anyway (for more on that, read Jelly Side Down).

Powell committed herself to 524 recipes in 365 days. How she didn’t bankrupt herself is somewhat of a mystery, though her Salon.com readers allegedly chipped in on the grocery bill. On top of that, Dragonwagon’s cookbook boasts more than 1,000 robust recipes. At that rate, I should get well over 700 days to complete the task before me. At least. Or any multiple thereof. And I might make my sister be a guest blogger. (She has already sampled many "Passionate Vegetarian" offerings and got me hooked on the book in the first place). The best part of being a half-assed copycat? No aspics. I repeat: No aspics. Sorry, Jules.

Stay tuned. Coming to a theater near you.

JELLY SIDE DOWN

Maybe it’s because I’m left-handed (and left-footed, don’t ask), but I am extremely clumsy. It seems as though I break glasses as often as I use them. Once--actually twice--I broke two glasses in ten minutes. In public. At a bar. In front of parents of some students I taught at the time.

So it’s no surprise that my morning toast inevitably slips from my buttery fingers on to my kitchen floor bi-weekly. I can’t help observe each time it lands jelly side down, though I recognize I may only observe this fact because I tend to fight, rather than embrace, life’s tragedies and comedies.

This is all a roundabout way of beating myself up for launching a food/memoir blog and then subsequently falling down the spiral staircase of factory farming conscientiousness that has spit me out at natural food stores and farmers markets.

Ever the journalist, I pretend to be objective about food ethics, all the while bombarded with information and stimuli. For every billboard with a burger on it, there’s a book or article or documentary about the modern evils of factory farming.

I recently read Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Eating Animals.” I have seen Foer’s interview with the likes of David Letterman and Ellen DeGeneres. I wouldn’t herald Foer as the next Wendell Berry by any means (who was both clairvoyant and humble), but his prose was compelling…to the point where I have yet to eat chicken again in Georgia, the Land of Chick-Fil-A. I sent the company’s media contacts an e-mail inquiring about the origin of their products. The lack of response bothered me, but it didn’t surprise me. I can at least appreciate Foer’s difficulty in researching and executing his book because of the veil of secrecy cloaking the meat industry.

When I hear about people like former President Bill Clinton (Mr. Big Mac) and Alec Baldwin living vegetarian, if not vegan, lifestyles, it makes me wonder if I’ve been playing for the wrong team all these years. I’ve never cared for meat that much to begin with, but I have likened burgers to a legitimate art form and scallops to utter ambrosia.

Like many foodies, I’m a casual fan of Bravo’s “Top Chef,” so naturally I was star-struck when I came across Kevin Gillespie at his Atlanta restaurant Woodfire Grill. His restaurant is founded on the principle of serving local, organic, sustainable food. The meal was profoundly good. I even wrote Kevin a semi X-rated, wine-fueled haiku at the end of the meal as a thank you. Apparently, I wasn't the first to regale the chef with poetry. Here's a snapshot from the ladies restroom at the Woodfire Grill, compliments of a 10-year-old fan:

Kevin worships bacon, but jokes and limericks aside, Foer (among other voices) tell us this: Dress it up however you like, pigs experience tortured lives. This is no Native-American buffalo, dignity in death. And ironically, bacon can entice sometimes even the most loyal of vegetarians to go AWOL: http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2011/02/02/133304206/why-bacon-is-a-gateway-to-meat-for-vegetarians.   

I’m jelly side down right now. My fingers are sticky with food ethics. I can confidently say I oppose factory farming, but who doesn’t when confronted with its reality? Our consciences have the ability to defy our stomachs, but as Foer points out, sometimes eating involves forgetting.

Meanwhile, it’s Oscar night. I am sipping on a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio and am about to bust open a box of vegetarian buffalo wings. God help me.

But when I come across the rare, locally purveyed, cruelty-free, oxymoronic meat, I cross myself, honor the animal and the circle of life, knowing one day I might be that animal’s birthday dinner, too. Or at least fertilizer for those fancy, kidding-yourself, grass-fed steaks. God forgive me.

