Portland with Pops: Part 1

I took the train to Portland, eager to meet my father in the middle-ground city for a weekend. He looked surprisingly small in his fleece cap when he met me Friday night at the Amtrak station. He stood to the side, as I knew he would, out of the way of the pouring masses and the meeting people who clogged their path.

Every experience with my father, almost as far back as I remember, begins with a greeting in a place of public transportation. It's as if he met me at a bus stop when I was born, a small suitcase in my baby fist.

He looked small, as I said before. He'd lost weight, as well as the desire to throw it around. Our interactions are so different now that I'm an adult and he doesn't hold the power over me he once did. Nor does he want to. Trading small kindnesses, he gave me rye bread and blackberry honey, an amber comb suspended deliciously in the jar, in exchange for homemade apple sauce. On the drive into Portland, he picked up 60 pounds (plus a few higher quality pint jars) of honey for use in making mead. My father, Aleric, acts much as his name implies, which is to say he behaves as if accidentally and erroneously transported from a past era.

When I was young, from the ages of 9-11, and lived with him every other week, I had to become accustomed to an almost Amish method of living (at least for a child of the 80's). When the toothpaste ran out, we would go weeks sprinkling baking soda on our toothbrushes before he bought another tube. We had to whittle our pencils with kitchen knives. He taught my Girl Scout troop how to turn cream into butter, but I have distinct memories of pouring chunky milk on my cereal. When it got really bad, I would just switch to water. The worst part is, we really weren't poor. At all. He just thought things like toothpaste and pencil sharpeners and fresh milk were unnecessary luxuries. He still doesn't believe in hotel beds (always preferring a truck bed or a floor) and doesn't understand why the post office hasn't yet delivered any of his sweet moonshine to my doorstep.

Portland was kind of like a custody week, 13 years after such things existed for my father and I, but much more enjoyable. Of course we spent more time together and ate better than I ever used to on those old occasions. It was always odd to me that he thought he lost me, that he thought my mother took me away, when I spent so many nights in his supposed custody hungry and alone.

This time around, we stayed at his cousin's adorable house in southeast Portland, hiding inside as the rain and wind peaked in stormy delight. The sweet woman, who doesn't drink alcohol or caffeine or utter profanities, bought beer especially for our visit and seemed positively smitten with the resultingly boisterous conversation. The words and laughter and confidence of our companionship escalated and we stayed up chatting, our feet somehow tucked in together on the couch, until my father's bed time.

On Saturday the three of us ventured to Ocean City Seafood Restaurant on SE 82^nd. A review in The Mercury prompted me to go, and I ate the best dim sum of my short-lived life. We had to wait 15-20 minutes for a table at 12:30 on a rainy Saturday, a very worthwhile endeavor. Anxiously watching the carts pass by other tables, my father and I sipped our tea in expectation. The steam cart finally worked its way to our white-clothed table and the server displayed basket after basket as we pointed at random dishes, briefly conferred, and then stilled our grumbling stomachs with the winning fare.

First I dove into the tofu-wrapped veggies, juicy meatball-like mounds of bok choy, cabbage and other unidentifiable ingredients served with a soy-based dipping sauce. The pork shu mai disappeared so fast I barely remember that meaty moment of heaven, but we all made sure to savor the fantastic shrimp noodles. Rolling the fresh pasta around in my mouth, I delighted in their delicate taste and texture, the shrimp in no way rubbery. My father ate an inordinant amount of the pungently flavored rice, wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Hum bao melted in my mouth, the lightest, whitest dough hiding a sweet dollop of barbecue pork. My father interrupted my creamy scallops to blurt out "That's the most succulent potsticker I've ever had." Indeed, the large hearty dumpling hid a juicy interior behind the thick dough layer. I think it actually squirted at him. A salty sauce brought out the flavor.

For dessert, we dined on egg custard, superior to the runny versions I've had in Seattle, but slightly overcooked and served in too much phyllo dough. The real triumph was the sticky sweet sesame buns. I wish I could have sampled more dessert dishes, but there just wasn't room inside of me. On our way out, I longingly eyed the cart full of buns (so many buns!), some glazed, some with a crackly cover, wondering what delectables might burst forth upon biting.

Ocean City Seafood definitely won over our hearts and gullets. It's a pretty classy joint, decked out in chandeliers and nice fixtures, though you might not know it from the outside. From what I understand, dinner can get pricey, but we made out like bandits at $10 per person.

We digested over a wet walk through the neighborhood and picked persimmons from an inviting tree. Back in our weekend haven, we sipped on more tea with honey, relishing our sweet hot drinks together. Together and happy, I'm not sure why it took us so long to get here. Perhaps because we're both trying to make up for past mistakes.

