Films featuring food

Check out "The Best Food Movies, by Farr:"

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-farr/the-best-food-movies-by-f_b_543173.html

I haven't seen most of these. But, yes, Silence of the Lambs ranks high on my list, too. I would also submit:

Chocolat

Diner

9 1/2 Weeks

Bridget Jones Diary

Mystic Pizza

Flashdance (because of that scene with the lobster)

Julie & Julia

The Godfather trilogy (because they're always eating, and because of the oranges)

Fried Green Tomatoes

Do the Right Thing

The Secret Lives of Bees (the book was a thousand times better)

Waitress

Nuts and Oolong Tea

Grabbing the bull by the what? I consider myself to be an adventuresome eater, but ...

http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE49645B20081007?feedType=RSS&feedName=lifestyleMolt&pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=0

ALSO:

Looking for great Chinese in Chestnut Hill? Check out King's Garden on Germantown Avenue.

http://www.yelp.com/biz/kings-garden-philadelphia

Enjoyed a fabulous meal there: hot-and-sour soup; vegetable spring roll, and a spicy/sweet shrimp dish that left me wanting to lick the plate. And a special shout-out to the lovely proprietor, who kindly sent me home with a great little bag of the loose oolong tea they serve (Hung Lee brand).

I'd mentioned to the waiter that I liked it, and the next thing you know, we were chatting with the staff and becoming fast friends. Thank you! Lovely dining experience, and I'll look forward to our return.

As easy as boiling water

Cooking pasta should be easy. Often, it’s not. Cook times to achieve the desired al dente are so dependent on the type of heat and the vessel—even the altitude. I’ve been guilty of serving up that gummy stuff Harold McGee talks about in this piece:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/25/dining/25curi.html?_r=2&th&emc=th

There’s only one sure-fire way to tell whether pasta is done: Bite it.

I totally get it, Mayor Bloomberg.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/26/nyregion/26bermuda.html?th&emc=th

I'd be happy with only five

The New York Times says that there are 31 places you must get up close and personal with this year, which is (yikes) more than a quarter over! Get busy, people!

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/travel/10places.html?th&emc=th

Frankly, I’d be happy to see just five of these. I’d consider myself very fortunate, and if I had to choose …

5. Vancouver Island. Would love to visit soon. It would be nice to see the landscape and friends out there. I feel I missed the opportunity to visit during the Olympics!

4. Breckenridge. Why not? It’s Colorado. I love Colorado.

3. Kuala Lumpur. Because of the food, the people, the culture, the feeling of truly being halfway across the world. http://travel.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/travel/20hours.html?th&emc=th

2. Costa Rica. So many friends have been recently, and have returned with a glow that transcends their sun-kissed skin. It’s a new attitude, a certain laid-back air that lingers briefly before life in States reclaims them. http://www.cnn.com/2009/TRAVEL/getaways/01/21/costa.rica/index.html

1. Patagonia—Not too far out of the realm of possibility, since we’re feeling the want to visit immediate family in Argentina.

Out of the 31 must-sees the NY Times suggests, what are your top-five picks?

Go to your happy place

The people are happy in Costa Rica:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/07/opinion/07kristof.html?th&emc=th

Wasn't Rush Limbaugh supposed to set up residence there if the healthcare Bill passed? Anyone spot any moving PODs at his house?

The Money Shot

Here’s an interesting article about people who photograph food—food they eat, every day:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/07/dining/07camera.html?th&emc=th

I have been known to photograph dishes I’ve created, but I’m not OCD or disciplined enough to keep a full-fledged “food diary.” Shoot, I’m no good at simply keeping track of what I eat—and the calories—even when I’m trying to be conscientious about my diet.

There were a couple of interesting tidbits to this article, which piqued my interest. First, that some of these food-photo fetishists brazenly whipped out their cameras at restaurants. Maybe this is a generational thing. I remember all too well when cameras were forbidden at most any event—sporting, music, dining experiences. Then camera-phones came along and destroyed the old rules. So I suppose it’s okay to do this now, to photograph food someone else made. I wonder if the chefs cringe a little when folks do, fearing that they’ll somehow steal the recipe or make money off their culinary creations?

Food in photography is, arguably, art. And I always feel funny about capitalizing on someone else’s artistic expression. Heck, I’m just now retraining my brain to acknowledge that it’s okay to take a camera to a concert or a Flyers game. And when I do, I’m covert in its use.

Also of interest to me was the mention of new cameras coming out—from Nikon, Olympus, Sony and Fuji—that have special “food” or “cuisine” modes. I think I may need (want) one of those!