  

APPLE GLUTTON: INTELLIGENT ENERGY AT ITS FINEST

Apples are the memory fruit. I say this because I believe they conjure up specific memories for all who eat them.

For me I think of planting apple seeds in the backyard of a childhood home in Texas. You may think the story of this trite rite—I was six—ends with me looking over the horizon at a fully mature apple tree, some decades later. No. My family lived in this home, with this particular backyard, only two years before we moved to the next state over…and then another state, and so on, as military upbringings require.

When I bite into apples now, I do wonder about that tree. Does it exist, or did the next owner deem my treasure a weed and rip it out? Did it grow a few feet tall, only to cower to its death when a tornado tore through the Texas town? I stopped by the house once on a Southern state road trip, but I couldn’t bear to tip-toe around the property to catch a glimpse of what might be.

There are other apple memories, like eating a sliced, salt-sprinkled apple with my mother as an after-school snack. But for all the warm ‘n fuzzies to be had over apples (American apple pie, Johnny Appleseed, Gwyneth Paltrow’s spawn), a Google search of the word produces 502 million results, the first seven pages of which have nothing to do with real apples. You guessed it. Apple, as in Macintosh, now dominates our social, lexical consciousness.

And that’s a funny thing because apples are such vessels of life and energy. According to treehugger.com, it takes 18 gallons of water to grow one apple. Sometimes I just grab an apple, rather than a glass of water, when I’m thirsty because it's mostly water and air. As former captain of my high school’s physics team, I maintain that’s the real reason they float in water. This is also the logic behind “eating your water,” or hydrating via fruits and vegetables, the impetus of “The Water Secret: The Cellular Breakthrough to Look and Feel 10 Years Younger” by Howard Murad, M.D. (http://www.amazon.com/Water-Secret-Cellular-Breakthrough-Younger/dp/0470554703/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1293911407&sr=8-1).

But in fact, the nutritional value of a conventionally eaten apple (no core, no seeds, worse if peeled) is pretty meager: a meager one percent of your daily value of Vitamin A, Calcium, Iron. A little more Magnesium (two percent), a beefy three percent of Vitamin B6. A not-so-bad 10 percent Vitamin C and three grams of Fiber.

Meanwhile the seeds, ever-rumored to be toxic, are actually the most nutritious part, packed with essential iodine. Totally edible, just don’t eat a barrel of them. Toxicity, my friend, is in the dose. Enough bananas will kill you, too.

An added bonus? There’s something deviant about eating apple seeds, something raw and dirty. And dirty is O.K. Nowadays pesticide finds itself in 98 percent of apples (http://abcnews.go.com/Business/wireStory?id=9590713).  Those super-shiny apples that glisten under supermarket fluorescence are suspect. I say the dirtier the apple, the better. You’ll notice straight up “organic” apples don’t look so fetching. But like a plain gal or chap begging to be bedded, they’ll rock your world. Plus, you won’t infect your body.

Of course even the purest of apples can end up a bad apple, or “mealy,” a literal breakdown of its moral fibers. And an over-exposed apple turns brown, unless you shock it into submission with some acid, like lemon juice.

We’re far off from National Apple Month (October), but why not make apples the apple of your eye more frequently? I adore no-nonsense fruits that you can fully consume without the help of a knife or peeler. Skin, seeds, flesh and all.

And, should you have too few apple-sized memories to boast of, this recipe by Emeril Lagasse will cozy up even the coldest of souls: Olga’s Giant Apple Crisp (http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/olgas-giant-apple-crisp-recipe/index.html).

I don’t have an Aunt Olga, but every bite of this crisp convinces me I do indeed. I especially appreciate the sassy, brassy teaspoon of salt this recipe calls for. Not only does it egg on the sugar in the dessert, but it reminds me of those juicy apple slices of my youth, topped with table salt, glistening in the horizon, where grows an apple tree in Texas.

THANKSGIVING SOUP

I know your gastro sights on set on Christmas by now. Indeed, Thanksgiving is so last month.

But here's the thing: I have one serving left of Thanksgiving soup in my freezer. It is a coveted entree, and it's been sitting pretty in the front row of my frozen real estate.

