The Rake Magazine

Category: Food and Drink

  • What I Saw at the Food & Wine Show

    The convention center was predictably packed for the Food and Wine show this weekend. I managed to skulk through the aisles and saw some good stuff:

    Top Bite: the Hope Creamery salted butter on a cracker. One simply beautiful, creamy bit of elegance.

    Thousand Hills cooked up some crazy-good grass-fed beef hotdogs and burgers. You can seriously taste a light, grassy flavor and the amount of omega-3’s are out of this world. This might be the easiest way to introduce grass-fed to your fam.

    A few smart ladies have formed the Droolin Moose which puts some kicky packaging with snackabe snacks. The malted milk boulders are huge and thickly triple dipped in really good, secret recipe chocolate. Their website won’t be up until March 3rd, but they do have a retail outlet.

    Barebecue, bbq, whatever you want to call it … was everwhere! Two standouts: Willingham’s dressed some shredded pork with a kicky sauce and Big Jake’s gave me a stingingly good meatball bathed in their bold sauce.

    Sipping chocolate is all the rage, but Legacy Chocolate’s Mayan Experience was the best … dark and sweetly earthy, with a slightly spicy burn on the back end.

    The restaurant booths were mobbed…Fhima’s new Zahtar had a throng waiting for their Moroccan stew … Common Roots had a creamy, wonderful cheese spread for bagel chips … always dig the beef jerky from Dixie’s … nice little tuna roll from Midori’s Floating World … Vescio’s has the most welcoming, homiest red sauce around.

  • Harvest Moon

    First of all, I swore that I would never move back home. I was city-bound and the suburbs could eat my dust, for all I cared. And I had a cute little house in Tangletown and lived a happy life with a 5-10 minute trip to an endless amount of food choices.

    Funny how life gets in the way of life.

    For many reasons that don’t need laundering in public, I ended up moving my family out to the area in which I grew up, within a mile and a half of my mother’s house. My first concern was that the frogs were louder than the busses of Nicollet. My second concern was the lack of good fried rice within a 20 minute drive. How on earth would I connect with this world of hockey-moms, mini-vans and Lunchables?

    As I am now accustomed to the sounds and workings of my suburban existence, I see benefits that I hadn’t seen before. Like the real proximity to fresh, local food. Way out here where 394 becomes a two-lane road, people have the land to grow stuff. Good stuff. If I head a little west I run into the Peterson’s pumpkin patch and road stand where they’ll chat you up about what you’re going to make with their produce, offer up recipe ideas and remember to ask you how it turned out the next time they see you.

    I have a friend who moved out here and was puzzled by the vegetable stand on the corner of her road. It seemed to be fully-stocked, but there was never anyone manning it. After passing it by for over a month, she finally stopped to see if someone would show up. Upon further examination of the stand, she realized that it worked on the honor system: take some veg, leave your money in the box. I’m thinking that’s not going to happen in the city.

    So with all these producers and land lovers, you’d think we have an awesome market. Well, we don’t … yet. What we do have is a focused and driven bunch of people who are working toward the creation of the Harvest Moon co-op. Their goal is to build an outlet for all the growers and producers in our area and points westward while creating a hub for the local community.

    They’ve found a man in Medina who is growing organic apples on his property and selling them to Whole Foods. Apparently, his apples are shipped to the Whole Foods HQ in Texas before they can come back to the Minnesota stores. Harvest Moon is hoping to give his apples a little closer home. Smartly, they’re working with the Crow River chapter of the Sustainable Farmers Association, the ones who put on the kick-ass Minnesota Garlic Festival. Many of these farms are the ones supplying the downtown chefs.

    It sounds like a dream to me and of course I’ve already signed up. They’re still in the planning phases and are trying to build membership, which can be hard without a sexy building to prove their intentions. But if you’re interested, there’s a pot-luck at a local church on March 30th, because that’s the way we roll. Leave your urban desires behind and bring a dish to pass, maybe you’ll find a surprising and soul-satisfying connection.

  • Citrus Sensation

    Some people have gone out of their way to make a perfectly good Fuji apple smell and taste like a grape. They call it a Grapple. There are also those who feel that plums should taste like apricots and that apricots should taste like plums, hence the booming pluot and aprium markets. Needless to say, when I first heard of Meyer lemons, I assumed they were a breed of fancy Frankenlemons created at some technologically advanced Meyer Institute of Frilly Fruit. Like a fool, I snubbed them.

    But they were hard to ignore, as the “Meyer lemon” moniker began popping up on menus everywhere. If chefs were going to pedigree a dish with this name, I figured this citrus was worth a try. It was only when I tasted the faint orangey sweetness and breathed in the floral scent that I understood what a contribution this fruit was.

