day 93 – cape cod, ma

Sisterlove and i had planned on spending this week exploring the homeland of our childhood heroine, anne of green gables —- five days on the wee tiny prince edward island, tucked into the farthest eastern corners of the Canadian experience. We were going to take horse drawn carriage rides and old timey photos, eat lots of Canadian snacks and drink strong heady beers, and spend hours replaying our favorite scenes from all the 7 books.  Can you even IMAGINE a better way to spend a summer ‘vacation’?!?!?

But after a series of horribly unfortunate events, including one passport being stolen in broad daylight whilst washing clothes at a NYC Laundromat, plans inevitably have changed and the winds of life have brought us gallivanting to cape cod…

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cape cod — known for its lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous air, its gorgeous coastline, and its scrumptious namesake libation – the cape codder (which also happens to be my most favorite drink-of-choice, the vodka cranberry). And while the traffic on 95 north was nothing short of atrocious, arriving at cape cod was like stepping back in time —- people are kind, they ride bikes, and they wave from front porch swings. All these transplanted new yorkers, who run from their snack carts to get just three more precious minutes in a the computer screen on Thursdays, take deep breaths here on Friday nights. A wee little spot of respite in the crazy busy new England corridor. Perhaps no anne of green gables, but PLENTY of spots for ‘vacation’ adventures….

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And so sisterlove and i have filled our days with seemingly endless culinary adventures (i’ve forced her to wake up every day at 8 am so as to not miss a minute of traipsing around these here unknown parts. While a true trooper, i know she is secretly plotting her well-timed revenge…) so if you are EVER planning a trip to the cape cod / martha’s vineyard area, here are some scrumptious hotspots NOT TO BE MISSED:

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1)      The lobster ice cream at ben and bills chocolate emporium in oak bluffs on marthas vineyard. Ok, i’m not going to lie, it kind of tastes like lobster death — cold and salty and really really buttery, the lobster is so frozen and hard and the ice cream is just kinda odd tasting — but you are in marthas vineyard for goodness sakes. And they serve LOBSTER ice cream!  Where else on this PLANET do you think you are gonna find this opportunity!?!?! Grab a scoop and a sense of adventure and just enjoy the craziness

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2)      Crab cakes overlooking the ruggedly fabulous coastline at faiths seafood shack and sushi bar on the cliffs at Aquinnah (yes, you know you are in marthas vineyard when there is a literal shack hand rolling sushi with lobster they just caught and steamed. But DANG its super tasty…). now, truth be told, I have been afraid of crab cakes ever since my day on the open crab waters with captain bill on his boat in smith island. I mean, there is just NO WAY any crab cake will ever taste as perfectly crabby, as sweetly fresh, as those little maryland monsters did…. But out here, at faiths, we snacked on a pretty close second —- TONS of meat, held together with little bits of roasted red peppers and a dollop of mayo. They tasted lovely, but the scenery is honestly what sells this place — amazing ocean views and even amazing-er sunsets at dusk…

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3)      Monday nights at lobster-on-the-lawn at st barnabas episcopal church in falmouth. I’m telling you, this is WORTH staying an extra night for Picture the entire wee town of Falmouth coming out to the vastly green church lawn, plopping down blankets and pulling out bocce games, forking over 15 bucks for a ginormous lobster roll/pickle in a bag/salty cape cod chips/icy soda/and a slice of lemon meringue pie all served in a brown paper lunch sack, and humming away to the tunes of the church organ piping away in the background. This, my friends, is true community on cape cod. Waiting until Monday, when all the tourists have gone home and local life has returned to its normal pace, falmouth locals catch up on the weekends gallivants, check in to see how big the grandkids have gotten, and gossip about husbands heart surgeries. There is zero air of pretention — no one flies in on private helicopters or pops hundred dollar bottles of wine, no one has secret service detail or white glove tableside service. In fact, there are very few tables. There are just families, who for generations have lived or summered in this little harbor town, eating lobster out of saran wrap and loving every minute of it.