Thanksgiving soup isn't new. A lot of people add chunks of leftover turkey to broth, maybe with some veg. People relish that kind of repurposing. Some more ambitious types might even make that broth from the bird bones, for added richness. As they should. Waste not, want not, right?

I challenge you to examine the cornucopia in the accompanying picture. What do you detect? The poetic onion peel almost looks like foliage. The red apple peel resembles peppy sprigs of cranberry.

It looks pretty, but basically, it's garbage juice.

I don't say this to repulse you, but merely to point out how people are forever throwing away perfectly flavorful and useful scraps. I'm talking carrot peel, apple peel, cabbage stubs, onion paper, poultry bones.

If you toss these scraps into a dutch oven with some bay leaves and peppercorns, fill it with water, bring it to a boil and let it reduce to half, then add more water, then reduce to half, then add more water, then maybe splash in some leftover white wine, drain and discard the scraps (they've now reached their trashy potential)...you'll eventually get a stock that tastes like Thanksgiving.

Round out the soup with some tender veggies and leftover turkey, and every spoonful will prolong those Thanksgiving memories. It will be the best rubbish water you've ever tasted.

JEOPARDY ANSWER: “WHAT IS SALT, PEPPER, LEMON AND OLIVE OIL?”

"The pantry items to have on a deserted island."

These are the items that make almost all food tasty.

Salt. It’s all about control. And we gluttons are the ones with the reins. For pasta water, you’ve got to have a heavy hand. Literally, I want you to greedily dig your hand in that sea salt like it’s the proverbial jar of jelly beans, and pour a good palmful in the dutch-oven ocean.

Speaking of, picture the foamy, bubbly, salty ocean for a moment. That’s what will happen in a colander when you rinse out the mountainous sodium in a can of vegetables. I’m telling you, rinse the beans. Rinse the out-of-control salt away. Bye-bye bubbles, and be back in control of the salt level of your food. (A tip from a friend, Dawn Jackson-Blatner, RD, LDN, author of “The Flexitarian Diet: The Mostly Vegetarian Way to Lose Weight, Be Healthier, Prevent Disease, and Add Years to Your Life,” McGraw-Hill, 2010, http://www.http//dawnjacksonblatner.com/).

Salt is also the backbone of a lot of desserts. I made a golden oatmeal apple crisp for a dinner party once, and someone kept gobbling up the treat, bite after bite, until he asked, “What is that subtle tart flavor?” Salt, mon ami. "But it's..." Dessert. Yes, I know.

Pepper. Controversial perhaps, cracked pepper does pack much more flavor than regularly-ground pepper. A good grinder is worth the investment, but make sure it doesn’t drop chunky grounds on your plate. A defective grinder slipped one of those marbled, peppery kernels on my food once, and I swallowed the fire. It lived inside me for days. Still, the smell of cracked pepper gives me a shiver down my spine. But I’ve overcome the fear and recognized pepper’s savory potential.

Lemon. So sweet for something so sour. It brightens soups and bolsters salads. It’s the “oooh” in aioli. Not only that, what about the aesthetic value? My mother says there should be a pop of yellow color in every kitchen. A bowl of lemon sunshine does the decorative trick. And those bags of lemons at the market are so obliging to this objective.

Olive oil. It’s the ultimate flavorful fat that pleases all food palates. The vegan dream to gloss up soy products or the caramelizing helper of grass-fed steaks. By itself. On a plate. With a little (see aforementioned ingredients). I don’t care whether it’s virginal or extra virginal. I’ve read all the arguments about the pressing and the purification. But when the regular stuff is a little cheaper, I just pretend I don’t know about its dirty past.

So bring it on, Swiss Family Robinson, Gilligan’s Island. As long as I have my ingredient foursome (and the professor stoking a handy fire), take me to that deserted island. I’ll tumble into slumber soundly under the stars, belly and heart full, warm. 

Oh, dear God…what about garlic? It’s the fragrant bouquet I treat myself to every time I grocery shop. Gasp! I hope it grows indigenously on that island.

WHIFF OF JOY

This is the American day of gluttony, so I'd be remiss not to post...something.