    In 1901, a man named Frans Meijer left Amsterdam for America, where he became Frank Meyer. Working for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, he traveled the world in search of new plants to introduce to his adopted homeland. During a trip to China, Meyer found a common potted ornamental plant that bore a small citrus fruit resembling a cross between a lemon and an orange. While the plant had most likely been cultivated for over four hundred years, this year marks its centennial in America, having been introduced here in 1908 as the Meyer lemon. (Intriguingly, while traveling the Yangtze on a riverboat on a subsequent trip to Asia, Meyer fell overboard and drowned under circumstances that the USDA still notes as “a mystery and source of speculation.”)

    Meyer lemons, which are available from November to April, never hit the big time as a commercially viable fruit product. A virus nearly wiped out the trees in the 1940s. Even though a hardier Meyer Improved strain was developed, the fruits remained thin-skinned, and too tender and juicy to withstand rigorous commercial handling and shipping without costly waste. And yet, find me a food that has been deemed lacking in mass appeal, and I’ll show you the next great ingredient with chef-appeal.

    Alice Waters and her ilk regarded this small zesty fruit as a gem, and the rest is all talk shows and cookbooks. Chefs and home cooks have found it to be an amiable companion to many dishes that a regular lemon might overwhelm. Although no one really knows, it’s the suspected cross with a mandarin orange that gives this citrus a new depth of flavor. Personally, I can’t help but think of cardamom whenever I cut into a Meyer.

    To get over the shame of my initial snubbing, I threw myself into a wholehearted culinary exploration of this fruit. Starting simply, I squeezed a tiny section onto a Malpeque oyster and discovered a new balance of coppery, salty, tart, and sweet. Marmalades and baked goods made with Meyers were beautiful, but almost too easy, too girl-next-door. So I tossed zest into pasta with salmon; I braised chicken and artichokes with whole quarters; I made a zippy version of gremolata, which I proceeded to eat on pork and beef—and then bread and anything leftover in the fridge.

    In the end, what I have added to my larder is a flavor that is tart but not sharp, luscious but edgy, and able to play to both savory and sweet dishes. Hardly worthy of a snub.

  • Text Your Tuna

    If you’re one of those people who is annoyed by restaurant texters, thumbs madly pumping away on their phone while they ignore the others at their table, relax. They may be saving the ocean.

    The Blue Ocean Institute has launched FishPhone the first sustainable seafood text messaging service. Embracing technology, Blue Ocean understands where the important decisions are made: in front of the menu. How often, when you’re in the whirl of a spectacular evening out, can you recall the specifics of your eco-training? Especially with seafood, a vast arena of eating that fluctuates with seasons and trends. No one can memorize the status of the thousands of sea critters.

    Enter the text. Simply send a text to 30644 with the message FISH followed by the name of the species you’d like to research. They’ll send you a text back with that species status: Green, Yellow, or Red.

    I sent FISH lingcod and received this: caught off US West Coast (YELLOW) some environmental concerns; bottom trawling damages habitat; HEALTH ADVISORY: High Mercury. … at this point I might choose to find out if the restaurant knows how the fish was caught, many chefs won’t buy anything trawl caught.

    When I tried to check out branzino: Sorry, we haven’t reviewed that species yet. Be sure to check spelling. We continually add species to our database so check back often! … Branzino is actually just the Italian name for European Sea Bass which is pretty common and well-regulated.

    For monkfish: (YELLOW) some environmental concerns; try US farmed catfish, US farmed rainbow trout, or US farmed tilapia instead … I like the recommendations, but you’re out of luck if they’re not offered on the menu.

    Additionally, for those with web-enabled devices, you can download Blue Ocean’s Guide to Ocean Friendly Seafood from fishphone.org.

  • Day Off/On

    Today is one of those odd holidays. Some people have the day off, others must work. Restaurants are clearly open, but school is closed. There’s no real celebration or gift-giving or feast involved, but because it’s an election year, maybe we should spend some time thinking about President’s Day.

    Or maybe we should buy a German sausage rug.

    Or we could check out what Andrea Strong has to say about the New York food scene on her new blog.

    We’d be remiss if we didn’t take a moment to explore our feelings about cilantro.

    It’s important to weigh in on dark vs. milk, no?

    Then we’ll have to make lunch for the crazies.

    Plan your Spring Break.

    Get whisk wise.

    And finally, really get into the nitty gritty of presidentialism.

    Maybe you can top the day off by attempting Martha Washington’s cake recipe from Mount Vernon.

     

  • V-Day Food Flix

    Being married to the restaurant industry means that, for me, today is not that special. My entire adult life I’ve either worked the night or sat home while my sig other does.

    My own special tradition includes take-out and a food movie. I’m so very happy to squish into the couch with a bucket of chicken fried rice from Kindoh, a giant pork sandwich from Scotty’s or the Toto (extra goat cheese) from Punch. No, I don’t want to try new foods tonight, bring home something cutting edge from some fancy pants new chef. I’m not up for lust, I want good old reliable and satisfying loooooove.