Planetary TLC

Today, we celebrate Mother Earth. I have to confess that when I first became cognizant of Earth Day—way back in college—its meaning was lost on me. I considered it more of an excuse to blow off classes and party than I did a reason for reflection. Even though I grew up appreciating nature, I, like so many others, took it for granted.

Today, I’m obviously more mature and naturally introspective, so I treasure the day. It’s not that on this day I do any more to reduce my negative impact than I would on a normal day. Still, I could do more. We all could do more. But it’s nice knowing that on this day everyone across the globe is celebrating, considering, learning, and trying, right alongside me. A day when millions of school children are learning about how to protect the environment, and reduce the carnage left behind by earlier generations.

And since this is a “food and travel” type-o-site, I offer some food for thought on how both impact the world we’re renting:

Stop and think about where your food comes from, and how it’s living and dieing before it gets to your plate—like the seafood we (I) covet:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/04/sustainable-seafood-photo_n_522387.html

And if you need empirical proof that we’re all interconnected, one people, one Earth, check this out (and consider the impact the next time you travel):
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/08/world-air-traffic-over-a_n_529905.html

Give Me That Old-Time Religion

A few weeks back, I made a long overdue drive to see my folks who have settled in Denver, NC. I was excited to see their new digs, meet their new friends, hear about their adventures in starting a new life, with new scenery and new opportunity. I’m a big fan of relocation, of fresh starts, of perpetual change. That’s why it’s so strange that I have been relatively at peace with living here, in this single spot for so many years. But in the back of my mind, there’s always just a hint of want, of new geography and culture and people. So I was excited for my folks.

The visit was lovely—a perfect blend of busy and sloth, replete with laughs and storytelling. It was nice to be with them again.

But this isn’t a story about our little family reunion. Rather, it’s of this place we passed by as my mother drove us to the local thrift store, to pass an hour of time. As we neared it, she instructed us to look to our left as we passed what appeared to be some abandoned shanty town. “Interesting, right,” she nodded.

“What is it,” I wanted to know.

“It’s the campground,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“People go camping there?”

“Yes. Each of those little—oh, I don’t know what you’d call them, buildings maybe—those are owned by people. And they come here for events—revivals and so forth,” my mother explained.

I hadn’t heard that word in a very long time. “Revival.” It was so familiar to me, and it started to conjure up memories.

She’s a regular there at the thrift store, my mother. The sales go to benefit the local community (it doubles as a food kitchen, which I understand has no shortage of patrons these days), and my mother often finds treasures among its racks and shelves, which she resells on her ebay store. That day she found a little statute and a few other trinkets, including a “vintage” IBM Selectric typewriter—this one unique, in that it was red, rather than the standard black. I don’t know how she’ll ever sell it on ebay. How you could you ever ship that? They’re like anvils!

I bought some books (former library books, sadly) and a stack of 45s that I’ll use as art in our rec room.

On the way home, we were fixin’ (in honor of NC) to pass by “the campground” again, when I said, “I’ve got to get a picture of this place.”

My mother obliged and pulled into the circular drive the surrounds the compound. She told me some are more rudimentary than others. That the crème de la crème of the shacks—really, for lack of a better word—had electricity. She wasn’t sure if any had running water, however, but remarked that there were a couple of communal bathrooms—for the men, and for the women.

I don’t know how to describe the buildings, really. You have to see them for yourself. I have posted some photos here, but I’ll also post a video my husband shot, peeking into one of the structures. The roofs are tin and rusted. The wood is local and has that tell-tale southern sign of blackened age. There’s not much to them, and they all seem to have been built based on a central style or theme—slatted and open, as to foster a communal vibe, where people can just make the rounds at night and peer in on their neighbors and strike up a conversation. Which sounds kind of nice and old-fashioned and quaint, but I had to wonder if the “open door” policy—or open wall, as in this case—didn’t have more to do with keeping people on their best behavior when they’re camping and worshipping. Maybe it was about maintaining some sexual purity while your mind should be solely focused on spiritual matters. I don’t know.

I did find some basic information on Rock Springs Campground when I got home and began to surf the Web a little. Here’s some history on the place, if you’re interested:

http://www.denvernc.com/rockspringscamp.htm

I wondered, too, about my fascination with the place. It was rather vile looking, but who am I to judge? I realized that my fascination was more about a memory—memories, plural—it conjured up for me. When I was little, my great-grandmother (who most of you know, I adored) would, on an occasional hot summer night, load up the station wagon with lawn chairs and take me way out into the country for “revivals.”