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You could spend a lifetime on cape cod — in fact, many many do. And while it is known for its ‘touristy’ vibe, there are pockets of loveliness hidden in every corner – places where one can pop off the beaten path and find refuge from the masses, places where the sounds of the ocean drown out the sounds of the tourists, and places where creamy lobster is served to those who really know ‘everybodys name’ in small squares of crumpled plastic wrap.

day 89 – new york city, take two

In so many ways, we can measure the timeline-of-our-lives by the trends that surround us. For me:

Elementary school: jelly shoes that caused your feet to bleed (the lessons we teach our girl children about fashion at such a dang early age…), slap bracelets, scrunchies, the limited too

Middle school: horribly tragic looking oversized flannel mens shirts, writing on your chuck taylor sneakers with ball point pens (there must have been other trends in middle school. I just don’t think i was cool enough to know about them. Algebra and acne took up most of my time.)

High school: the Jennifer aniston haircut, those llbean tote bags with your initials embroidered on them (now this trend was HUGE for us at the northern-virginia-all-girls-school… i’m open to feedback that will couch this as a somewhat localized trend…)

And at the same time, running parallel to the pop culture trends in fashion and hair and boutique jewelry, there was a also a wee quiet foodie trending process occurring — trendy things like 1980’s fat free everything, whole grain pasta, diet sodas, atkins mania, organic growing, farmers markets, urban chickens…

Some trendy things should be buried whilst still alive and not resurrected no matter how strongly they pull. Polyester pants are a case in point. Mullets, fanny packs, and fat-free-cheese all fit easily into this category as well… But there are some trends that CHANGE YOUR LIFE. For me, this summer, those would be spanx (i cannot TELL YOU how fabulous these breath-takingly-tight-spandex-sucker-in-ers are after 90 days of eating your way around the country… a TREASURE TROVE!), and food carts.

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Now don’t get me wrong, i do truly enjoy sitting down in an actual-brick-and-mortar air-conditioned restaurant, having a server pour me a glass of ice water and write my order down on a wee steno pad, and being able to use the restroom whenever i so choose. Fabulous service plus fabulous services are a real treat, especially in the dead heat of summer in breeze-less manhattan. but sometimes restaurants get stale, and/or over-crowded, and/or somewhat boring in their menu selections. For those days when you are willing to brave the heat and the streets of midtown or the east village or red hook, food carts are TOTALLY the answer…

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Living in small-mountain-town-virginia, we don’t really have food served from carts (although i think i did see the first cart-like-spot just a few days before leaving town, but it only seemed to serve hot dogs – mere childs-play in the realm of food-cart-possibilities.) We have crepes served through a hole in the wall, but no carts. And yet carts are EVERYWHERE now — from coffee in Kalispell to pizza in Portland, people are bringing their extreme-and-creative culinary talents to the back half of wee airstream trailers and creating food dynasties. To date, i have snacked on  the following treats served from the back of a cart: crab-rangoon, banana crepes, chicken-on-a-stick, falafel, rotisserie-ed pork-loin, oatmeal ice cream, truffled pizza… and, as of yesterday, bbq pulled pork on a waffle and jamacian jerk chicken.

High quality cart-food is somewhat similar across the u.s. — really creative, really fast, limited in choices but abundant in flavors. Food is hot and cheap. Chefs are innovative and envelope-pushing — a luxury you have when your only overhead is an electric outlet and the monthly trailer payment. You will find creations being served out of the side of a cart wayyyyyyy before you could imagine them working on a michelin-rated dining room menu.

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But while the food is so similar, what amazes me is the striking difference in the community that surrounds the cart-grazing — you cross the country and everything changes. Take Portland. Carts are ubiquitous with the foodie scene — they are set up in pods of 10-to-12 divergently different flavor-serving carts around the city, are parked in permanent lots, and all surround a central ‘island’ of picnic tables. People come to their favorite carts every day. they order. They pay. And then they sit down at a table. Sometimes with friends, but often alone. And they linger. They chat with new acquaintances. They share stories and listen to conversations and make odd new friends. the carts are simply a tool for social gathering permission.

