Spray-On Pancakes. Really

After my 2-hour epic drive to Rhode Island yesterday (pics to come—sorry to mess with the chronology), my mother and I went to the grocery store to pick up some milk and bread for my grandfather. As we walked through the refrigerator section, I did a double-take.

The store had pancake batter in a can more traditionally used for whipped cream.

My Mom and I had a good chuckle about the product, and decided it was worth trying on a snowy Sunday morning. Even if it did cost $5. But it's organic!

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It works just how you think such a product would. Press on the little white plastic dispenser, et voila. Organic pancake batter on-demand.

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Here was our first pancake. I used too little batter, so it came out looking more like a lace cookie.

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I was a little more liberal on my later flapjacks. And we even had some frozen blueberries to add to the flavor bouquet.

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I went into this experiment fully expecting to eat scrambled eggs for breakfast, but the batter was surprisingly tasty. It had a nice nutty flavor, and no weird chemical aftertaste from whatever magic substance propels the contents of those spray cans.

For single people like me, the spray pancake is a brilliant invention. Whenever I make pancakes for myself, or even for my family when I'm home, the smallest amount of batter Bisquick whips up is way too big. Now even losers who don't have a special someone to make doe-eyes at over Sunday brunch can still enjoy a special breakfast without wasting food.

In closing: Spray pancakes are pasquinade-tested, and pasquinade-approved.

Back in the Kitchen

Generally, I really enjoy cooking. There's something nice about following set steps and ending up with something tasty. But for the past six months, I haven't felt like cooking. Sure, I'd whip up some noodles or sautee some chicken in a sauce, but not a complete meal from scratch.

But I'm happy to report that I woke up today and went right for my cookbooks.

I decided to make Ina Garten's (love!) shrimp and orzo pasta salad. My kitchen was decimated, covered in escaped chunks of cucumber or springs of dill. I was dripping sweat (not in the food, naturally), my fingers smelled like onions and herbs, and I couldn't be happier. (Well, I could have been had I not had to de-vein the shrimp. I hate taking their poopers out.)

I think I have Martha Stewart to thank. As I was on my way to Gloucester for the Fisherman's Festival yesterday, I flipped on WGBH and saw Everyday Baking and a picture of lemon cupcakes. While that isn't the sweet treat I'm making in a little while (blueberries were cheap, so I went with blueberry cobbler), it got me interested in cooking again. I'm not even sure if my beloved KitchenAid will work when I turn it on again, but hopefully we'll find out soon.

And no, you can't have any.

Nachomama

Somebody get me a freelance gig. There's too much good food out there to stay home and eat in.

Last night I joined A and Missy for a walk around the reservoir in Cleveland Circle. Since the Green Line took forever and a day to get us to Brookline, it was late when we wrapped up walking. Instead of waiting around for the next bus back to the Ville and probably eating my own fist to sate my hunger, A and I took a walk to Super Fusion Cuisine.

A friend and I went to Ma Soba in Beacon Hill a couple of weeks ago. My friend really liked it, but I was hesitant since I've been spoiled by Super Fusion. Once I got my food, I was disappointed. I found hairs in my sushi, and the california rolls were really bland. The atmosphere was nice, but the price I paid for middling food soured me.

But Super Fusion! How I love you. Your down and dirty storefront. Suhsi Sam greeting everyone enthusiastically. One bite of the volcano maki made me sorry I had strayed. Some day when I have money from the freelance gig I sorely need, I'm going to try Fugakyu, which is where Sushi Sam used to work. While the atmosphere may be nicer, I doubt the sushi could be any better.

Tonight, another friend and I are going to try Wagamama in Faneuil Hall. A huge restaurant chain in the UK (which I didn't go to when I was over there), the Boston location is its first in the States. Since I love ramen noodles on their own merits, I'm excited to try them with actual natural ingredients. However, I always forget the name of the restaurant. "Wasamama? Wamamama? Nachomama? What's it called?"

I'll save money when I'm too old to enjoy it. It's finally summer, and I'm going to enjoy this city until the snows come back.

Temptation of Fruit

So I’ve been shopping at the Market Basket, as it is the closest supermarket to my new swingin’ single pad. It’s quite an adjustment from shopping at Shaw’s and Whole Foods. While I find Whole Foods to be a harrowing experience, what with the permissive mothers calling out to their Jacobs and Isobellas in a futile attempt to control their offspring, but that was nothing compared with Market Basket. Everyone has a huge cart full of food and babies who are screaming to get out. There should be a ticket machine like the deli has at the produce section. But it actually smells better at Market Basket than at the deli section at the Shaw’s in Back Bay (rankest place in Boston!) and Market Basket sells the best strawberries in Boston.

