Author: Stephanie March

Unless you grew up on a schooner, in Tokyo, or with extremely food-forward parents, your introduction to tuna was probably a shredded pink pile of the stuff from StarKist. And like me, I bet there was no way that you could connect those mayo-lovin’ shreds to anything that swam in the big blue ocean. Long before Jessica Simpson pondered the chicken of the sea, we all must have wondered exactly what was crammed into those little cans. While it is sad that a fish with such beautiful, clean lines and tender flesh so often ends up blended with pickles and mustard, the fact is that tuna is the second most-consumed seafood (after shrimp) in the country. But even if tuna noodle casserole is still close to your heart, it is more and more likely that some of the tuna you’re eating bears the name ahi, yellowtail, tombo, or bigeye. And, sorry Charlie, even canned tuna has gone upscale, with premium fillets and imports now more widely available.

You could say that ever since the world has had fishermen, they’ve been catching tuna. It has been fished since antiquity in the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, as well as the Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian Oceans. Members of the mackerel family, tuna are hearty, strong fish, built for speed. Always in motion, they can power up to speeds of fifty-five miles per hour and eat up to ten percent of their body weight each day. It’s not unheard of to catch a six-hundred-pound tuna, depending on the variety.

Albacore (or tombo in Hawaii) is the famed “chicken of the sea,” so dubbed by fisherman for its ivory flesh. Caught off the West Coast, albacore is used mostly for canning, as are the skipjack, tongol, and bonito. Yellowfin, or ahi, which cover enormous distances around the globe, have flesh that ranges from bright pink to medium red when raw, and cooks to a light yellow-brown. Bigeye swim at a greater depth than the yellowfin, and therefore have more fat to insulate them from colder waters. Many of them end up in Japan as sashimi.

The bluefin might be considered the hottest tuna in the deep, cold sea. American and Japanese chefs drive the demand; those two countries alone account for about half of the consumption. The largest in the tuna family, bluefin are capable of reaching close to fifteen hundred pounds over their twenty-year life span. Swimming in cold Atlantic waters and feeding on mackerel and herring, the bluefin caught off the New England coast are favored by the Japanese for sushi and sashimi. In fact, they are so valued that few markets can compete with the prices Japanese buyers are willing to pay. The cuts of “sushi grade” tuna you see in America probably don’t pass muster with Japanese sushi chefs, so sophisticated are their tastes for this fatty, supple flesh.

As the appeal of sushi preparations has increased around the globe, so the quotas and the market for tuna have changed. Fears of overfishing and stock depletion run with any fish that appears frequently on restaurant menus, and while the American tuna industry must abide by federally regulated quotas, European competitors are not held to the same guidelines. Some innovators have begun developing new agricultural techniques to widen availability. In January, for instance, the Taiwanese agricultural council unveiled a yellowfin that, within unique “net cages,” had grown from one kilogram to thirty kilograms in a two-year period. Fed a special diet and living a predator-free, pampered life, these yellowfin aren’t even hauled in by net. Instead, to protect the flesh from any damage, they are carefully borne out of the water by teams of men and carried off to the ship’s hold for a quick end.

The demand for fresh tuna may be rising, but the canning industry, which recently celebrated its centennial, isn’t about to be left behind. Tuna can now be found in a pouch or a tin, in solid or chunk form, packed in oil, springwater, or its own juices. Canned tuna flavored with curries, jalapeños, or sun-dried tomatoes has recently begun to appear on grocery shelves.

More important to American fans of the can, however, is the arrival of imported and boutique brands. The word on fishy lips everywhere is ventresca. From the Italian word for belly, ventre, ventresca is the silky-smooth belly of the tuna, known in sushi bars as toro. Ventresca from Spain and Italy tends to come in round, flat, four-ounce tins, which, when opened, reveal tender, wide, white strips of tuna that gently separate. The taste is beyond nirvana—buttery, creamy, incredibly delicate. Since prices range from $5 to $35, you’ll want to savor the flavor. This is no tuna for mashing into a salad; this is stand-alone, drizzle-with-olive oil-and-kosher salt eating. Putting it on a rosemary cracker is about as fancy as you’d want to get. Ventresca may be hard to find locally, but LaTienda.com has plenty (splurge on Tre Torri Ventresca di Tonno packed in extra virgin olive oil).

The other development in canning is the small boutique canneries that have spawned along the West Coast. Holding true to a regional food philosophy, the small producers of the Pacific Northwest fish only by trolling (not with nets), and hand-cut and-pack only sashimi-grade albacore. They eschew all additives—oils, vegetable stock, chemicals, fillers—save for a smidgen of sea salt. While major producers cook their tuna twice, before packing and then in the can, the small canneries cook the fish just once, in the can, to preserve the natural juices and flavors. The resulting fish has a fresh, mild flavor; its texture can be a little dry, but that’s why it works so well in the tuna-salad genre—the result is less a mushy paste than a chewy, toothsome treat. Look for Great American Smokehouse and Seafood Company’s Deluxe Albacore Fillets or Dave’s Home-Style Santa Cruz Albacore at Whole Foods.

With so many new options, it would be a shame to stick hard by your tuna salad or tuna melt. Even those who go in for dynamite sushi rolls or tuna seared with wasabi and soy could stand to swim in new waters. An easy tuna tartare might be just the ticket.

Tuna Tartare with Wasabi Cream
4–6 appetizer servings
8- to 10-ounce sashimi-grade tuna
(yellowfin/ahi or bluefin is best)
3 T rice wine vinegar
2 tsp. soy sauce
1½ T sesame oil
2 T (or to taste) wasabi paste
½ cup crème fraîche (or sour cream)
1 T Sriracha or chili paste
Black and white sesame seeds

Using a non-serrated knife, cut tuna into quarter-inch cubes. Toss with rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, soy sauce and sesame seeds. Whisk together the crème fraîche and wasabi, adding more wasabi if desired. Create individual servings by mounding about two tablespoonfuls of tuna on a small plate. Top with a dollop of wasabi cream, sprinkle with additional sesame seeds, and drizzle the plate with Sriracha sauce. Serve immediately.

I love food. I’m a food lover. Maybe the infatuation started when I was bartending to put myself through school; I always seemed to end up with the kitchen guys at 2 a.m., cooking up a mess of eggs and leftovers. But my real journey didn’t start until I fell in love with a chef––now my husband––over a sandwich.

People had cooked for me before, and I had made dinners for dates in the past, but then came along a tall, boyish man who laughed at all of my stupid jokes. One day, while working the same shift, he offered to make me lunch. It has come to be known as The Sandwich, that divine combination of salami, red peppers, and provolone that he threw between slices of focaccia that day. Those ingredients created some kind of alchemy: after one bite I was smitten with this green-eyed kitchen guy, tossing knives and flipping pans in his starched whites. From that point on, food and love intertwined and have taken me all over the world, from Paris to Bangkok. And yet over the years, and through all the amazing food I’ve eaten, it is still a sandwich that truly quickens my heart.

That may well be because no matter where you travel, there’s a sandwich to suit your need for simple yet tasty sustenance. Crusty and flavorful bahn mi in Vietnam; Mexico’s filling and voluptuous tortas; a smorgasbord of open-faced delights in Denmark; the injera of Ethiopia, cradling spicy morsels. It’s clear that the universal language of good eating is sandwich.

Even though sandwiches, like love, are a very personal matter—I don’t tell you whom to date, you don’t tell me what to put on my sandwich—the beautiful thing is that with so many possibilities, no one need be left out. Whether you’re a panini buff, a muffuletta fan, or a Monte Cristo or croque monsieur aficionado, you may well be seated with a po’boy, a hoagie, a Hot Brown, or classic submarine sandwich-eater, and life will be richer for it. If you’re craving something greasy (see hot Italian dago) or going on a health binge (see pita pocket), there is a sandwich that satisfies. For some people, what matters the most is the type of bread (crusty, soft, dense, airy, one slice or two); for others it’s the filling, from the unusual and fancy to something as simple and wholesome as the beloved PB&J, that makes the perfect sandwich.