Then drive three thousand miles to new york. Carts are also amazingly yummy. And they are slowly-but-surely popping up all over the boroughs. But they are placed randomly on busy street corners where every 6 seconds you are nervous for you life as a taxi nearly pops the curb coming 80 miles an hour. People run to get in long lines, stand silently (or type voraciously on their i-phones) while waiting to order. Food is hurriedly (and horridly) packed into sytrofoam take-away containers and the masses quickly make their way back to their skyscraper office buildings. Now i didn’t follow anyone inside, but i’m willing to bet they are not running back to beautifully-decorated-light-filled-break-rooms to sit around for a 45 minute break to chat with friends about upcoming soccer games or last nights episode of so-you-think-you-can-dance. In new york, time is a luxury. people simply run. Everywhere. Food, even yummy creative innovative food from carts, is a means to an end. A quick path towards full-ness. It makes me sad to think about all that they are slowly missing out on…

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so in light of the food cart mania, i’m pushing a new trend — fast food slow. Fabulous fast food, served slowly and savored even more slowly — a tiny 30-minute break from the crazy world we have created of unattainable deadlines and insanely unreachable goals. A breather to fill us.

One smothered waffle at a time.

day 88 – new york city, ny

Todays quest –

to brave the boiling heat to find the most scrumptious meatball in manhattan…

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(i adore new york city most of the time, but i get terrified when i leave manhattan, or even when i have to go off the grid in lower manhattan…. but today sisterlove and i fearlessly froliced in alphabet city and the lower east side which was full of streets-with-real-names-instead-of-alphabetic -symbols, but i was in no mood to actually cross a bridge-tunnel-ferry to traverse a brand-new-borough… i know, i know, i’m sure they have their fair share of scrumptious meatballs too, but today was just too dang hot for a journey towards the unknown…)

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Things to remember when setting out on a meatball manhunt:

-          Meatballs are often made of the less-than-choice parts of the cow/pig/turkey/tofurkey. Do not be afraid of ofal or feet or other parts ground up inside the succulent balls.

-          Meatballs do a whole meal make-eth. Trying to have four-to-five meatballs meals in one day runs incredibly close to being a protein overload.

-          Meatball restaurants, like their savory snacks within, are a tiny package with a big punch. Be ok waiting in line – the wait is TOTALLY worth the sweat dripping down the back of your silken summery dress.

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So the new york magazine put together a list of the eight best meatball places in the big city. strangely enough, most of them centered around the uber-trendy-kinda-hipster lower east side neighborhood…who would have EVER guessed that the oh-so-humble-meatballs was so happenin’ right now?!? And so from 10 to 5, sisterlove and i skedaddled from one winning joint to the next, savoring subs and scooping up singles and stopping only every-now-and-then to guzzle a diet coke or duck into a bodega to cool off in the arctic a/c blasts.

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Things that we so-dang-professionally-decided make meatballs truly amazing:

-          Tenderness is key. Don’t manhandle the meat to the point it’s compacted death.

-          Bathing the beauties in sauce is vital. Do not be afraid to smother the little gems with a spicy/salty/gooey glaze.

-          If you cover it in cheese, they will come.

-          One meatball is never enough. two are just a culinary tease. meatballs are made to be eaten by the foot-full —- on a sub roll, or tossed over braised greens, one must make the tummy-space for a good half-dozen of the spherical nuggets of goodness…

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At the end of the day, we had our fill of the slow-cooked-italian-wonders. With stops at four restaurants, and one tragically closed cart, our vote goes out to the new york magazine for being totally spot on — not a failure-of-taste-or-smell-or-yumminess in sight.

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But at the very end, it was the un-listed meatball that may have actually taken-the-cake — artfully presented with an old-school-pizzeria-kraft-grated-cheese-shaker on the top floor of a hole-in-the-wall midtown bar, the meatballs split with an old-lost-friend were the sleeper hit. No ny-times publicity. No shiny awards covering the walls. No pomp, or circumstance, or downtown pretention. Just fabulous ambiance, fabulous friends (both old and new!), and freaking-fabulously-tender meatballs served by the mound-ful…

day 85 – columbus, oh

“ that whoever could make two ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a pot of ground where only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind, and do more essential service to his country, than the whole race of politicians put together” – j.swift

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To drive through ohio, you would think we might be precariously close to running low on congressman.

