Tom handily catches ground ball pitched by Ciscoe Morris (local garden expert, journalist, and radio personality) for the “first pitch” of last night’s Mariners’ baseball game at Safeco Field. Unfortunately, events went downhill after that, as the Mariners lost to the Tampa Bay Rays 9 to 3. On the upside, we enjoyed the “Mojo Special” of hot dog, chips and soft drink for only 5 bucks!
Last week I made rye bread for the first time, attempting to replicate the flavor and shape of the beloved breads of Finland. It was an encouraging start, more akin to a quick fix than to a real, full blown taste memory with all of its mysterious, delectable, and addictive layers of pleasure. Appetite whetted, confidence high, I now stalked the true Finnish rye. For that I needed a sourdough starter.
I began one from scratch. After carefully studying instructions from Daniel Leader’s incredible book, Bread Alone, I was immensely intrigued, particularly by the use of a single pinch of yeast to initiate a process of attracting and putting to use the wild yeasts which are in the air all around us. Our world is intensely and constantly active at levels which evade the eye. Easily forgotten, until you make sourdough.
A pinch of yeast, a little rye flour, and an airtight plastic container were all I needed to begin. Tending carefully to my experiment, I added water, more flour, and vigorously stirred each morning. I smelled, tasted, watched, and listened. Returning from work held the anticipation of measuring the progress of this strange new being sharing my apartment. Crackling with activity, it emitted an alarmingly acrid smell on day two, but mellowed and gained dimension thereafter. My apartment began to smell a bit like beer, conjuring pleasant long-lost memories of childhood days spent at my friend’s family’s microbrewery. We would climb a ladder up into the ceiling and lay gossiping on sacks of malted barley. The smell was rich and complex, soft and sharp all at once. My starter was similar, beginning to hint at dimensions that could create the bread I longed for.
The ugly duckling….(see photo of my starter).
One of the reasons I love my job is that odd, delicious, and intriguing objects appear in the office, seemingly from out of the blue. Here is a very big jar of honey, procured by our all-around-go-to-guy Brian Cunningham, from a backyard apiarist in Wallingford. Cool label and lid!
This article from USA Today includes a great little slide show of photos from the upcoming new movie, “Julie and Julia,” based on the Julie/Julia Project. Here’s the story: an unemployed-at-the-time young woman named Julie Powell, bored, anxious, and at loose ends, cooks her way through both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and blogs about it daily. Her blog, called the Julie/Julia Project, becomes an internet sensation that changes her whole life. Modern day fairy tale ending….. Book Deal! and- now- Movie Deal!! I’m quite excited about the chance to see Meryl Streep playing Julia Child!
I found this article on Josh Friedland’s excellent blog, The Food Section, which I’ve been following for years. He found it via Simply Recipes.
My trip to the French Quarter in New Orleans was exciting. The Quarter sustained little damage from Hurricane Katrina, but it has taken a couple years to get the tourists back. I always go to Frank’s Restaurant on Decatur Street for my crawfish. They boil them up front by the windows and shuck the delicious Gulf Coast oysters to order. Great fun!
If you didn’t have a chance to taste one of Pastry Chef Garrett Melkonian’s exquisite banana cream pies at Etta’s during Dine Around Seattle in the month of March, you’re in luck! Individual size banana cream pies are now available at Dahlia Bakery: flaky pastry shell, a thin layer of chocolate ganache, light -as- a- feather banana pastry cream, caramelized banana, whipped cream and shaved chocolate on top! Come on by and check out more new items like Root Beer Float Cupcakes!
There are times in your life when you just feel rich. Might not have a thing in the bank or have been laid off with no prospects, but there are things that make you feel rich. During the last few economically trying months, I felt rich with friendship. So many people are genuinely worried and thoughtful about how we are doing and are we going to make it (the answer is hell yes!)
Sometimes it is as simple as eating as much bacon for breakfast as I choose. Growing up with seven siblings, when we had bacon, it was strictly doled out by my father. Two pieces if you’re over ten and one if you’re not. My best birthday as you can imagine was my eleventh!
Odd senses of security make me feel rich. A full tank of gas does wonders for my psyche as does a hundred dollar bill. Might be my only hundred but it still feels good. I breathe a sigh of rich relief when I take a loaf of Gwen’s whole wheat bread home from our Dahlia Bakery. I slice it thick, pack it into a ziplock bag and freeze it. On those sleepy, weary mornings, it’s a warm comfort to pop a piece in the toaster and taste that wheaty goodness, of course, slathered under butter.
Having just visited my daughter at Colgate University in Hamilton, NY, I feel rich with pride at what a nice young lady she is becoming. Loretta is thoughtful, charming, interesting, and rich with friends. Jackie and I were bombarded by her “BFF’s” when just a few short months ago she was a scared puppy who didn’t know a soul.