I have not had strawberries that taste this good in a long, long time. I saw the pound (yes, one pound in weight) of strawberries sitting in the produce section, so I dodged some carts to get near them. The strawberries looked fine from above. I picked up the clear container and looked at the bottom. There was no sign of mushiness or rotting. What the hell, I thought, and took them home.

I figured I’d find the rotten ones in the middle of the huge container, and that I’d probably get a half pound worth of edible strawberries for my $3, which was fine. But as I took handfuls of berries out to wash, I didn’t find one rotten spot in any of them. The berries were huge and red, and firm as I rinsed them off. Unable to resist, I grabbed one and ate it while I washed.

Perfect. Firm to the bite, just juicy enough to force me to catch the juice as it ran down my chin, and flavorful. Many supermarket strawberries look beautiful but taste like Styrofoam once you get them into your mouth. Not these. Where did they come from, these great strawberries? How come no other grocery store in Boston can manage to get respectable strawberries in stock, never mind for such a low price. How do they do it? As a kid, my mother warned me to stop eating so many strawberries because I’d break into hives. Now I have to remember that warning, because I’m eating those glories with every meal. I smear a couple with Nutella with my bowl of cereal. I just ate a cup of them with my lunch. I’ll probably have them as a pre-bedtime snack. I can’t wait to go back for more, but I’m also afraid. What if my pound of heaven was just a fluke? What if the next truckload is full of the typical rotted red mess that grocers try to pass as strawberries?

I guess it’s just a risk I’ll have to take, because these strawberries are phenomenal. Maybe I’ll even make a shortcake this weekend if I’m feeling sassy.

I've Got It Coming to Me Because I'm Not Satisfied

Fad diets are like those amazing products you see on television when you’re completely hammered and waiting for the pizza guy to show up and deliver: you know they’re not as good as they seem, but the results sound so good you have a hard time passing them up. I myself haven’t had experience with the fad diet, but my Mom has. I watched her drink nothing but chocolate goo for a year, watched her go to meetings and be humiliated by standing on a scale in front of a room of women thinner than her, watched her forgo carbs, which I suspect she may love more than my brother and me. While she’d lose weight, it would always come back.

If you thought you had to go all the way to LA or South Beach for a fad diet, fear not. Third-tier celebrity/Kennedy hangout Martha’s Vineyard now has its own fad diet, known as the “Martha’s Vineyard Detox Diet.” This diet claims that by consuming vitamin-rich juices, thick vegetable purees, and herbal teas, you can lose twenty-one pounds in twenty-one days. Now soccer Moms all over Massachusetts are operating on dangerously low blood sugar behind the wheels of their SUVs. Wonderful.

But I’m being unfair. Some men have benefited from this diet too.

It was quite a bonus to James Hester, a former music publisher who came to the Vineyard in 2003 irritable and overweight.

"I had three chins and weighed about 213 pounds where I am normally 175 or 180," Hester said. "I was angry and had been using food as a way to manage my emotions."

After losing 21 pounds on DeLuz's program, Hester had something of a spiritual awakening. "I realized I was not only cleansing my body but my emotions as well," he says.

Couldn’t it be feasible that all Hester needed was a vacation, a chill pill, and a salad? I understand that it’s hard to get into a new eating pattern, but twenty-one days without chewing isn’t right (unless, of course, your jaw is wired shut). Using food as comfort is an easy trap. I get that. But these “drink diluted grapefruit juice and water for a week to ‘detox’” plans just seem like snake-oil to me. Start small. Stop drinking regular soda. Then kick the diet soda. Eat a salad with your regular dinner. Try fruit instead of cookies for a snack. These little steps help. Trust me.

I think DeLuz’s program is the most practical when she says this:

One of the tenets of the Martha's Vineyard diet is its flexibility, DeLuz says.
"You can follow it to a T, but even mini-cleanses here and there help. Put away the potato chips and Diet Coke for a weekend. Have some berries. Drink some green juice. Even if you eat just one meal a day of cleansing foods you're going to notice a healthy change."

There you go. No need to stop masticating, folks. Just pick up a fork and eat something that came from the ground once in a while.

Road Tested

As a kid, I never got to enjoy the ice cream truck. Since there were all of six kids in a ten-mile radius, it didn't make good business sense to service our ice-cream novelty needs by automobile. I would relish going to a friend's house in Norwich, Connecticut because she lived in a more suburban area and the ice cream truck would play its jaunty tune, and I'd swear the Rocket Pops from the ice cream truck tasted better than the ones my Mom bought at Stop and Shop.

When I started my new job, no fewer than ten people told me about the Trucks. My first-day orientation had new hires discussing the Trucks and their awesomeness. Apparently, these food trucks, like the ones at construction sites, come into Kendall Square and serve amazing food at equally amazing prices. I imagined that these people's attitude was swayed by the price of this food, and they maybe ignored the hairs, bugs, and undercooked bits.