Corn. As far as the eye can see and the watermelon-seed-spitter can spit. And in mid july, that corn is dang high —- corn mazes and corn festivals and corn-u-copias pop up every quarter mile — reminding each and every passer-through that corn reigns supreme in the midwest. From corn-fed football linemen to creamy-corn-casserole, corn is the centerpiece of most ohio summer tables – glowing sunflower yellow and glistening with a buttery sheen.

You cant drive along the backroads of central ohio and not stop at a tented-pick-up-truck to grab a bakers dozen of the husked ears (the adorable wee children that lure you in with smiles and handmade signs are enough to draw even the most hardened of drivers-by). The smell alone of roasting cobs and buttery schmears gets ya every single time.

and so to celebrate the multitude of maize, we had a corn party (poor friend Hannah mistakenly heard ‘porn’ party — you can only imagine how confused she must have been as she tried to wrap her brain around that one….).

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Corn bread – check.

Corn and black bean dip – check.

Corn cakes – check.

Roasted veggies with baby corn – done.

Chicken breasts marinated in jalapeño and corn juice – who would have ever thunk?! (but they tasted AMAZING and were super tender!)

And for dessert? Crunch-n-munch, obvously – the mecca of all sweet corn-ish treats!

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I’m of the persuasion that the best things come in small packages (this could be from a lifetime of always being the smallest package around…always being the first in line on school picture day and the last picked during gym-class-dodge-ball…always having jeans drag on the ground under my keds and coat sleeves serve as both arm covering and mittens… whatever the reason, at nearly 30, i’m ok embracing the ‘small package’ mantra…)… so i made wee tiny corn muffins with goats cheese ‘frosting’ and a little candied bacon shard. One bite wonders.

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And when everyone went out to play cornhole, i stealthily licked all the goats cheese off the top of those little gems left on the table. Cause while i had been so looking forward to our corn party for months, after bellying-up to a table laden with so many corn-rich treats, at the end of the night all i really wanted was salty-crunchy-bacon and creamy-smooth-goats-cheese…

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So maybe you can have too much of a good thing? Maybe you can overdose on even your most favorit-est of flavors? And maybe that’s why locally-grown-treats cycle through seasons — making us wait months and month for that morsel of miraculous munch, reminding us that the best treats come in the smallest of packages — one tiny week of sweeter-than-honey-strawberries, ten short days of cherries-so-succulent-you-could-just-cry, and only-one-month-a-year of bi-colored-corn that simply melts in your mouth.

For that moment of culinary glory, i’ll happily wait another 365 days…

day 83 – bardstown, ky

When you walk into any distillery, the first thing you smell is the sweet-yet-sticky aroma of warming liquor. When you walk into a bourbon distillery, the first thing you smell is sweet, deep, smokey bouquet of both spicy liquor and burning firewood (this burning smell is quite terrifying at first to the bourbon-virgin, as for one terrible fleeting second i had flashes of my impending death as the entire 9 story warehouse made of antique cherry and French oak went up in a plume of red-hot-flames… luckily the trusty tour guide shared with us that bourbon barrels are simply flash-charred on the inside to create that lovely golden amber color and that horrid burnt flavor in the aging clear liquor that bourbon-aficionados adore.  Whew.)

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This smell of brewing alcohol permeating from the walls of cooling rooms proves just as true for the deep cabernet caves in napa as it does for this Kentucky bourbon warehouse. For from the barrels of the spirit-of-choice rises what vintners and distillers call ‘the angels share’ — that little bit of product that naturally evaporates out of the porous oak barrels and fills the dark holding spaces with an intoxicatingly sweet aroma.