Rich is indeed a relative truth that I value immensely. I am on the board of Food Lifeline, an organization which can turn a single dollar into 16 pounds of food. Now that’s a kind of money laundering I can live with.
A big thank you to all who have continued to support our restaurants and to those who would like to but are having difficulties in this economic turmoil. I hope you find a few little things that make you feel RICH!
Read the whole newsletter here.
I don’t know when my mother’s love affair with spicy food began, but mine developed when I was a mere tadpole. She, by her own accounts, would make a run for the border everyday while she was pregnant with both me and my little brother. I remember, as a child, going to the “Bell” with my mom. She would grab handfuls of the little hot sauce packets and just like she would rip the tails off crawfish to suck out the spicy juice from their heads, she would tear the top off the packet with her teeth and suck out the firey goodness inside.
The first time I ever asked to eat one of the jalapenos my parents ate like candy on taco night, I was no older than 10. I ate one and dribbled the juice down my chin. I tried wiping it off with my hand, but only succeeded in shmearing it all over my mouth. My face was on fire for hours. I watched TV that evening with my lips submerged in a bowl of milk. It was horrible. And wonderful. After that, I was addicted. Now, like any good junkie, I need more. Bring the pain. I laugh in the face of five stars. I want seven peppers, give it to me Indian Hot, just gimme more.
This relatively new place owned by Ba Culbert has the warm neighborhood-y atmosphere that makes you feel right at home. (Ba, behind the bar in photo, left, is a Tom Douglas Restaurants alumna who years ago was a cook at Palace Kitchen.) The space is designed with personal touches like a border of postcards on the walls, antique-looking metal chandeliers, and pots and pans hanging in the open kitchen. After a glowing review by Sumi Hahn in the Seattle Weekly, the Belltown cafe was jamming when Robyn and I walked in for lunch. Ba, while scurrying from table to table at top speed, still managed to stop by our table several times to check in on us with a gracious word. We lunched on lentil soup, a savory tart with butternut squash and caramelized onions, and a salad of bitter greens with warm bacon vinaigrette and poached egg. Everything was delicious, clearly made from scratch, and plated and seasoned with care, despite the fact that the place was jamming. Ba is also open for dinner and weekend brunch. Don’t pass up the housemade desserts. The little profiteroles with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce and the rhum baba with pineapple, tangerine, and whipped cream (photo, top) were both delightful.
Last year my brother married a Finnish woman. And so, my mother, aunt, and I embarked upon our great Finnish Hajj, to the holy land I had heard of in countless tales since teething upon smoked fish and Astorian melba toast, to the mysterious land of wolverines, aurora borealis, the true home of Santa Claus, land of melancholy tangos, fierce determination, and many, many vowels. Did I mention that my family is from Finland?
The former French president has famously derided the cuisine of my homeland, and I must admit to having possessed a healthy skepticism myself. This lasted only until within two hours of landing at the airport, as I dug into my first reinder spaghetti, in a cream sauce flavored with juniper berries and topped with a cheerful cascade of lingonberries. So, so weird and so, so delicious.
It was there, in Helsinki for nary a week, that I developed an utterly unexpected love of rye bread. It came on strong and I ate all that I could, packing my suitcase with a precious lode to be rationed from my freezer for months after returning to the land of wheat and corn.
I now find myself searching bakeries, disappointedly, trying to regain a fraction of that fleeting pleasure. As every spurned lover knows, denial fans the hottest passions….
My sister-in-law insists that Finnish rye must be made from a sour starter and must contain only rye flour. One can’t just ‘whip up’ a starter so I seeded one for next week and made a quick sponge starter that was ready in a mere six hours. I made flat breads like the ones I loved in Finland which were sliced, toasted, and buttered to accompany just about everything. I chickened out and added about one third wheat flour, fearful of accidentally making hocky pucks and losing my nerve forever. They turned out delcious, though I’m looking forward to trying again next week when my sour dough is ready, using a darker rye flour and cutting out the wheat for a totally authentic experience.
Here’s a photo of some real, Finnish rye bread. (photo top)
And my American rye. (photo bottom)
RSS SubscribeWelcome to Family Meal, a blog that examines all things new and noteworthy in the world of food, wine, and dining.
At family meal, otherwise known as staff meal, there’s no hierarchy; you’re breaking bread with your friends. For those 30 minutes, everyone is equal- and hungry. Family meal is our version of the water cooler- but with better food.
I’ll be sharing my thoughts, tips, and observations, and, in the spirit of family meal, I’ve invited our creative, energetic staff- everyone from line cook to bartender to bookkeeper- to have a say. I hope you’ll add your own comments and join in the conversation.
-Tom Douglas
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