Yesterday I was craving a walk and didn't pack my lunch, so I decided to venture to the Trucks. There were about four trucks lined up, each offering different food. One was a Chinese/Thai truck. Another beat-up truck sold Mexican food. There was a Middle-Eastern truck selling falafel and kebabs. There was a sparsely-visited sandwich truck. I hopped into the long line at the Chinese/Thai truck and waited to decide on my meal once I got close enough to read the menu.

I chose veggie pad thai for the low low price of $3.50. American. The lady handed me a styrofoam box and a fork, and I made my way to a bench. When I opened the box, I was pleasantly surprised. A huge portion of noodles sat on one half, with a mixture of thin carrot strips, lettuce, and sprouts on the other side. I mixed them together and dug in.

It was really good! Truck food! I stuffed myself on the thin noodles, crunchy peanuts and well-prepared tofu. I have a love-hate relationship with tofu. When I cook it, it's the nasty, gelatinous mess that most meat-eaters imagine. When someone who's used to the mystery curd prepares it, it's just like chicken. In my veggie pad thai, it was wonderful. Crumbled up, it was a pleasantly soy-ish flavor that didn't scream "healthy."

I just ate the other half of my food, so I basically spent $1.50 for lunch yesterday and today. The noodles were equally delicious cold (I can't seem to find any bowls or plates for reheating purposes). I think I may continue to line up with the students and science-minded folks to get my lunch on the cheap. Even though they don't play the jaunty tunes that ice cream trucks do, the food trucks make me just as happy.

Barefoot and in Love

For those of you who've been around this little corner of the wide world of web for a while, you may know I have a propensity to have Food Network celebrity chef girl-crushes. At first, it was Rachel Ray, back when she had only two shows on that network and zero syndicated talk shows. Now she's been overexposed in a boy's magazine and overexposed in my heart. For a while, it looked like Paula Deen was coming up as the heir to Rachel's throne. While Paula isn't as beautiful as Rachel, Paula has a hot son, a cute house, and a propensity to cook with butter I deeply admire. During my Mom's hospital stay, I got up to watch Martha Stewart's talk show (mainly because I want to be there when Martha cuts one of her clueless starlets who ruins what Martha is demonstrating). One day, Paula Deen came on. Paula was appropriately in awe of Martha's sheer awesomeness, because while Martha Stewart may not be a cuddly ball of cotton candy and puppy dog smiles, the woman knows her way around the home. After pleasantries, Paula started talking about her assistant waking her and her husband, Michael Gruber, up in the morning.

"You let your assistant in your house?" Martha asked incredulously.

"Why yeis," replied Paula.

"I try to keep my assistants out of my house," Martha said, almost to herself.

"Well, this one tiime, my assistant came in twirlin' a baton and singin' to me and Michael..."

"Do you let people wear shoes in your house?" asked Martha out of nowhere.

"Oh, yeis," said Paula, not skipping a beat. Martha looked like she was about to vomit.

But I grow weary of Paula as well, as she now has a pseudo-talk show on the Food Network and my Mom said her restaurant, which I really hoped was good, is not. While Dave Lieberman is my eye candy on the Food Network (seriously, Dave, I'm free most weeknights, call me!) and Alton Brown is hot in the way that he is smart but not physically hot (and he has a KitchenAid with flames on it!), I need my girl-crush.

Enter Ina Garten.


Someone's making cookies!

My love for Ina has grown ever-stronger as I watch her show. I get to the gym shortly after 5, so I start watching Barefoot Contessa when it's already started. Her recipes always look so good. She has a potato salad I'm dying to make. I've made her tomato and feta salad and it's amazing. She likes a cold cocktail, which she makes with liquor I generally can't afford and with simple mixes that I bet taste better than anything you can get at an average bar. She advocates for the consumption of bellinis. Like Paula with less brashness, she also has a deep love for butter and cream. Like Giada with less conspicuousness, Ina correctly pronounces foreign foods and techniques. Like me with more money and a nicer kitchen, Ina also cites Julia Child as one of her culinary heroes.

Mostly, I want to be Ina Garten. I want her absolutely breathtaking house in the Hamptons. I want her huge pantry. I want her firsthand love of France. I want a doting husband who loves everything I cook for him. I want her kitchen. I want her rich arty friends with boats. I love her pretty blue eyes, big smile, and sense of beach-chic style. I want to be able to ask rhetorical questions at the end of a recipe or instruction ("...How simple is that?") and pull it off without sounding like a snob. I want to have a slew of gay male friends in Nantucket red pants over for dinner. I want to have a home that I can make very comfortable for my friends. I want everything to be simply fabulous.

So, Ina, if you ever need a sous chef for your show, you need someone to help you polish off a bellini or fourteen, or just want to talk about boys or shoes, email me. Just make sure you bring Dave Lieberman along to keep me company when Jeffery comes home from work. Wouldn't that be to die for?