Since we’re basically talking about those two elements, bread and fillings, what were these things before they came to be known as sand-wiches? The idea of eating saucy beef off of a hunk of bread goes back at least to the Middle Ages, when the hard, stale slices were called trenchers. It appears that a portable meal of bread and meat was sold on the streets of England as early as the sixteenth century. But it wasn’t until John Montague (1718–1792), the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, began spending late nights at the card table and ordering his valet to bring him salty beef tucked between bread slices, that fashionable people started ordering “the same as Sandwich.”

While the City of Brotherly Love might claim that its Philly cheese steak makes it the sandwich capital of the U.S., every city has rewards for the sandwich seeker, and it’s time to share the love. The sandwich most on my mind lately has been a giant roast beef number on the menu at Maverick’s (1746 Lexington Ave., Roseville; 651-488-1788). There’s no ambience, and there’s no need. Not long after grabbing this Kaiser roll and gazing upon its piles of soft, pink, thinly sliced beef, you’ll be looking at nothing but your empty plate, wondering if you should get another for the road.

For pastrami, the recently opened Louie’s Habit (1179 E. Wayzata Blvd., Wayzata; 952-249-7700) is turning out a fantastic, New York-style thick-cut version that is rich and spicy and falls apart in the dense rye bread. Unfortunately, Louie’s has yet to get my complete order correct, but I forgive them, as would any true pastrami addict.

It’s impossible to consider the gyro, with its lamb/beef combo that gets vertically roasted, without also accounting for the tzatziki sauce, which makes this sandwich so alluringly tangy and so messy at the same time. Gardens of Salonica (19 Fifth St. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-378-0611) turns out the Twin Cities’ best, partly because it’s drenched in the tangy cucumber sauce. If you’re craving a gyro on the run, Dino’s version (3355 Plymouth Blvd., Plymouth; 763-553-2040; and other metro locations) is good enough that you probably won’t mind if you stain your shirt as you drive.

The Mexican torta can be an after-bar savior or late-night companion. The Manny’s Special at Manny’s Tortas (2700 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-728-1778) is distinguished by its zippy chipotle mayo, generous piles of beef, ham, and Swiss, and wealth of toppings, including fresh avocado, chorizo, and jalapenos. Just around the corner, Taqueria La Hacienda (1515 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-728-5424) throws together an al pastor alambre that might as well be a hot pork, bacon, onion, and cheese gift from the Hangover Gods.

When it’s a barbeque pork sandwich you want, you go see Scotty. Tucked into unassuming digs in South Minneapolis, Scott Ja Mama’s (3 W. Diamond Lake Rd., Minneapolis; 612-823-4450) kicks out a killer version soaked with a zesty-sweet sauce that renders the bread defenseless. But call ahead—there are only two seats (and no sandwiches on the weekends).

When the mood for something more upscale strikes, go for the grilled panini at the La Brea Bakery kiosk in Marshall Field’s at Southdale (Sixty-Sixth Street and France Avenue, Edina; 952-924-6600), the newest surprise on the scene. This outpost of Nancy Silverton’s Los Angeles bakery, which is justifiably famous for its sandwich offerings, is sure to be the best quick-grab sandwich around. Having sampled a beauty like the grilled turkey and prosciutto with provolone, bitter greens, and fried sage, all I’ll say is: More, please!

Of course, this is just a smattering of the outstanding sandwiches out there in the larger world, and it doesn’t even scratch at the surface of possibilities that live in every kitchen. Think how limited life would be if we were stuck singing the same old turkey-with-lettuce/tomato/mayo chorus every day! It doesn’t take much to be a true sandwich artist—you need merely be a hungry and resourceful person who knows what you like. Being a bit of a risk-taker helps, too: Throw in some pieces of chorizo. Hold the mayo and use pesto instead. Take a few minutes to sauté mushrooms. Search out the most pungent piece of Wensleydale cheese you can find. After all, if something doesn’t seem to be working (too many pickles? sprouts gone wrong?), you can simply remove the offensive ingredient and continue with your delicious meal. That’s the beauty of sandwich building. Like love, it’s about working out the kinks.

The Sandwich

If your beloved is a kitchen guy like mine, then you know that Valentine’s Day is a working day—which usually means you will be curling up with a nice sandwich that evening. So it might as well be The Sandwich:

Slice a loaf of focaccia in half; slather bottom half with aioli (garlic mayonnaise). Layer Italian meats, including mortadella, capicolla, and salami. On top of that, lay roasted red and yellow peppers. Next, place medium slices of provolone cheese to cover. Then scatter chopped and drained pepperoncini and thinly sliced red onion. Fold thin slices of prosciutto on top and douse the whole thing with herbed vinaigrette. Replace the top of the loaf and place on top rack of hot oven (about 400 degrees) for no more than a minute. Slice, eat, do laundry.

Maybe driving along slick January roads while the radio bleats its incessant lose-the-fat/cut-the-carbs/celebration’s-over messages doesn’t bother you, but it whips me into a frothy rage. Your hangover has only just barely passed (with the aid of a nice greasy burger) before all these diet people start making you feel horrible about the past few weeks of joy and butter. Doesn’t the coming of a new year herald an optimistic fresh start? By all means, get healthy (after said burger, of course) if it makes you happy, but please don’t buy into the latest fad diet or attempt to banish any food group from your life. Don’t look at 2005 as “The Year I Reject Bagels” or “The Year I Overcome Bacon” or, worse yet, “The Year I Buy Chemically Engineered Food That Will Make My Butt Skinny While It Slowly Poisons My Internal Organs.” Wouldn’t you rather wear a sparkly sash proclaiming “2005: The Year I Discover the Magic of Food That Heals the Soul and Body and Still Tastes Great.” A smarter sash still might simply read “2005: Year of the Quince.”

What the hell is a quince, you’re asking. Why have you never seen quince-flavored soda pop or Quincy-O’s cereal, or even a quince booster for your smoothie? It’s safe to say they’re not part of the mainstream. But neither are quinces a secretly hoarded ingredient available only to chefs and other epicurean cognoscenti. Quinces are actually quite accessible, and for the next month or so this yellowish, knobbly skinned fruit—best described as a cross between an apple and a pear—is still in season. Out of the produce bin, this fruit tends to be rock hard, not too pleasing to the eye, and quite astringent when eaten raw, so maybe it’s no surprise that you’ve passed them by. But any fan will tell you, quinces will reward a cook’s patience by revealing a host of secrets and pleasures.

Far from being a new fruit, the quince is believed by many to have been Eve’s naughty apple. Quinces also played a great role in ancient Greek culture: some say the “golden apple” Paris awarded to Aphrodite, thus launching the Trojan War, was actually a humble quince. The Greeks considered the quince a symbol of love and fertility, tossing it into bridal chariots and serving slices to blushing new wives before they repaired to the bridal chambers. Pregnant women were advised to snack frequently on quinces to insure industrious and highly intelligent offspring.

The fruit of a hardy shrub, the quince spread easily throughout Asia and Europe. Its Latin name, Cydonia, refers to the ancient city in Crete where the Greeks perfected its cultivation. The French termed the fruit coing, which in Middle English became quin. However termed, the oddly shaped fruit continues to play a strong role in some cuisines (Spanish, Moroccan, Persian, Rumanian, Balkan) and a recovering role in others (English, French, American).