    Top Food Flicks

    Big Night … can’t get enough of this brilliant movie. I think every dinner party I throw lives in the shadow of their Louis Prima fete.

    Eat Drink Man Woman … I’m utterly jealous of the food that is wrought by such humble tools.

    Tortilla Soup … a Latino version of Eat Drink Man Woman. Not bad.

    Chocolat … Depp, duh.

    Like Water for Chocolate … the book is better, but the magic is still there.

    Tampopo … Japanese film in the Seven Samurai tradition, except with a ramen shop.

    Soylent Green … it’s made of people!

    Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (new) … ALL HAIL TIM BURTON!

    Dinner Rush … even pasta can be deadly!

    Soul Food … truth will out at Sunday dinner.

    Moonstruck … I like this movies because it seems like they are always eating or drinking. I crave the egg in the toast hole.

  • Of Ice-fishing, Lust, and BBQ

    Speaking of running into ex-crushes …

    There I was at the DMV, getting my license renewed when I thought I recognized the guy sitting in the row behind me. Because I was thoroughly primped for my photo-op (this time I swear it’s going to be a good pic), I felt a little bit psyched that fate had dealt me the chance meeting on that particular day.

    The guy, who for good reason we’ll call Guy, had distracted my world for most of my senior year in high school. I think I was a game to him. He was dark and slightly broody and always held himself a little away from the rest of us. Guy was cocky and arrogant, but I seemed to be able to break him down and make him laugh.

    We’d flirt at parties. There was clearly an electric charge between us, and we’d end up making out in the corner or behind the garage. Just a lot of heavy breathing and smooching, nothing too nasty. But other than that, he’d pretty much ignore me. We all hung together in a rather big pack, but if there were a lot of others around, I was wallpaper to him.

    It drove me crazy. I would drive by his house at night just to see if I could glimpse him in his window. At school, I would go out of my way to walk a different hallway just to stroll by him, but then I’d be torn as to whether I should acknowledge him or just breeze by. The whole thing was secret and sad and thrilling and tormentous.

    Then one night, a bunch of us decided to party at a cluster of ice-houses on the lake. I had decided to play it cool, and Guy was working hard to be charming. This pleased me. After a few rounds of cards and quarters, some decided to make a food run. Guy suggested we stay and watch for fish.

    What ensued was some serious mashing and fumbling on the smelly ice-house couch. Things were getting hot and heavy and I remember feeling almost lifted away by warmth of his hands on my body. But I was a good girl, and I had pride and expectations. Part of me also wondered, if he achieved his ulitmate goal would all the excitment and anticipation end? Would I be full-time wallpaper? He tried a few more earnest advances but when met with my rebuffs he delivered a statement that I’ve never forgotten "C’mon Steph, I can’t help it, I’m a guy."

    That was that.

    With lightening speed I re-adjusted my wardrobe and stepped outside just as the others returned with food. Loud and laughing, we jammed ourselves into one of the larger houses and ate bbq like sloppy cannibals. The sauce was hot and tart and I remember feeling like I could eat a thousand ribs. Refusing to reveal my bitterness, I made sure to be very hilarious and had everyone nearly shooting bbq sauce from their noses. Guy sat three people away from me and I never met his gaze.

    By the time I’d worked up my courage at the DMV, I turned around and he was gone. It probably wasn’t even Guy anyway.

    That night I drove to Tonka Grill & BBQ in Spring Park to grab a couple slabs of ribs for take-home. The smokehouse smell starts pulling at you the minute you leave your car. Their sauce is sweet and tart with a vinegar kick that I appreciate, the ribs meaty and generous. The stacked pork sandwich is nothing to scoff at, either. It’s a small, local, family-run joint and they’ll offer you a free cup of coffee and chat you up while you wait for your order. Or, you can just stare out the front wall of windows at Lake Minnetonka, a vast white expanse dotted with an ice-house here and there.

  • Souper Tuesday

    After the all the caucusing, I’m sure you’ll want to burrow into the couch with a piping hot bowl of intellegence and comfort. With each spoonful you’ll feel better, listen a little less to the talking head on the TV and a little more to your inner voice. Soup is egalitarian, soup doesn’t make snide remarks, soup is there for YOU. Saddle up, get your stock bubbling, it’s going to be a long year.

    For the Hillarites, maybe a hearty chicken noodle soup, just like mom used to make.

    For the Obamicans, a rich yet humble wild rice soup to take the edge off the rollicking-crazy changes life is bringing.

    McCainsters might enjoy a little Algerian Jary soup which will give you much needed zing while ensuring long life and good health.

    Mittmen, something with ketch-up? Or this creamy, spicy, crabby soup that tries to cover all the bases?