We’d arrive, and I’d marvel at the big tents they’d erected and strung with twinkle lights. Underneath were rows upon rows of other God-fearing people in their lawn chairs, eating country ham sandwiches or fried chicken, while being entertained by some gospel group or preacher who’d tell corny jokes. And when I say “gospel,” I mean white, southern Baptist gospel. I don’t remember there ever being any people of color at these events, or maybe I simply hadn’t noticed.

From what I understood about these events that would come through town like carnies, some people would camp out, and there would be religious ceremonies—sermons and such—during the daytime, and at night, the pulpit would double as a makeshift stage and the music began. I loved the music, truthfully. It made me want to dance, which I think was frowned upon—yet I got away with it, because I was just a little kid. I also got away with some very bad behavior at times. Already boy crazy by that point, I would inevitably wander away from my great-grandmother’s watchful eye, and stroll around through the tents, hoping I might stumble upon some kid my age who wanted to do less wholesome things than listen to some quartet try to harmonize.

My great-grandmother loved the music. It’s why we went. I don’t remember us ever attending any of the sermons. And trust me, that was not because she wasn’t religious or spiritual. She was perhaps the most devout Christian to walk the Earth. But my great-grandmother was also unwaveringly devoted to her Church and to her preacher, and I imagine she felt that listening to any other—especially one who traveled around the country like a gypsy—was blasphemous in some way. Yes, it was the music that drew us each in, bonded us on those hot summer nights.

It may have been our last time to do this together; I don’t know how old I was by then. But I was even more boy crazy. I was pleasantly surprised that one of the bands that particular evening had a young singer and guitar player. I believe the band was called “The Pell Brothers,” or “The Pell Family.” And I believe his name was “Darrin Pell.” He was blonde and cute and talented on the guitar. And I flocked to the front of the stage like a full-fledged groupie. He caught my eye; I caught his, and after they’d put their guitars in their cases, I followed him behind the stage and struck up a conversation with him. He was just as sweet and wholesome as that part he played on the stage, and he gave me an autographed picture of the band, which indeed made me feel like just another groupie.

Things We Like: Biltmore Reds

During a recent visit with my folks, we trekked out to Asheville, NC and toured the Biltmore Estate (more on that another time). Post tour, we checked out the Estate's winery, and enjoyed a free tasting of most--but not all--of their reds and whites.

Sparkling and premium wines cost extra. We tried some of those, too.

My favorites out of the bunch:

• Biltmore Sangiovese


• Biltmore Limited Release Tempranilla


• Biltmore Estate Chateau Reserve Methode Champenoise Blanc de Blancs, 2006 North Carolina, Brut

Highly recommended!

http://www.biltmore.com/our_wine/wines/red.asp

Confessions of a bad baker

Good for Sue Compton. She won the Pillsbury Bake-Off Contest and made a cool $1 million:
http://www.philly.com/inquirer/front_page/20100415__1_MILLION_DESSERT.html

I’m an exceptional cook, if I do say so myself. But baking has always eluded me. It’s too scientific and dependent on just the right measures and atmospheric conditions. I appreciate science and math, but I’ve never had the acumen for either.

So reading about Sue Compton and her little creation of scrumptiousness made me a.) bow down to her greatness; and b.) recall that I’ve got some atoning to do.

And so I make this public confession:

When I was a kid, my folks worked for Hewlett-Packard. HP had the BEST annual company picnics—food and drink, street performers, live music, skits performed by the company’s execs, and activities for the kids. I was never much for organized sports back them, so I often opted out of the potato-sack races and bobbing-for-apples contests, though I secretly coveted the prizes they’d dole out to the winners.

I was just about to begin the 10th grade—the new girl at a new school—and the summer leading up to it had caused me great angst. When the annual picnic rolled around, I was looking forward to blowing off some steam, maybe having some actual interaction with kids I recognized. And my mother was pleasantly surprised when I said that I might even break out of my comfort zone and participate in some of the contests that year.

She told me about the more physical ones they’d planned for the kids, and they bored me, but when she mentioned the “bake-off,” my ears perked up. Now THAT, I could do. I relished the idea of making something sweet. I’ve always had a sweet tooth.

So off to the market we went, my mother and I. We bought some pre-packaged cake mix, frosting and decorations to jazz it up. She offered to help me with the cooking and assembly, but I told her, “Thanks, but I should do this myself. It’s a contest. If you help, that’s like cheating.”

My Mom honored my request, and left me alone in the kitchen to prepare what I hoped would be the best chocolate cake ever. I envisioned those judges plunging their forks into its spongy greatness—sounds of ohs and ahs, as they saw how moist it was. I saw their eyes closing and their heads being tossed back in ecstasy, as the rich chocolate melted on their tastebuds.