Here in the U.S., the quince did have a brief moment in the sun. Because of its high levels of pectin, the quince makes a killer jelly. The jammers and canners helped the quince tree migrate westward with the settlers. But the need to preserve fruit dropped off, the apple took favor as a sweeter and easier fruit, and the desire for quinces dwindled. Ironically, quince jelly is making a comeback as the traditional Spanish membrillo, a jellied quince paste, pops up on tapas menus across the country. If you’ve ever enjoyed a really good slice of manchego cheese, top your next slice with the mellow and fruity membrillo to understand the perfect interplay between sweet and tangy.

The key to enjoying quinces is taking the time to reap the rewards. Keep a quince in your kitchen at room temperature for a week or so, and it will deliver a gracious aroma that no scented candle can touch. Slowly simmer a peeled and cored quince, and watch its flesh soften and change color to a velvety deep pink. The flavor will have evolved, too, into a sassy pineapple-like taste with a touch of tartness. Next time you cook apples or pears, add a few slices of quince and the new aromas and flavors will make it hard to ever turn back.

The splendor of quinces is that there are so many dreamy ways to use them; the sadness is that they’re available only from September to February (if we’re lucky), so get to the Wedge Co-op to snatch some up. While they are fresh, peel and core them for cooking. Throw chopped quinces in with your pork roast for a subtle flavor, or use them like the Turks do, in a tagine stew with meats and other spiced fruits. Follow the Hindus and mash the fruit with onions, chilies, salt, and citrus juice to make a sambal, and serve it as a condiment for grilled food. For dessert, poach a quince in vanilla sauce or bake it with a filling of sugar, hazelnuts, and cranberries in its hollow. Make quince jelly for your pancakes. If you’ve dawdled and the quinces are gone for the season, take heart. Some very good pastes are on the market that can be eaten with cheese or crackers or licked right off the knife (Lunds carries the brand 34degrees from New Zealand).

Whatever you do, take the time to cook and get to know your quince. The healthiest thing you can do for yourself in the New Year is to view food not as an enemy, but as a source of pleasure and self-discovery. Like Lear’s owl and pussycat: They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon …

Quince Jelly

8 cups peeled, sliced, cored quince (5-7 fruits)
1½ cups water
1 cup apple juice
3 T lemon juice
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup honey
1 T orange zest
1 T freshly grated ginger root
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg

In medium saucepan, over medium-high heat, bring fruit, water, and juices to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for about thirty minutes (or until tender). Add remaining ingredients and stir for another five minutes. Remove from heat, puree in food processor (if you like it smooth). Let the mixture cool before transferring to storage containers with tight lids. Will store frozen for up to three months.

You need to kick-start your life, no? Aren’t you searching for that mystical buzz of inspiration that comes with seeing others achieve their dreams? Well, cheer up, Charlie. For a lucky few in our Twin Cities, and far more in places across the country, the dream of a creative and self-determined life has been found in chocolate. Job growth for chocolatiers is due, in large part, to the ever-growing fascination with food—and there’s plenty to explore when it comes to this ancient, mysterious treat. Once an earthy, spicy aphrodisiacal drink for Mexican royalty, chocolate has been transformed over the centuries into a common delight, made sweet and milky to suit the masses. The early nineties kicked off a chocolate renaissance, now in full flower, that has many erstwhile Hershey’s eaters discovering—and creating—the world of superior-quality, artisanal chocolate. For those who get hooked, it’s an obsession as wide-ranging and complex as wine connoisseurship.

Dark chocolate never really went out of favor, at least not with us true chocoholics, who could be found gnawing on the “baking chocolate” behind closed drapes. But our day has come. We can now saunter into fine chocolate boutiques that are popping up all over and not only select dark chocolate with confidence, but revel in the choices among premium, extra-bitter, and extreme darks. Traditionally, cocoa beans from around the world have been commingled to balance the strong and mellow flavors, but the new desire for “single plantation” cocoa has allowed the intense, heady flavors of the Venezuelan bean to be celebrated alongside the subtler, fruitier Indonesian variety. Even some of the milk chocolates are made with extra cocoa solids (the combination of cocoa and cocoa butter that makes chocolate, well, chocolate) that deepen its flavor.

Given the varying percentages of cocoa solids, myriad handcrafted processes, and a host of herbs and other unique flavorings, there’s no shortage of opportunities for a chocolate experience that can verge on the religious. As we’ve seen with the cheese, wine, and coffee industries, piquing the interest of the Foodie Generation has become quite lucrative for the boutique producer. Whether it’s a need for something unique, something different from what they had as kids, or an ever-evolving palate that desires to be challenged at every turn, or simply a search for an increasingly incredible chocolate high, there are salivating legions opening their wallets for the next big chocolate thing.

With his national Fancy Food Show Award and spots on the Food Network, Brian McElrath is one of the luminaries among the local chefs, visionaries, and Wonka wannabees who are creating a sweet life for themselves as chocolatiers. McElrath and his wife and partner Christine Walthour-McElrath began crafting innovative chocolates eight years ago. It is a success story that began with a frustrated chef who climbed the culinary ladder as far as it could go, and found himself unsatisfied with (and unchallenged by) the day-to-day of running a restaurant. Craving more creativity and self-control, McElrath threw his life into chocolate. A rough first year in business, including a family illness, proved no match for the drive and passion the husband and wife team feels for this sweet trade.

For some reason, I have this impression that artisanal chocolatiers should be dark and brooding, like Ecuadorian cocoa, but Brian is an ebullient redhead. He is duly intense, but also firmly rooted in the belief that chocolate should be fun. Like a true visionary, he is continually seeking to deliver singular experiences for the palate. Zinfandel, kaffir lime, cayenne pepper, passion fruit, and lavender are just a few of the ingredients in his cutting-edge confections. While a box of B.T. McElrath truffles usually makes it to my dinner table at the end of a good meal (minus the zinfandel-balsamic ones, which never make it out of the market parking lot), it is their ridiculously dense, all-butter toffee that I keep stashed away from undeserving guests and kids’ sticky fingers.

Then there’s Mary Leonard, an erstwhile marketing executive. She found herself at a career crossroads when she had to build a fictitious business to test some software. Making use of her degree in food science, she used a chocolate company as her model. Leonard grew so excited about her fabricated company, much more so than about the software, that she decided to turn it into a reality. Now Chocolat Céleste is working through its fourth holiday season, and Leonard has found her calling. Her fresh cream truffles are silky, rich, and handmade every day on University Avenue. Seasonal favorites include the zippy Red Chili Pepper, Pumpkin Spice, and Cranberry Nut truffles.

But the most distinctive thing about Chocolat Céleste is Leonard’s natural desire to teach. She holds chocolate tastings in her gorgeously turned-out factory/store (she bartered truffle-making lessons for architectural services), showing people the differences among chocolate varietals. She’s also become known for her classes on wine and chocolate pairings, given in-store or privately. Call it the business end of a chocolate bar. Leonard understands the power of knowledge, and knows that her product isn’t for the Chunky Bar bunch. By welcoming people to her chocolaterie and allowing them to smell the toasty aromas and understand the nuances of the bean, she is both creating a craving and meeting the demand from a new generation of educated consumers, who will find it difficult to turn back to a waxy Hershey’s bar.

It was a tractor accident that became a defining moment for Deirdre Davis and Allen Whitney, one that slowed their hectic culinary careers (she was a restaurant manager, he a chef). They decided it was time to create something that would make them, and others, smile. River Chocolate Company was born with a true-hearted mission: to create world-class traditional chocolate with local and organic resources. If you can catch her at the St. Paul Farmers’ Winter Market, Deirdre will tell you all about the rich, local creams and butters they use. Or the organic fruits and fair-trade flavorings like Madagascar vanilla and Vietnamese cinnamon, which make a difference both to the chocolatiers and their recipes. River Chocolate seeks out single-plantation cocoa beans, which rewards small-scale producers while delivering a more intense, uniquely flavored chocolate. Although their truffles and brownies are beyond killer, it’s their amazingly luscious chocolate sauce tinged with zingy flavors including Moroccan orange, cinnamon, and dark-roasted Kenyan coffee. Sure, you could heat up this stuff and pour it over ice cream, or maybe spread it on shortbread, but in my house the most popular accompaniment is, simply, a spoon.