    And for those that still heart Huckabee, how about a hunter’s stew that’s as tough as Chuck Norris.

    Undecided? Eat Senate Bean Soup every day until you can make a decision.

  • Super Crap

    Here’s what some people don’t understand: you can be a food freak without being a food snob. If ever there was a testament to that, it would be the feast of SuperBowl Sunday.

    The issue isn’t the guacamole, it’s the cachet of the guacamole. Hot-wing away, my friend, but consider the sauce. You won’t find fois and foam at my house on Sunday, but you will find seasoned onion strings and home-made potato chips. But that’s just because I’m bored by the game so I focus on the food, shocker.

    Here’s a hit-list, if you’re so inclined:

    Bon Appetit did shout from on-high: French fries are the IT-snack. Make sure you have a kick-ass hood system or open a lot of windows if you plan to fry. If not, you could always go for the oven-roasted verstion.

    Legend has it that Hot-Wings were invented in Buffalo, NY at the Anchor Bar. To me, it’s all about the sauce: you could slather up a hunk of wood and I’d happily chow down if the sauce were hot and tight enough. My recipe is a lot like this one, but I use Cholula and add Sriracha. It’s all about your personal hotness.

    As for guacamole, I’m a minimalist. Coarsely mash a bunch of avocado, add chopped onions, add chopped cilantro, sprinkle with dried chilies, add a squeeze of lime juice and salt and pepper at will. No tomatoes, no fresh jalapenos (they take away from the sweet, creaminess and you lose the avocado).

    Seriously, home-made chips are so easy, and then you can control the flavoring. You’ll actually taste more than just salt! Malt vinegar is a favorite, toss them with the hot sauce when they come out of the oven, throw some blue cheese on top when they’re almost done. And then dip, dip or dip.

    One of the easiest and biggest crowd pleasers is almost criminally simple. Wrap a block of havarti in puff pastry, entirely enclosing it like a giant ravioli. Throw it in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes or until it becomes golden brown and puffy. Take it out and drizzle it with Ames Farm honey. Cut in and prepare for an oozing mess of yumminess.

    Onion strings are uber-addictive. I season the flour with a lot of garlic powder and dried tarragon or just Zatar seasoning.

  • Three Dozen Plus One

    Today is my birthday.

    I’m not afraid of coming birthdays, and I don’t intend to stop the count-up. Despite all of its challenges (living with teenagers, IRS tax audit, five year old with pneumonia), through the mud and the stars, life on the whole is pretty good.

    So today is MY day, the one day a year that I book solidly to do whatever I want (sans Fiji, of course). And because this is the last year I’ll have a five year old in tow, I plan to have some silly fun.

    To start the day properly, we’re off to Isles Bun & Coffee. I just want to live there for twenty minutes and watch them roll and bake and smear the living daylights out of the best sticky buns on the planet. Jake goes in for the puppy-dog tails.

    Then we’ll stop at the Walker, where we like to look at stuff. Truthfully, Jake likes to imagine that we’re in a space ship and run up and down the halls more than actually ponder significant pieces. We wager on who could duplicate the art better from our home craft-bucket.

    Next, it’s off to Wild Rumpus, because by law you have to pet an odd-looking chicken on your birthday. Look it up, I swear.

    Before we go to lunch, we must have our dessert. Just a quick cup at Sebastian Joe’s. For me it’s the triple threat of Pavarotti, Oreo and Raspberry Chocolate that brings me back to my heady twenties. Sharing a house-apartment off of 19th and Franklin, we spent many thick summer nights sitting on the front steps drinking beer and eating SebbyJ’s ice cream. That was a wonderful life.

    Our actual lunch will be a world buffet: strolling the narrows of the Midtown Global Market, we will snack and sample as many different countries as we can. Jake is partial to calamari from La Sirena Gorda (Mommy, I’m eating Squidward!) while I know I’ll start with a gordita from Los Ocampo and end with some fries from Andy’s Garage.

    Before we head Westward again, I have to stop at Patina to pick out my yearly treat: locally made jewelry and a sassy bag.

    Then it’s homeward bound for the 7th grader’s basketball game and a good round of Mom-Chat "Do you think the referendum will pass? Are you doing all-day kindergarten next year? Where are the kids going for Sadie Hawkin’s this year?" All part and parcel.

    Saving the fancy restaurant dinner for this weekend, today will be capped off with a dinner cooked by my personal favorite, non-celebrity Chef Hubby. My requested meal is simple, but decadent. What I want to eat tonight (for this traditionally sub-zero event) is a creamy, unctuous pasta, namely orecchiette with a thick parmigiano-reggiano sauce topped with just a smattering of rosemary-laced bread crumb. It’s the ultimate mac n’ cheese.

    This perfect day will be finished with all my nuggets crammed around me on the couch while we eat ice cream from the carton and watch American Idol. Not bad for three-dozen plus one.