Like us mortal humans, i guess the angels like their liquid libation, too

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Yet while the making of wine is somewhat of a eurpoean adventure (just ask those bourdeaux makers in bourdeaux france!), bourbon is truly an american phenomenon (although the name is somewhat of a stolen French term —- what is now the gorgeously rolling hills of Kentucky was once a part of the far western edge of Virginia. The county of land in which the new American settlers had been making their corn mash alcohol was given the name ‘bourbon’ in honor of the French whose assistance with winning the war of independence from the british proved vital. Thus, as distillers branded their barrels of their homemade whiskey to be sent upriver to northern markets, they included the name ‘bourbon whiskey’ to mark their specific geography. and tada — America’s ‘spirit’ was born…). we grow corn. we grow barley. and lord knows we grow wheat. mix, measure, and mash. boil, beat, and brew. in burnt barrels and windblown warehouses, bourbon comes to life. strong as turpentine, and hot as hell – bourbon can warm the coldest night and soften the hardest of blows. a milk-curdling-plaything for those who work hard and play harder.

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And yet like wine, bourbon is a drink of families. Generations after generations (some go back as far as 8 generations!) have been brewing corn whiskey in the Kentucky midlands – guarding deep held secrets and techniques to carefully separate their drink from their neighbors down stream. Some char their barrels for 40 seconds. Others for 42. Some age for 5 years and others for nearly 7. Some pray to their barrels and some sing to their barrels and i’m sure some even cry to their barrels. And all the while, families have grown and formed and changed and come together around a common drink. And thus, for centuries, with eachother, and with the angels, they share their bounty —- be they with crabs in maryland or chiles in new mexico, american familes have shaped their lives and their liveliehoods for generations around the foods and beverages they craft with their own closely-knitted hands.

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On a gorgeous porch, overlooking the bluegrass-covered-appalachian-mountains, it seems like a pretty good deal…

day 81 – bloomington, in

Things that Bloomington, Indiana and Lhasa, Tibet have in common:

Relatively many people packed into a relatively small space

A somewhat densely packed town surrounded by miles and miles of untouched and rather uninhabited farm land

The hometown of a relative of the dalai lama

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(having never actually been to Tibet, there might be tons more similiarities. My wee imagination, coupled with photos from the national geographic magazines that pepper the coffee table, seem to only be able create these three simple links. Feel free to share more connections if you have them! And, if you know of a way that this comparative-eastern-religions-major can get to Tibet without having to fly in perpetual fear of falling out of the sky for nearly 20 hours, please please PLEASE also share that nugget of info!!!)

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Yes. You read that correctly. While there are seemingly few connections between Tibet and Indiana that naturally pop into ones mind, Bloomington (a fabulous small town that serves as the home of indiana university) plays host to some of the most amazing aspects of Tibetan culture – the peace-loving-professor-brother of the current dalai lama, and authentic Tibetan cuisine. Founded in 1987, the snow lion was one of only two Tibetan restaurants in the whole of the united states when it originally opened its doors to the central Indiana population — and now, only some twenty years later, the country is literally covered in Tibetan and Himalayan cuisine shops selling everything from fried goat dumplings to yaks milk pudding.

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Like i said yesterday, i like big cities. One reason i think this is so is because i LOVE spicy cuisine — the hotter, the better. chili sauce and hot garlic paste and ghost chile powder might rank right up there with cheese and ice cream as my favorite food groups. And while i will give ANY Chinese/thai/japanese/korean restaurant a try, normally its hard to find super spicy southeast asian snacks in small-town-america (seriously, the sweet and sour chicken from the take out place down the street in wee little Charlottesville is just ALWAYS sweet as corn syrup…where’s the kick?!?!). so, even though bloomington is certainly not a big city, as i entered the snow lion, i was just hoping-beyond-hope that i’d find steaming plates of curried foods, toasty treats heated to the point of no return, leaving me begging for a refill of the diet coke and yet reaching for just-one-more-bite of the uber-spicy fare.

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Unfortunately, twas not the case.

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The food at the snow lion was mediocre to say the most. Pretty bland. Stuffed full of frozen bagged veggies that might have also recently shown up on an elementary school cafeteria tray. Certainly not curried, and certainly not spicy. As far as taste, pretty disappointing.