Europe changes you. No one can deny that. You may go the first time with a young, cynical it-can’t-be-that-big-of-a-deal complex. They have churches. So what. You’ve seen churches. Stuff is really old, you get that, but what does Europe have that we don’t in the U.S.? And then it sinks in. Maybe while drinking your first liter of true German beer, or walking down a street that existed before people knew the Earth was round, you begin to understand your place in the world. Paintings, books, and, yes, churches glow with enhanced meaning and substance. Upon your return to the New World, in order to enlighten the poor bastards who stayed behind, you stop by the local market and buy a treat for your friends, a piece of this singularly amazing and eye-opening event. You buy them Nutella.

Chocolate for breakfast? Give me a break and keep your Cocoa Krispies. Once again, the Euros have bested us. Try a warm, crusty slice of bread slathered with silky, melty Nutella first thing in the morning and tell me your day doesn’t go better. But it’s not about the cocoa—this is no gooey Hershey’s syrup kind of moment–it’s about the hazelnuts. As the “original hazelnut spread,” Nutella has served as a daily fix for generations of Europeans who have long known what Americans are just discovering. Complex and distinctive, the hazelnut that deserves a higher spot on the flavor chain.

There’s no doubt that Europeans have a more intense love affair with the hazelnut because it’s been growing in their neighborhood for thousands of years. The moist air of the Mediterranean region is perfect for the cultivation of the hazel. And the nut’s flavor and beautiful aroma, which was first unlocked by the roast-happy Romans, gave it a cultish status. Soon the wood from the hazelnut bush was being used for witching rods to find valuable minerals and rich soils. Supposedly possessing mystic powers, the nuts were burned to enhance clairvoyance and used in marriage ceremonies as a charm for fertility.

There’s another mystery to the nut, which is how it became known as a filbert. Its Latin name, Corylus, comes from the Greek korys (helmet), which led to the enduring “hazel” from the Anglo haesil (headdress), all of which allude to the husk that shelters the nuts, between one and four of them, as they grow. Some think “filbert” comes from the German word vollbart (full beard). More popular is the theory that the nut is named in honor of St. Philibert, a canonized King of Normandy, whose feast day is August 22, just the time the nuts ripen for harvest. Believe what you will. Perhaps the bigger question is how anyone can believe that the filbert is an acceptable garnish to a vodka gimlet.

Turkey produces most of the world’s crop, followed by Italy…and then our own Oregon! (Wild hazelnuts used to be common in many parts of the U.S., until a blight wiped out most of the strains.) Hazels, which grow within their husks on a shrubbish sort of tree, thrive in these areas because of to the moist air and temperate climates. Each region produces its own variation of the original species, with different flavor profiles. Turkish nuts tend to be smaller and more intense, while Oregon crops are bigger, meatier, and have a milder flavor.

The folks at Badgersett Farm, a private research farm in southern Minnesota, believe that hazelnuts are our salvation. Because standard agriculture involves tillage and harms the best soil, they believe that woody agriculture,” which causes less erosion, is superior. Supported by the Minnesota Institute for Sustainable Agriculture, the farm has successfully planted European and wild American hybrid hazelnut bushes; while their methods aren’t totally organic, they encourage birds, insects, and frogs to help the plants survive without the use of herbicides and pesticides. If you’d like to get your hands on some, check the farm’s website, www.badgersett.com, for updates about availability.

Call it a filbert or a hazelnut–just don’t define it by the cloyingly sweet stuff shot into your latte. Versatile and spunky, the nut can be used in all areas of cooking. Toasting is the best way to heighten its essential oils, bringing out its distinctive flavor and aroma. All you need is a 350-degree oven and about five minutes. Post-toasting, remove the papery skins by slipping the nuts into a dish towel, letting them cool for a minute, and rolling them around in the towel. Then toss the toasted treasures into a butternut squash soup with a hint of cinnamon. Or use them instead of croutons in a hearty salad featuring winter greens and a hazelnut oil vinaigrette. Crushed with dried ginger, they make a delicious coating for a roasted pork loin. Pulverize with a little oil, some garlic, and fresh parsley, and you’ve got a rich pesto for pasta with dried cranberries.

If you’re sticking to your new Euro-trash image, you’ll take your hazelnuts with an edge of sweetness. That means dipping biscotti into a latte spiked with a hazelnut liqueur, like Frangelico (not Torani syrup). Toasted hazels can be paired with raspberries, chocolate, dried fruits, chocolate, Turkish delight, and chocolate. Let’s face it, Nutella isn’t just for breakfast anymore.

Hazelnut Spread
(A Nutella Upgrade)

3 oz. chopped dark chocolate
1/2 c. heavy cream
1/2 c. hazelnuts, toasted and ground
1 T. vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread hazelnuts on a baking sheet and toast in oven for up to six minutes, till nicely browned. Remove from the oven, wrap them in a dish towel, allow to cool for a few minutes, then roll them on a countertop inside the towel. Place the skinned nuts in a food processor and pulse until completely ground.

Set aside.

Chop chocolate, place in bowl, and set aside. Over medium heat in small sauce pan, bring cream to a gentle boil. Remove from heat and pour over chocolate, stirring lightly to ensure complete melting. Let stand for at least one minute, and then whisk until smooth. Blend in ground hazelnuts and vanilla.

Cover and refrigerate for about an hour, or until mixture is of spreading consistency. Toast bread, slather with spread, bite off of chunk, groan with pleasure.

When you take stock of your life, you often start to appreciate the things you’ve taken for granted. At thirteen thousand feet above sea level, I had a moment like that. Walking over Dead Woman’s Pass on the Inca Trail, heading to Machu Picchu, I began to feel really lucky to have had such a great tomato soup for lunch. And I felt grateful for good shoes, butter, duct tape, and thick, juicy, oxygen-drenched air. Usually such moments of deep appreciation are followed quickly by profound sorrow for those who cannot enjoy the things I love, like people who are compelled to buy fat-free cheese or those who shun the WB. I often feel bad for people who can’t (gluten issues) or won’t (carbo-phobia) enjoy a tasty hunk of bread, and I find myself wishing they could have been up on that Peruvian mountain pass with me—not just so that I could playfully dangle them off a precipice, but so they could see that the answer to their happiness lay at my feet.

Quinoa is the next big thing. Beyond being fun to say (KEEN-wah), this diminutive, disc-shaped grain has restaurant industry insiders and foodies all atwitter. Remember when everyone was gushing over heirloom tomatoes, and then later it was Meyer lemon this and Meyer lemon that? Quinoa is on the cusp of becoming the next “it” ingredient. (Charlie Trotter? Already a fan.) What’s funny is how this newcomer to the American food scene is not new at all. In fact, the renaissance of quinoa will be rooted in growing traditions that date back seven thousand years to pre-Incan villages high in the Andes.

In Quechua, the Incan language that is still spoken today, quinoa is known as chisiya mama, or “mother grain.” Incan emperors planted the first quinoa seeds of each season with a ceremonial golden spade, and the solstice was marked with offerings to Inti (the Sun) of golden chalices overflowing with quinoa.