I could pontificate on the three Thanksgiving dinners I ate today, somehow in the midst of a regular reporting work day.

I could write about how I ate a small, polite plate of food alongside casserole-shoveling firefighters whom I shadowed for the morning.

I could go on and on about the two smoked turkey sandwiches I savored for lunch, compliments of my Texan boss who shared a family tradition with us: Greenberg Smoked Turkey, Inc., from Tyler, Texas, www.gobblegobble.com. Perhaps he shared the smoky bounty with us so as to keep us from revolting for having to work on Thanksgiving--not that we would because, like the firefighters, it's what we news people signed up for.

I could also elaborate on the healthy (*healthy-sized) plate I consumed at a coworker's apartment after work, a lovely feast with all the Thanksgiving side dish standbys.

But I want to write about a woman I met today at a Meals on Wheels program.

I arrived on scene at a local rehab and homeless shelter for women and children. There, volunteers had a veritable, Henry Ford assembly line going on.

But tucked away in the back of the facility's steamy industrial kitchen, a woman toiled quietly. A fellow volunteer called upon her to talk to me, "the news lady."

She scampered over to me as though she weighed nothing at all, even though she was, in fact, a large woman with gold teeth and smooth ebony skin.

Timidly, she told me just how pretty she thought I was. I could only think about the shine and sweat accumulating on my nose.

I proceeded, no nonsense, to ask her quick questions to elicit a sound byte for this soft Thanksgiving Day story.

"Why is serving your community today important to you?" I asked, obtusely.

She explained that a year ago, she had been a resident at the facility. Now it was her turn to give back as "kitchen manager" of the house.

To be honest, it's the kind of story I expected, or at least hoped, to find, the "personalization" to my piece.

What I didn't expect to find is a woman who looked so accomplished in a hair net. So proud to have a position and a purpose. Not a trace of shame in her face.

Unlike me and ever other insecure, over-achieving journalist, there was no hint in her demeanor that she hadn't done enough, achieved enough, competed enough, won enough...for her, directing a food prep team was just enough. Probably more than enough.

I asked her how she was feeling.

"I tell you what, the joy in my heart is just awesome," she said. "I'm just speechless. Speechless."

Speechless is what she made me.

Contentment spread across her face as she surveyed her happy staff, volunteers who had once helped pull her out of whatever mire life circumstances had thrown her in.

So today wasn't about the food, great as it was, or family and friends, great as they are. It's not about the full bellies, or even the hundreds of thousands of people who got hot holiday meals who wouldn't have normally eaten.

It wasn't about more stores hopping on the pre-Black Friday bandwagon, further commercializing the holiday for eager American consumers.

Today was about the reward of human progress, one woman's progress. It was about her delicious delight to see how far she'd come.

I am a glutton for that kind of simple, speechless joy. I can't say for sure if I've ever tasted it before. Today might have been my first whiff.

COMMERCIAL BREAK CHOCOLATE LAVA CAKE

Shame on me. You'd have a picture of this delightful little quick cake, but I ate it before I could post it.

And yes, I prepared this dessert during a commercial break, then intercepted it from the oven during a second commercial break. By third break...cocoa comatose.

I'll put a single serving recipe below. But here's the gist: Melt the chocolate and the butter with a whisk in a saucepan on medium-ish until smooth. Remove from heat. Get a fresh bowl and take the rest of the ingredients and whisk until smooth. Now combine the two mixtures. Pour in a small, but deep oven-safe dish. Doesn't have to be "bakeware." Just check out the bottom of your everyday-whatever-bowls. Bake at 450 degrees for about 10 minutes or until firm on the outside, slightly jiggly in the center.

Here are the proportions for one lucky girl or guy:


(Truth be told, this is really enough for two if you added a little ice cream. Recommended.)


1 egg
2 oz. chocolate (chips, chunks, whatever)
3 TB butter
2 TB sugar
1 tsp. flour
dash vanilla extract
half pinch nutmeg
half pinch cinnamon
healthy pinch of sea salt


Curl up with a spoon and your crappiest, most embarrassing, guilty-pleasureful television.