Autumn and Apple Sauce

I stood on a familiar street corner the other day, listening to a song I hadn't heard in a long time and waiting for my turn to walk in a different direction. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of optimism and clarity, I knew, in a very definite way I hadn't been aware of before, that I had been given a chance to start over. Really, I had seized an opportunity and taken a chance and now I was back at the beginning of a path I began long ago, armed with new independence and an altered perspective. Yes, yes, Joyce coined the term "epiphany" so I could say this all in one sentence, but I guess that's not my style. I guess you'll have to put up with my ramblings.

It was a wonderful moment, a wonderful walk, and reminded me of my love for old things made new. Like canning and jarring fruit. I feel like it's one of those skills that gets recycled through society every couple generations so people can remember how to survive revolution, societal fracture or total apocalypse. This is my third year making and storing apple sauce, and I love creating it differently each year. Arriving in the same farmer's market each Autumn, I select apples to fill my crock pot with the mood of the season. It lets me contain in a pretty glass jar a fragile and distinct point in time.

The first year, I added a little vanilla extract and fresh pepper and went heavy on the garam masala, creating an interesting but over-adulterated taste. I'm not sure what that says about my state of being in 2007, but I was definitely learning the process. Last year, I wanted a clean, slightly tart apple flavor, so I pared back the spices to a sole cinnamon stick and added some extra lemon juice. I kept the lemon juice and single cinnamon stick this year, but added extra sugar, ground cinnamon and ground ginger. The result? Addictively sweet, like something out of a grandmother's kitchen. It tastes and feels quite a lot like the gooey interior of an apple pie.

That is, except for the occasional string of peel. I like to do a partial peel; it leaves more of the natural nutrients intact and imparts a vibrant red color. I feel similarly about chicken skin and apple peel, in fact. I love them both in small savory amounts, but too much can distract from a dish or, worse, taint the texture of a meal in an unappetizing manner. Next time, I would like to "savor" the apple's skin a little less and employ my peeler a little more. One always seeks perfection in the next batch. 

As usual, I started the journey with a trip to the Capitol Hill farmers market. Lyall Farms had a great deal: 10 lbs. of fruit for $12. I loaded the scale with 6 lbs. of apples, enough for about a batch and a half of apple sauce, and then topped off my order with some hard Asian pears (perfect for poaching) and several small sweet potatoes. From the apple baskets I took equal amounts of Jonagold, a large tart tasting apple with an almost pear-like texture, and the small but juicy Braeburn. From another vendor I picked up a few crisp Golden Delicious to round out my blend with their mild sweetness.

Leaving the farmers' market, my canvas bags brimmed with fruit and the last of the season's salad fixings. I was excited to return next week for the gorgeous carrots (there were more than half a dozen varieties, all different shapes and colors), parsnips and potatoes for a root vegetable soup, and some fennel to serve with fish.

I washed just over 4 lbs. apples (as much as will fit in my crock pot), peeled off the majority of the skin, cored them, rubbed them with a halved lemon (not entirely necessary), and sliced them up thin. To the crock pot I added just over 1/2 cup of apple cider, the juice of half a lemon and a cinnamon stick. Four or five hours later, I returned home to a perfumed apartment. The rich fragrance of apples radiated out from my kitchen and down the hall, making my building warmer and more merry, or so I hope. I added sugar, ground cinnamon, ground ginger, and tasted. I decided that more sugar and cinnamon were necessary and added more bit by bit until I felt the concentration of sweetness and spice was just right.

When canning, you can reuse glass jars and metal rings, but you must use new metal lids. All are immersed in a simmering pot of water for ten minutes. Then I work one jar at time, briefly removing my materials to a clean towel, filling the jar with piping hot apple sauce so there is no about an inch of air at the top, and sealing immediately. Wipe up any drips with a paper towel or clean cloth; a clean lip ensures a good seal. When all the jars are filled, I place them in a steam basket set over boiling water for the second sterilization recommended by food safety experts. The basket makes it much easier to remove the hot, heavy jars. Some sources recommend turning the jar upside for at least two minutes after they are removed from the heat. Then they must simply be left in peace. Leave them on the counter and don't touch them, just listen for the satisfying popping sounds as the seals get sucked in. It is the sound of a successful kitchen.

I can honestly say I've been putting forth an incredible effort to break in my new kitchen. I love the idea of how much it's been used before me. The pull-out cutting boards, solid wood drawers and painted-over counters have so obviously been used and loved, been home and hearth to a factory of flavors. I love being a part of the changing tide of tenants to employ this oven, put the outdated ice box to some kind of use (I shoved a wine rack inside) spill spices on the floor, and scatter the table with dishes.

For the most part, at least the home and the people part, life right now feels as fresh as Fall's just-picked apples. Of course, I'm still readying for winter.