In fact, the very sacredness of this nourishing, vital, and versatile plant, capable of growing wild in adverse conditions, may explain why it was “lost” for hundreds of years. When Pizarro and the Spanish overtook the Incan civilization, they found not only treasures of gold, but also the riches of a structured agricultural system centered on three staples: corn, potatoes, and quinoa. Spanish rule required the suppression of much local culture, and historians speculate that marginalizing the mother grain was a political tactic to dishearten the Incas. While the Spanish moved much of the food production to the lower valleys, where European livestock could flourish along with the more popular corn and potato crops, the production of quinoa was left to the remote villages and peasants at high altitudes. Like many peasant foods, the grain came to have a social stigma that it is only just beginning to shed.

Quinoa is not a true cereal grain like wheat, but rather a fruit in the chenopodium family. The plant is an annual herb that can grow from three to six feet in height, with its seeds clustered at the end of the stalk. Although the leaves are edible, the nutritional profile and versatility of the seeds make them the “superfood,” one that supplies nearly all life-sustaining nutrients. Quinoa is much higher in protein than other grains, offering roughly twice the amount found in barley, corn, rice, and some forms of wheat. And it’s high-quality protein, with an essential amino acid balance close to the ideal. High in fiber; rich in iron and calcium, vitamins and phosphorus; tolerated by most who are allergic to cereal grains—this is the little grain that could. Its carbohydrates even fall into the “good” (low glycemic-index) camp.

Equally important as the nutritional benefits is the survivalist nature of this plant. Unlike most food crops, quinoa thrives on low rainfall, high altitudes, thin, cold air, hot sun, subfreezing temperatures, and even sandy, alkaline soil. In fact, in 1983 a drought in Bolivia caused a widespread loss in potato and barley crops, but there was nary a blip in quinoa production. Some areas even produced record yields. Quinoa also produces its own pesticide: saponin, a bitter-tasting resin coating the grains, which must be thoroughly washed off before eating. Some say this laborious process has hindered the marketing and acceptance of quinoa, but others argue that saponin effectively repels birds and insects and is far preferable to insecticides.

Recent projects have helped to bring quinoa and the families that grow it back from the brink. In central Ecuador, the Heirloom Quinoa project is working to produce indigenous varieties with a superior flavor, like the quinoa of the ancient Incas. Inca Organics is the Chicago-based importer that has helped to reawaken the spirit of quinoa and revitalize communities and families that take part in preserving their traditions. Inca Organics’ whole-grain and flour products are available locally at Lunds and Byerly’s, under the Bob’s Red Mill label.

Now that you’re happily on the quinoa trail, where can it take you? Sure, quinoa is nutritious and hardy—but the true beauty of this little grain is its adaptability. As a flour, quinoa brings a tender, moist crumb to most baked goods and can be substituted for nearly any grain in most every recipe. A bag of whole-grain quinoa is just the ticket to further spark your creativity. It can be prepared like risotto with stock, yielding a soft and un-gummy dish. You can eat it sweet (like a rice pudding) or savory (as tabbouleh with herbs).

The soft, slightly nutty flavor of this grain finds companions in many dishes and ingredients. For a prime example, check out the lobster and quinoa entrée offered at Cosmos, in which the supergrain gently supports the flavorful butter-poached lobster, giving the dish a sense of both the earthy and the ethereal. It’s only a matter of time before you see quinoa popping up on other fashionable menus. And once people start preaching the quinoa ethos, you will calmly nod in agreement, as your Incan spirit has already been well-nourished.

Basic Quinoa
• 1 cup quinoa (whole grains)
• 2 cups water
If you’re using Bob’s Red Mill quinoa, you are good to go. With other brands, be sure to thoroughly rinse the grains to remove the bitter saponin. Bring quinoa and water to boil in a saucepan. Reduce to
a simmer, cover, and cook until all water is absorbed (10-15 minutes). The grains will “uncoil” and turn translucent.
Tips:
• For a nuttier taste, toast the quinoa in a hot, dry pan before cooking.
• For an earthier taste, use mushroom stock instead of water.
• Prepare basic recipe, then sauté with leeks and garlic in olive oil over medium heat.
• For baking, stir in cream, press the mixture into a baking dish, top with pesto and Parmigiano Reggiano. Bake at 350º for 20 minutes.

What price a good meal? The question posed in the preface of The American Home Cookbook of 1932 is readily answered by its publishers: “Barring the obvious cost of materials, there is that priceless ingredient—interest.” Oh, those sage prophets of cookery books replete with gems like deviled sardines and jellied venison. They had no idea how “interest” (to put it mildly) in a good meal would come to be a defining characteristic of the latter half of their century. The simple idea of paying attention to one’s food, seemingly radical for that generation, was destined to evolve into a burning curiosity—even an outright obsession—that would fuel a number of industries, usher in the era of the celebrity chef, set off a paradigm shift in farming, and ignite an American food revolution. And it was all started by a sassy, 6’2″ coed who used to sneak into speakeasies.

Julia Child, who passed away this August, is clearly the mother of the revolution. For every morsel of foie gras, every slice of flourless chocolate torte, we owe her. During a time when the American cuisine meant hot dogs, frozen dinners, and Velveeta, Julia coaxed us to embrace the leek and demand it from our grocer. For those whose nonna didn’t teach them how to cook, she was a comforting mother figure to count on in a weekly timeslot. She not only demystified the process of cooking, but with her easy, convivial ways she educated a generation in the art of good eating. It’s not about slapping a protein, a starch, and a veg on the plate and eating in front of the TV. It’s about appreciating what every ingredient has to contribute, about the joy of the perfect bite in which a host of flavors commingle symphonically, about the complex passion of creativity and the simple delight of sharing meals with others.

As the interest in fresh and exciting food developed, the focus turned from eating in to dining out. The eighties’ money glut, which spawned the desire for luxury versions and designer brands of everything, caused a surge in high-end restaurants. More people had more cash and they wanted a slice of the good life accompanied with good food. Dining became an event in itself and chic eateries tried to outdo each other with extravagant wine lists, daring menus, and funky concepts that would lead to the sometimes scary world of “eatertainment.” Well-heeled investors threw money into restaurants that they could show off to their friends. The Young Turks in the kitchen began stacking food into elaborate towers, melding French creations with Asian dishes in a flurry of fusion, debuting exotic ingredients flown in from all corners of the globe (enoki mushrooms, huitlacoche, eel skin). All of a sudden, food had a pedigree, and so did those who prepared it.

Much credit for chefs’ elevation to celebrity status has to go to a short Austrian cook who became one of the most recognizable names in America. It helps that Wolfgang Puck rose to fame in Los Angeles, the locus for the cult of personality, where he turned the idea of fine dining on its ear by opening Spago. The glitterati expected a typically elitist, uptight gourmet restaurant; he gave them patio furniture, familiar but ultra-fresh ingredients, and, most shocking, an open kitchen that allowed diners to experience the sights and smells of the food being prepared. He gave them what they didn’t know they wanted, which is clearly one way to become an icon.

With the rise of other chefs—Charlie Trotter in Chicago, Daniel Boulud in New York, Todd English in Boston—people began to define food and cooking not by country of origin but by vision of chef. No longer held as chain-smoking misanthropes with scowling demeanors to be hidden behind the line, chefs have risen to the station of “artist.” This transition is easily understood when you consider that theirs is an accessible art. Few people have money to spend on fine art, and many wouldn’t know what to buy if they did. Sculpting or composing music is not a daily activity for most of us. We do regularly eat and cook, though, and virtually anyone can get a reservation at Babbo in New York and sample Mario Batali’s silky, vibrant puttanesca, which is cause for a moment of reverence—a work of art in its own right. It’s this unique intimacy and accessibility that makes us keenly appreciative of those who can turn out culinary creations beyond our own capabilities.