But if i’ve learned anything, its rarely that the taste of the food that is the primary importance. Who cares that the food in the national park service tastes like crap when the scenery just steps outside the lodge is a momma elk nudging her newborn son into his first steps? Does it really matter that the slice of deep dish pizza is overly greasy and dripping onto your chin when you are egging on the cubbies to finally win a home game? and Tibetan cuisine, made by relatives of the leader of the Tibetan nation and prepared in a ramshackle building in the middle of NOWHERE Indiana, doesn’t have to taste spectacular. The amazing aspect is just that it is there.  I guess, in the end, we eat not to simply titillate our taste buds, but instead to have an experience that connects us with something bigger than ourselves — to our friends and our world, to nature and to nurturance, to ourselves and our community.

Even without the blazing hot ghost chili, the snow lion totally succeeded…

day 79 – chicago

For as long as i can remember, i have loved big cities (we even have a tragic old picture of me wearing a fleece beret and embroidered cape (fashion never has been my gift!) at 9 years old beaming in pride while standing in front of the skating rink at Rockefeller center. I’m sure i never even donned a pair of blades for fear of rumpling my finery, but just being in the presence of urban living was enough to take me right over the edge…) — and while growing up we were always suburban-slash-rural people, the lure of big cities has always been quite strong (yes, yes, i did choose to attend college in the colonial capital of the new world…call it a fluke, i guess…)

paris, london, manhattan — all cities that make me eager to round each corner, peek in each store, taste and savor each and every new morsel.

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Needless to say, big-city-chicago provides quite a stark contrast to small-town-mississippi  — sailboats on the lake, Frisbees in the park, city buses and elevated trains and honking cabs. People everywhere. Darting and dashing and stumbling to make whatever time-sensitive meeting/appointment/happy hour they had penciled into their blackberry appointment calendar. Like most urban areas, people are on the move. Constantly.

But the strangest thing about Chicago is that you never feel lonely (often, in big cities, i find its hard to have real human moments — people are terrified to look you in the eye or speak to you for fear you might be a crazy, people never take out their ipod earbuds for fear you might actually say hello, you know the drill… and so while you are surrounded by millions of people, you still end up feeling so very alone in the midst…). People smile. They say hi and how are you and actually mean it. they hold doors and wait for pedestrians and engage in meaningful conversations.

It’s a big city with a soul! AMAZING!!!

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And, like most things, at the very core of this soul-ful town is its food. fabulous food. scrumptious food. food that is rich and filling and amazingly tasty (and another HUGE perk —- the people in Chicago actually eat! You don’t see tons of emaciated women teetering around on 5 inch stilettos, sipping fizzy water whilst dreaming of doughnuts and craving cavatelli. Its fantastic and liberating to see people who are not terrified to actually have a street pretzel every now and then!)

So to fill our tummies and our spirits, bestie-p and i donned our recyclable bags and hopped the city bus and trekked down to the lincoln park farmers market — battling crowds that would make even the biggest skeptic of locally grown food a believer, we gathered sweet corn and sweeter apricots, green beans and green herbs, figs and honey and cheese and bread and squash and even a wee tiny bag of popcorn. all the makings of a dinner party crammed neatly into two ikea totes.

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Seven new friends. A table heavily laden with spins on American comfort food. sunset views of lake Michigan that extended for miles. For one brief night on the ninth floor of any uptown apartment building, Chicago food-at-its-finest knitted together stories of childhood and stories of longing, stories of grand new adventures and catastrophic failures, stories of excitement and whimsy and travel. In short, big-city-comfort-food set a big-city-comfort-table.

Surrounded by people — never a moment of loneliness.

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And in the days to follow, bestie-p and i ate at LOTS of yummy restaurants. We sampled brunches and closed down dinners. And yet, through all our snacking, there were no gastriques or foams on any menus we sampled. No one pontificated about molecular gastronomy. And never did i hear mention of the exacting nature of a technical sous vide. Instead, the chefs of chicago stuffed French toast and perfected the rabbit stew. And food was served in partitions large enough to actually count as full meals. Like the city itself, the food was so well aware of its place and its connection to its people — creative yet wholesome, cutting-edge yet approachable, inventive yet real. In short, the best example of what is possible with todays urban cuisine — abundant, multicultural, delicious, and yet still amazingly able to create a feeling of intensely connected community.