I followed the directions as best I could. Call it Attention Deficit Disorder or whatever, but I hadn’t paid as close attention to the measurements as I should have. And when the cake came out of the oven, it was still liquidy in the center, and I made the mistake of trying to ice it when it was still warm. I tried valiantly to place the icing just so, as to hold the crumbling, melting cake together, but in the end, what sat before me was a plate of chocolate soup. I cursed myself for not having the wherewithal to buy two boxes of that cake mix. I’ve always appreciated formulating a Plan B.

I wanted to cry, but didn’t. I called my Mother into the kitchen and declared, “It’s ruined. I’m out of the contest,” which was then mere hours away.

My mother looked at me, looked at the cake, and back to me. “Get ready. We’re leaving early.”

I had no idea what she had in mind, as she disposed of the cake-soup and washed the Tupperware cake plate off in the sink.

On our way to the picnic, we pulled off into the parking lot of the grocery store.

“Come on,” she prodded me. Into the store we went, and headed straight to the bakery section. There were a few pre-made cakes in plastic domes. “Pick one,” she told me.

I rather liked the look of the coconut cake. Its flakes of coconut shavings reminded me of snow, and it was hot that day. I pointed to it, and she snatched it up and high-tailed it to the check out. Once in the car, she instructed me to removed that coconut cake from its plastic cage and place it in the Tupperware. Only then did I realize what she had in mind. She wanted me to pass that cake off as my own.

“We can’t do this,” I told her. I was old enough to know that it was dishonest and scandalous, and I remember thinking that if anyone should find out, it would reflect very poorly on my parents, who until then were well-liked at HP.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother said. “It’s just a silly little contest. But I put your name down for it, so you have to do it. And I bet everyone else BOUGHT their desserts, too. Who has time to bake?”

I was mortified to learn that most of my competitors were little kids who had clearly belabored over their baked goods, judging from the lop-sided cakes and misshapen cookies. When “my” coconut cake took first prize, and I was called to the makeshift stage to collect my blue ribbon, I wanted to die—right there, on the spot. I thought God would surely strike me down.

I felt so guilty, I had a hard time enjoying the rest of the day. Though I had the chance to ride in a tethered hot-air balloon that day, and got to climb a ladder to mount a real, live Tennessee Walking Horse (those beasts are TALL), the experience left a bitter taste in my mouth.

When we got in the car at the end of the day, my mother and I turned to each other, wide-eyed, and burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that cake WON,” she marveled.

“I know! I was so embarrassed, and felt bad for the little kids,” I confessed.

“This is the kind of thing that would only happen to us,” we agreed. And we never spoke of it again.

Things we like

100% Recycled Reynolds Wrap

Nature's Path Organic Instant Oatmeal--especially the Cranberry-Ginger flavor

Organic Sweet Leaf tea with mint and honey

Who says "nothing in life is free?"

I'm going out of my way (literally) to take advantage of this next week:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap_travel/20100413/ap_tr_ge/us_travel_brief_national_park_week

Maybe one of these bucolic, serene spots is within your reach:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/TRAVEL/getaways/07/17/visit.national.parks/index.html

Just beware of any yahoos who got lost on the way to the Tea Party protests or militia meetings:

http://www.aolnews.com/nation/article/gun-toting-visitors-heading-to-national-parks/19353107

Domestic tourism and revisionist history

Gail Collins beat me to the punch. In today's NY Times, she summed up what I'd been feeling--frustration over the rewriting of history, and the CELEBRATION of our nation's darkest period.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/08/opinion/08collins.html?th&emc=th

She came to an interesting conclusion, as you see: That tourism is to blame. Do you agree?

It's important to study the Civil War and the reasons why it was waged. But to celebrate it? To capitalize upon it, to treat it like Black History Month or any of the other "months" in which we celebrate what is inherently American? That, I don't get. Am I missing something here?

I don't discount the value of our southern bretheren. I consider myself to be from the south (though marginally so, just south of the Mason-Dixon line). I have family scattered throughout the south--good, hard-working, loving, beautiful people that they are. But during this dark, troubled era, the Confederacy was on the wrong side of the right v. wrong. Perspective and time has assured us of this. Kind of hard to be proud of that, I'd think.

I love the smell of burning peeps in the morning...

Smells like ... Easter.

http://www.salon.com/food/francis_lam/2010/04/03/toasted_peeps_brulee_recipe/index.html?source=newsletter