For true food zealots, the chef is a shaman, a guide on the path to finding the divine in the daily details of life. On a more worldly level, we want the food to bestow upon us not only flavor, but sophistication and the superior sense of being in-the-know. Stylish food and smart restaurants carry a pedigree that reflects on us; name-dropping (“this is a Jamie Oliver recipe”) wins you kudos and credibility. In the era of the Food Network, what you eat says as much about you as your clothes or your car.

We like to think that our children’s pop stars are disposable, and that our allegiance to a celebrity chef is as unwavering as his line of frozen soups. But is it? The world of food now produces a steady stream of media sensations. Last October, the venerable Gourmet notoriously posed a quintet of chefs as rock stars on its cover—and then offered a feature story not on their expertise but on the photo shoot. Julia’s humble public television show has evolved into the Food Network, an essential element in creating buzz and cultivating “foodies.” Emeril, the network’s early poster boy, now plugs Crest toothpaste. There are book deals, cookware lines, movie cameos, talk show appearances, and other amazing opportunities for the chefs-of-the-moment. As long as they don’t mind spending much less time in the kitchen.

With all this exposure, chef has become a dream job, right up there with NBA superstar, although seemingly much more attainable. Countless cooking schools have opened across the country, and competition to get into the most venerable institution, the Culinary Institute of America, has reached Ivy League levels. As accountants and teachers chuck their former lives to follow their “passion” for food, many find that the actual work—hours on their feet peeling dozens of shrimp and chopping hundreds of onions—is far more grueling than throwing a dinner party; as a result the dropout rate for culinary schools is also higher than ever.

The “Almost-Famous Chef Competition” is simply the next logical step in this conflation of media and celebrity and food. Lucky finalists from various national cooking schools are sent to celebrity-chef boot camp, where they spend a weekend with renowned chefs and media wranglers who offer culinary newbies valuable advice on creating buzz, working it for the camera, and dealing with agents. Students are also judged on their success in creating a stunning dish in record time—but it’s the chef’s “star potential” that is worth twenty percent of the total evaluation.

It’s only fitting that the competition is held in Las Vegas, which, in its most recent reincarnation has styled itself as a paradise for gourmands, built on the foundation of celebrity chefs. Wooed by hotels like the Bellagio, big names throughout the country have opened outposts in Sin City. With Tom Collichio down the corridor from Todd English and across the street from Jean-Georges Vongerichten, it’s like a chef’s shopping mall. While some have flourished in the desert heat, others, like Charlie Trotter’s, have already closed. Critics have described the trend as a bait-and-switch deal: Once the restaurant is open, the renowned chef jets back to his landmark establishment, abandoning the Vegas joint to management by support staff and using it as a cash cow to fund other ventures. Is this where the food revolution is headed? Is its future in the hands of media darlings who believe their own press and feel free to slap their names on any old burger to keep the masses on the hook?

There are, of course, larger lurking questions: Who is really
cooking your food? Bobby Flay is ubiquitous on the Food Network and Iron Chef, but can you ever glimpse him in his kitchen at Mesa Grill? Are those paying top dollar for the name of a celebrity chef getting their money’s worth? Those questions are especially germane right now with regard to the buzz surrounding Thomas Keller. As head of the French Laundry in Napa Valley, Keller became known for controlling the entire experience of his restaurant, from the linens to the lingonberries, and creating a cult-like following among patrons and employees alike. One critic even deemed the French Laundry the Best Restaurant in the World. Then Keller opened Per Se last spring in the vaunted Time Warner complex in Manhattan, leaving his Bay Area following befuddled: How could he adjust the garnish on their truffled duck confit from three thousand miles away? It’s more than a certain bitterness in having to share their signature Keller salmon cones with New Yorkers—there’s a fear that the artist has sold out to fame and fortune and that his art will suffer. But the best chefs know that strong leadership and inspiration are the keys to running a great kitchen, whether they are present or not. Keller, and others like him, can flourish in multiple locations as long as people believe more in the food on the plate than the name behind the line.

As always, a true revolution is rooted with the people. While the splashy side gets played out on TV and in top-dollar restaurants, the real change comes from millions of eaters buying the books, watching the shows, and upgrading their kitchens at Williams-Sonoma. A generation of latchkey kids with working mothers who didn’t have time to cook makes for a beautifully blank slate, eager to try new foods and cuisines. Leaders like Alice Waters and Tom Douglas have promoted the values of organic, locally produced ingredients, and the information age has furthered our interest in food beyond its flavors and textures. We want to know its nutritional value, where and how it was grown, which farming methods were used, for whom it was named, and what role it played in history. So another question may be: Are we consuming or are we being consumed?

The local version of this national drama includes small-scale but nationally recognized artisans, such as B.T. McElrath Chocolates, and processed-food legends like Pillsbury. Some chefs find stardom here—Tim McKee of Solera is one of Food & Wine’s “Rising Stars,” and it’s looking like David Fhima is almost our own Rocco DiSpirito—and yet we allowed the cutting-edge Aquavit to close. The Oceanaire Seafood Room, Campiello, Caribou Coffee, and Buca di Beppo, now recognized across the country, started right here at home. In the recent documentary Eat This New York, two Minnesota boys go through the hell of opening their own little bistro in New York. In a way, they embody the ever-striving, hard-working Minnesota ethos that has helped shape our food scene. We are always dreaming of being a part of the big time, but it’s often the smaller starts that shine brightest.

The key to living the good life, however, comes back to a lesson Julia taught us: All things in moderation. Man cannot live on béarnaise sauce alone; burritos and M&M’s still have a rightful place in many a food lover’s diet. But for those who happily claim to be clinically food-obsessed, there is no better time than now. The term “new American” refers not to T.G.I. Friday’s, but to restaurants that are turning out fearless food with remarkable flavors that challenge the eater’s expectations. Our cuisine is ever-evolving, much like our obsession with fame, new and shinier icons, and the search for the best of everything. Who knows what’s next, celebrity auto mechanics?

Stephanie March is The Rake’s food columnist.

Just about everyone can name someone they know who hates meatloaf. Or yogurt, I bet you can find someone in your circle who categorically hates yogurt. But I dare you to locate someone who hates pizza. Sure, you can find a friend with tomato issues or one of those poor, lactose-intolerant freaks who cries if cheese is even in the room with them, but that’s not the same, is it? When you’re a kid and you get all A’s: pizza party! When you’re sheet-rocking your buddy’s cabin: pizza break! When you’re an agoraphobic, what keeps you alive: pizza delivery! Is it the delectable complexity of combinations or is it the mind-blowing simplicity of bread with toppings? Whatever it is, pizza is the 24/7 chow that has conquered the world.

Even though you can find pizzerias from Bangkok to Biloxi, pizzas are generally thought to be Italian in origin, which is generally true. Throughout antiquity, especially in the Mediterranean region, people used flat bread as a plate, and the Egyptians were believed to celebrate the birthdays of their pharaohs with flat breads seasoned with herbs and spices. The pita, an obvious relation, had been eaten for thousands of years all over the world before it was brought to Italy by soldiers from abroad.

Though there’s no Big Bang theory that applies to the invention of pizza, the style we know today came together in Naples, which is commonly acknowledged to be the pizza capital of the planet.

In the 18th century, it was known in tradesmen’s circles that the poorest sections of Napoli had the best food (a tradition that endures in many large cities). The flat pies were sold as street food by young boys who ran around with tin stoves on their heads. In 1830, Antica Pizzeria Port’Alba became the first pizzeria. They used a large round brick oven to fire their instantly famous pies—which they are still churning out today. Some people believe that it is this wood-fired cooking method that make Neapolitan pizzas the world standard. Others attribute the San Marzano tomatoes that grow in the volcanic soil of nearby Mt. Vesuvius, lending them a soft lusciousness. Still more swear by the pure buffalo mozzarella and its tanginess that makes any cow’s-milk imitation taste like wallpaper paste.