Pie in the Sky

When I invited Minty and Trevor, a newly-wed couple from Walla Walla, over for dinner, I knew to expect extravagance. Whether I prepare for it or not, the kitchen seems to come alive with the delight of delicacies whenever we entertain each other. They are more excited about food and wine than perhaps any else I know. Though each can be appreciated on its own, food and wine are practically inseparable in Minty and Trevor's approach to life. 

This philosophy isn't articulated so much as emanated. Their pleasure is simply apparent in the way they eat. Though married, meal and bottle provide a counterpoint one another, creating not just a meal but a a complex experience. The names of wine blends and the remembrances of recipes are never just notes or name-dropping, but the photographs through which we capture an evening spent together. I love exploring and discussing the sensations of cuisine with the two of them, and some of my most memorable meals over the past year have been shared with this wonderful couple. I was rich with anticipation as another dinner date approached.

I mentioned extravagance earlier, but I have to admit I chose about the least extravagant subject for study. I made pizza. We did however find a way to add as much class as can fit on a crust: truffle oil. Drizzled in the thinnest stream, a steady spiral of opulence, it brought out the earthiness of mushrooms, the gamey pungency of the prosciutto, the sweetness of the tomato sauce and the saltiness of the cheese. I think I'll name it The Anointed Pie and recreate it the next time I get a hankering for the cheesy cuisine. We made two pies and I must admit that this, the second, kicked the first one's ass. 

Minty and Trevor arrived at my new apartment with their darling former roommate Kris, who had made cheesecake cookies for the occasion. Trevor bore a bottle of wine in each hand: Yellowhawk Cellar's 2005 Sangiovese from Walla Wallas and Nipozzan's 2005 Riserva Chianti Rufina, also at least 80% Sangiovese by legal requirement. I ushered them into the kitchen, the location of the evening's festivities, and from there the evening stretched out in a leisurely series of topping discussions, cooking experiments and wine tasting. 

Shopping for ingredients at Trader Joe's a few days previously, I had been staring at the cheese section for a while, clearly entranced, when an employee asked me if I needed help. Using him as a sounding board for my indecision, I asked for his mozzarella recommendations. For pizza, he approved of the whole-fat chunk I held in my hand, but said he preferred a fresh mozzarella log, sliced in rounds and suspended in water.  I bought both. The fresh mozzarella graced the first pizza, along with a slightly spicy homemade tomato sauce, the mushroom medley, roasted garlic and slivered fresh basil. I followed the Joy of Cooking's pizza dough recipe, which produces a deliciously chewy crust. I was only disappointed that it didn't brown as well in my new oven as it has in the past. 

When I checked on the pizza after 12 minutes, a ghastly pool of liquid was forming in the center! Cooking the mushrooms had apparently prepped them to release liquid and the wetness of the fresh mozzarella only made the problem worse. I mopped it up with some paper towels and popped the pizza stone back in the oven for a few minutes, a successful salvage. We agreed that pie #1 was tasty, but the weighted-down center required fork and knife for eating and we each had only one piece and then held our appetites in check while the second pizza cooked.

The second time around, I baked the olive-oil-brushed crust for a few minutes before adding sauce and toppings, a step that produced a sturdier pie. Though I love generous portions of tomato sauce, I spread my layer a little thinner than usual, then covered it with generous handfuls of the shredded whole-fat mozzarella. Next I added uncooked slices of portobello and crimini mushrooms, a sprinkling of pine nuts, thinly sliced prosciutto and, atop it all, a snowy grating of parmesan. The cheese melty, the meat crisp, the mushrooms dry and just-beginning to brown, I pulled it from the oven about 15 minutes later, added slivered fresh basil and ran a thin slow stream of truffle oil around the the circumference of the pizza, spiraling inward toward the center. 

Yes, you can slice up heaven with a pizza cutter. 

While on the first tasting I didn't exactly love the Yellow Hawk, it blew me away when paired with our Anointed Pie. We tasted the two wines back and forth, agreeing the Italian paired better with the garlicky pizza and the Washington wine with the truffled one. 

Satiated, the four of us sat at my little kitchen table, transformed from its usual window-side quietude into a suddenly uproarious cove for company, and we opened the third bottle of wine. We caught up on med school applications, law school accomplishments, sibling weddings and career-paths, restaurant reservations and my newest hobby, burlesque. They were coming back to Capitol Hill the following night to watch my burlesque recital, the crowning performance of a 6-week dance series and the opening act in a night of boylesque strip tease. I was girlish and giddy, to say the very least. 

If gastronomy and lust seem to be steering my direction in life, can I just say I'm in gastrolust? It's all energy, fueled and expended, over and over again in infinitely endless menus and dances. I've been glad to try some new hobbies lately, make some new friends, experiment with new toppings so to say, and glad to fall back on the friends familiar enough to be family. My cozy new apartment is proving itself well-suited for friends and food. Nothing else seems more essential in my life right now, and I'm so excited for the shared meals and stages yet to come.