Here in the Land of Opportunity, Lombardi’s opened on Spring Street in New York City in 1905 with its very own brick oven. Of course, New Yorkers like to claim they’re responsible for giving pizza to America, but credit should again be given to the Italians. Stationed in Italy, World War II GI’s took advantage of the local fare and brought back a hunger for the easy meal. It wasn’t long after the war (1958, to be precise) before two young brothers, still enrolled at Wichita State University, came up with a winner of an idea we’ll call Pizza Hut. Two years later, two Wisconsin brothers came up with a little brand we’ll call Tombstone.

Pizza innovations have since proliferated, with deep-dish, stuffed crusts, dessert versions, BBQ style, “gourmet” white pizza, and all manner of other gussied-up folderol. Truth be told, the version that you can get delivered to your door in thirty minutes or less has almost nothing to do with the original idea of pizza, and I’m not just talking about the aberration that is Canadian Bacon and Pineapple. What was once a healthy, fresh repast is now helping to pad your ass. The gang at the Center for Science in the Public Interest (they were the ones who made you scared of movie popcorn) notes that just one slice of the Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Meat Lover’s pie packs the fat of an entire McDonald’s Quarter Pounder. And I bet you don’t pick up a second QP like you pick up a second slice. Not one to mince words, Jayne Hurley, who headed the pizza study at CSPI, says, “You need cheese stuffed into a pizza crust like you need reverse liposuction to force more fat under your skin.”

Provoked by this obscene permutation of their national treasure, the Italians formed the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana. A governmental DOC (denominazione d’origine controllata) organization like the ones that protect the names “Chianti” and “Parmigianno Reggiano,” the VPN sees its mission as one of preserving simplicity and authenticity. The dough must be shaped by hand, without a rolling pin. The pizza must be baked in a wood-fired oven, without a pan and should be “soft, well cooked, fragrant and enclosed in a high, soft edge of crust.” Graciously, they allow that “all types of pizza are agreeable to basil leaves.” To be able to call yourself a true Neapolitan pizza joint, you must become a certified member of the VPN with a trained pizzaioli (pizza maker) on staff.

Count yourself among the lucky, because Punch is a local outfit that is one of a handful of American members of the VPN. Not only do they turn out a dough that is soft and well cooked, but they proudly import the San Marzano tomatoes and authentic mozzarella di bufala which make their pies undeniably the best in the city. Pizza Nea is also turning out great wood-fired pies with astonishing toppings and innovative combinations. If you love a pizza not for the crust but for the sauce, then the Savoy Inn in St. Paul has the fresh, spice-laden stuff of dreams. Fat Lorenzo’s in Minneapolis comes in a close second. All these places will give you something the big chains can’t: texture and flavor that aren’t suffocated by heavy swaths of bland cheese.

If you’re under house arrest, you too can have flavorful pizza without delivery or DiGiorno. Pizza dough is the essence of simplicity: flour, water, yeast. If you have the cash, you could invest in a miraculous, top-of-the-line Mugnaini oven direct from Italy (their national distributor happens to be right here in town). Otherwise, you should definitely pop for a pizza stone. These flat round stones heat up in your oven before you place the pizza on top, simulating the bottom of a brick oven. While it can’t cook your pizza in ninety seconds like the Mugnaini, it will help to elevate the crust to near-VPN standards, bringing you that much closer to true pizza perfection.

~Neapolitan Pizza Dough~

Makes four nine- to ten-inch pizzas

It’s best to use a blend of cake flour and all-purpose flour to achieve a Neapolitan-style crust. This tender dough stretches more easily and has less of a tendency to spring back onto itself, making it easier to wield and shape.

1 teaspoon active dry yeast
1-1?4 cups warm water (105ºF)
1 cup cake flour (not self-rising)
2-1?2 to 3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons salt
Olive oil, to grease the bowl

Sprinkle the yeast over the warm water in a measuring cup. Let stand one minute or until the yeast is creamy. Stir until the yeast dissolves.
In a large bowl, combine the cake flour, 2-1?2 cups of the all-purpose flour, and the salt.

Add the yeast mixture and stir until a soft dough forms. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead, adding
more flour if necessary. Work until smooth and elastic, about ten minutes.

Lightly coat a large bowl with olive oil. Place the dough in the bowl, turning it to oil the top. Cover with plastic wrap and set in a warm, draft-free spot and let rise until doubled in bulk, about 1-1?2 hours.

Punch down the dough with your fists (quite gratifying). Cut it into two to four pieces and shape into balls. Dust the tops with flour.
Place the balls on a floured work surface and cover each with plastic wrap allowing room for expansion. Let rise sixty to ninety minutes, or until doubled.

While patiently waiting for dough to rise, place a pizza stone with dusting of cornmeal in oven on the lowest rack. Heat the oven to its maximum temperature.
Shape dough on pizza paddle (officially called a “peel”) dusted with cornmeal, and add toppings. Gently slide pizza onto stone in oven. Bake each for six to seven minutes.

In a floating restaurant, with buoys hanging from the ceiling and the full complement of other nautical trappings, I ordered my first lobster. I was eight. Not a big seafood fan, I hemmed and hawed over the menu, which was crammed with clip-art renderings of comical sea creatures, until my Uncle John leaned over and said, “Go ahead and order a lobster, we’re celebrating!” Well, if we were celebrating, lobster must be like having cake for dinner, I thought. Sign me up! When the ridiculous red monsters were brought to the table, I watched as everyone dove in, cracking claws with gusto, melted butter dripping everywhere. All I could do was look at the giant bug on my plate. Someone eventually helped me crack it open and pull out some meat. As I sat chewing my little lump, my family looked to me expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting for my precocious verdict. I said it was delicious. I lied.

Suffering my way through most of it, I learned a fine lesson in peer pressure. Lobster is a delicacy! Lobster makes everyone happy! C’mon, everyone’s eating it! I thought lobster was rubbery, smelly, and had no flavor other than that of algae and butter. But clearly there was something wrong with me, because the mere mention of lobster caused adults to loll their heads and go “mmmmm,” evidently recalling cherished moments with their little red friends.

The crustacean that has transported you is most likely Homarus americanus. Although this species is found anywhere from the Canadian Maritimes down through the Carolinas, it is widely known as Maine lobster, due in no small part to Maine publicists. European lobsters, Homarus gammarus, are basically the same as the American, just smaller.

The American love affair with the lobster actually had a late start. Early settlers thought them too ugly to eat, and witnessed the Native Americans using them for field fertilizer and fish bait. The creatures were so plentiful that they could be plucked effortlessly from tide pools. They were considered “poverty food” and served to prisoners and indentured servants. In Massachusetts, servants were outraged and lobbied for a law that would limit their lobster meals to no more than three per week.

Some stories credit John D. Rockefeller for the change in lobster’s social status. Legend tells of a wayward pot of lobster stew that was destined for the servant’s table and somehow made it to the master’s tray. He fell in love, and the dish became part of his regular menu. And what’s good for John D. is good for everybody! In truth, it was the canning industry in the late 1800s that popularized lobster, bringing packed tins of meat to all corners of the globe. World War II gave another boost to the industry as lobster answered the increasing demand for protein-rich foods. In the later boom years, per-capita consumption increased and lobstermen saw increasing profits, along with mounting competition. The lobster industry was one of the first to recognize the need for protective guidelines and limitations on fishing practices.

Today, lobstering is a grueling, labor-intensive, and closely guarded profession. “Lobster gangs” along the East Coast, comprised of fishermen with particular skills or family ties, don’t necessarily maraud through the waters, but they do defend their territories. This not only ensures their communities’ livelihood, but helps prevent over-fishing of limited resources.

While some have dubbed lobster the “cockroach of the sea” for its indiscriminate scavenging, lobstermen simply call their catch “bugs,” which is no coincidence, as a lobster’s nervous system is most like that of a grasshopper (lobsters and insects both hail from the arthropod phylum). This means that they don’t feel pain in the way that humans do, which is good because boiling them alive is simply the best way to cook them. As for the supposed “scream” emitted when they are plunged in boiling water—that’s the air escaping from their shells, which can produce a high-pitched whistle. You are not sadistic, you are just hungry. Once plopped in the pot, all lobsters turn red, no matter their original color, which is most often a mottled dark blue shade, but can be yellow, orange, purple, or even half-and-half.

Once you buy a lobster, you can actually keep it around for a few days, provided it spends them in a cool moist environment. But do not put them in your bathtub thinking you are being nice—freshwater to a saltwater creature is like diesel in an unleaded car. And by all means, keep the rubber bands on the claws, not only for your own safety, but for the bug’s: Lobsters are quite territorial and can go cannibalistic in close quarters.

The real question is: To bib or not to bib? When it comes to savoring lobster, it’s easy to find restaurants serving up sparkly, funky, elaborate dishes—but I’d strongly recommend sticking with the preparation that best highlights the essence of lobster. In other words, go for the bug-on-a-plate. However, you can leave the bib off, as shelling needn’t be a massacre. Simply twist off the claws and use a cracker to expose the meat. Next, separate the tail from the body and remove the tail flippers (don’t forget the meat there.) Use a fork to push the tail meat out in one piece. Discard the sick black veiny thing running down the middle. Separate the top body shell from the underside by pulling them apart. You’ll notice a green substance called tomalley. Some people think it’s a lord-lovin’ delicacy and spread it on toast. I think it’s water-toxins processed through a prehistoric liver, but you be the judge. Finally, crack the underside down the middle and gnaw on the legs. To do all this in public, pick a reputable fish-house like McCormick & Schmick’s or the Oceanaire Seafood Room—or a stellar steakhouse such as Manny’s—where you’ll be among kindred spirits.

In my case, it took a simple New England-style clambake in college to bring me around. Amid the clams, the corn cobs, and the chowder, I snatched a morsel of white flesh that verily melted in my mouth. I couldn’t believe this was the same crusty animal that I had been shunning my whole life. While the mention of lobster still won’t put me into an ethereal trance, I do hold that first awakening bite close in memory. Since August is the perfect time for indulging summer food memories, place a lobster order with Coastal Seafoods, gather your friends, pop some beers, and toast one lovely bug.

In the heady days of summer, it is particularly easy to gaze out the office window and dream the Raspberry Dream. In the Raspberry Dream, you walk to your raspberry patch in the warm morning sunshine. The dewy grass brushes your lightly tanned skin as thrushes and cedar waxwings herald your arrival. The encumbered bushes verily toss their berries into your vintage, flea-market-find basket. As you make your way home, you begin to imagine all the jams and vinaigrettes that you will produce, eventually forming your own private label that will grow into a conglomerate that would make Martha envious.

Call it the American Dream, call it the Raspberry Dream, call it what you will—being your own boss means never having to be stuck in a cubicle on a blissfully warm afternoon. Of course, Raspberry Reality has to take into account pestilence, drought, anti-redberry diet fads, and hours upon hours of sweaty work during the hottest months. But somewhere between the dreamy berry patch where critters break into song, and the massive fields worked by migrant laborers for Driscoll’s in California or Mexico, the berry of inspiration waits for you. In this month, when sultry summer days make us all want to quit our jobs, why not turn to the raspberry patch for a little bit of guidance?

Raspberries have been prized for ages. Rubus idaeus is thought to have been named as such by the ancient Romans because it grew thickly on the slopes of Mount Ida in Crete (which is overrun with wild raspberries even today). As for their ruby nature, the Greeks believed that a mountain nymph, whilst picking raspberries to appease the gods, scratched her breast on the thorny bush and marked the berries for eternity. The “rasp” comes from the obsolete English word raspis and is thought to be a reference to the slightly hairy surface of the berry. Raspberries have also been known as hindberries because of their favor with deer, and caneberries, referring to the plant’s arching stem when it’s laden with fruit.

Supplementing the common red raspberry are white, yellow, purple, and black varieties—but a black raspberry is not the same as a blackberry, though they are from the same botanical family. Both fruits are composed of drupelets around a core; however, when picked, the raspberry leaves its core on the plant while the blackberry takes its along. The difference lies in the resulting softness and delicacy of the raspberry, whose fragile structure lends to it a juiciness the blackberry can only dream of. Some say that the berries love to be harvested, as the bush may yield bigger and plumper berries the more they are gathered through the season.

Raspberry plants are known as brambles (thanks to their membership in the rose family), and they have the thorns to prove it. Red raspberries tend to be hearty and aggressive, spreading easily and returning year after year with abundant crops. This characteristic makes them perfect for the Minnesota climate, where early and more fragile berries succumb to bad weather.

In fact, the area known as West Minneapolis back in the 1890s was known for its dairy farms, lake cabins, and rolling hills thriving with raspberry brambles. Berry farming became so important to the area that it inspired spin-off businesses like the Hopkins Fruit Package Company, which made the little berry boxes that cradled the fruit on its journey eastward. It also helped build the towns that make up the western metro area. For more than fifty years, berry farms created jobs for young people, often providing them housing as they relocated from far-off towns. These people stayed on after the growing season, started families, and set their roots in what became the thriving western suburbs of today.

During the Great Depression, the city of Hopkins threw a “Raspberry Day” picnic to help bolster community spirit. Everyone who came to the town center got a free bowl of raspberries. It was hoped that they would also share the warmth of a summer day, enjoy each other’s company—and spend a little hard-earned money with the vendors lining the streets. Do you feel the Raspberry Dream working? The erstwhile community picnic is now the Hopkins Raspberry Festival, replete with Raspberry Queens, pie-eating contests, the five-mile Raceberry Jam, a pig roast and more—ten full days’ worth of trimmings that give the raspberry its due and help us savor the great American summer.

After basking in the warmth of this festival, celebrating its seventieth year this month, your next stop should be a U-Pick. Also known as a PYO (Pick Your Own), the U-Pick offers a dose of reality with your Raspberry Dream. The Brambleberry Farm in Pequot Lakes is a tremendous place to roll up your sleeves and act like a farmer for a day (or maybe just an hour or two). Put in some work under the hot sun, and meditate on what it means that something so rewarding has to come with thorns. Before departing with the delicious fruits of your labor, check out what the Brambleberry gang has done with their dream—don’t leave without their award-winning jams, fresh herbs, or local honey. Closer to the Cities, the Afton Raspberry Company provides a Picker’s Patio where you can enjoy lunch after a morning of toil in the thicket.

If, by then, you’ve realized that dreaming the dream and working the dream are two different things, you might want to pop over to your local Linder’s outpost for a single raspberry plant that you can nurture and grow. For some people, dreaming the dream—just enjoying the possibilities of life—is enough.

Raspberry Cheers
Hopkins Raspberry Festival
July 8-18
(952) 931-0878
www.hopkinsraspberryfestival.com
Brambleberry Farm
4002 Davis St., Pequot Lakes, Minn.
(218) 568-8483
Mid-July through September; call ahead
Afton Raspberry Company
1421 Neal Ave. S., Afton, Minn.
(651) 436-7631
End of August through early October
Linder’s Garden Center
270 W. Larpenteur Ave., St. Paul
(651) 488-1927
www.linders.com
Café Latte (Raspberry Cream Torte pictured)
850 Grand Ave., St Paul
(651) 224-5687
www.cafelatte.com