Smells Like Green Spirits

I've recently become enamored with the weekend cocktail. The past few weeks, I come home from work on Friday, gather together ingredients, perhaps prep up some herbs and garnishes, shake shots of liquor over ice and tinker up a tasty cocktail. I may tinker with it, but this little recipe becomes my go-to again on Saturday or Sunday, maybe a pre-funk drink before going out, maybe a cocktail with company after dinner or hell, after brunch.

I had bought a huge bag of pea shoots at my new favorite grocer - the super-cheap Hau Hau market in the international district. I came home with a $5 bag full of fruit and salad fixings and still-attached chicken breasts and I' think "how the hell does one person eat all these pea shoots?"

I found you can drink them.

Searching the internet, I realized I had all the ingredients for a cocktail called the Pea Shoot Gin Flower. The only odd part was combining equal parts pea shoots and cold filtered water in the blender to make a sludgy, vegetal puree. It tasted sweet and healthy and fresh, not very different from freshly squeezed wheatgrass juice. But let me tell you, this cocktail was bright green.

Green like absinthe in Moulin Rouge technicolor (though it totally lacked this ingredient). Green, appropriately, like new growth in a rainy spring. It even tasted like the color green. I made it, of course, on a damn grey day. In all the cocktail was very refreshing, and my only warning is that the delicate flavors can easily be overwhelmed by the ginger ale.

2 shots gin (or 1 if you're feeling wussy)

2 shots pea shoot puree

splash St. Germain Elderflower Liquer

giner ale

1 stick seeded cucumber and 1 sprig mint for garnish

Shake the gin, pea shoot puree and St. Germain over ice. The puree needs to be strained, and I had some trouble with it clogging my shaker - hopefully yours is better. Pour into a tall glass with more ice, garnish and top with ginger ale. Sip and feel refreshed.

Turning Over A New Crepe

"A crepe is one of the few things I've never attempted to make," I told my new sweetness. We were wandering the horribly named BURP, Ballard's "urban picnic." We passed by lines for pizza and ice cream, crepes and cupcakes, finally happy to sink our teeth into a burger and some poutine ("Sure, we can make it for you," Skillet's server said when I asked for the latter off the menu), but in general the festival was pretty pathetic. The Maritime sponsored beer garden was a sad cage, created to keep the children out and the money in. We made a lap, lined up in front of my favorite airstream truck, then returned to his apartment to sit on the outdoor deck, burger in one hand and beer in the other.

Somehow, a few short hours later, I was running away from my sweet boy. He tried calling me back, freshly-showered and shirtless in his doorway, and I turned once to look at him before I descended the stairwell. I stalled at the intersection, a waiting pedestrian, but didn't look back again. Though I knew he wasn't following me, I broke into a run while crossing the street, heart pumping faster than my feet as I beelined for the closest bus stop. The right route came almost immediately and I soon realized I'd left my wallet behind in the boy's apartment. Without my bus pass, I decided I'd rather charm my way back home than return with my tail between my legs.

My stomach felt awful on the bus and after. Why did I run away?

It's scary, you know, liking somebody.

I stopped at the gym and then walked home the long way in order to ease my stomach. Cashless, cardless, my emotions in chaos, I took a quick inventory of my kitchen, knowing I would inevitably end in the pantry with the jar of Nutella.
Staring at the jar, I recalled Steven and our morning after the Built to Spill show when I lied to my work, saying I had a dentist appointment and would be an hour or so late. "I'm gonna to spoil you rotten," he said excitedly. "I'm gonna spoil you with waffles." After the late night of memorable music and less memorable whiskey, I emerging from his shower, drawn to the kitchen by the sent of Belgian waffles. A new jar of Nutella graced his kitchen counter.

"No, not waffles," I thought, flipping to a crepe recipe in Joy of Cooking.

After the first crepe, it was pretty easy to get the hang of it. I had the wrist-to-pan rotation movement down, having pretty much mastered it at the age of 10 when I learned how to cook omelets. The key, and the hardest thing for me, is to be present and conscious in the kitchen. No multi tasking allowed, as these suckers only take a couple minutes on each side. I placed them on a warm plate in the oven and after the next crepe was safely swirled in the pan, I would use a rubber spatula to spread a thin layer of Nutella over half of the warm crepe. I'd fold the crepe in half, give it another dab of Nutella, and then fold it in half again so each one was folded up in pretty little corners. Top with more Nutella and some whipped creme, or maybe just some lemon zest.

I particularly liked them folded into quarters and stacked one on top of the other so they form decadent layers of alternating dough and Nutella layers, then topped with a generous amount of lemon zest and a dollop of plain yogurt. I love the tangy contrast, though some freme fraiche would be equally fantastic and some unsweetened whipped creme (or grand marnier or hazelnut flavored!) would make it scrumptiously dessert-worthy.

I tried to settle my mind before bed, taking comfort in my kitchen staples, always there for me when I'm in a financial or emotional pinch. I feel like if my parents ever made crepes or if I'd learned to make them at an earlier age, they would have been my childhood favorite, surpassing even my beloved french toast.


Basic Crepes (makes 10 8-inch crepes) adapted from Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker and Ethan Becker
Combine in a blender or food processor until smooth:
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup milk
1/4 cup lukewarm water
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
fresh lemon zest

Pour the batter into a bowl with a lip or one that can easily rest a ladle. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand for at least 30 minutes or refrigerate for up to 2 days. This allows the flour to thoroughly absorb the liquid and fives the flatten int he flour a chance to relax. Place a nonstick crepe pan over medium to medium-low heat. Coat with a little unsalted butter.

Stir the batter and pour or ladle 2-3 tablespoons into the pan. Lifting the pan off the heat, tilt and rotate it so the batter forms an even, very thin layer. Turn the crepe over, using a spatula or your fingers and cook until the second side is golden. Remove to a piece of wax paper or to a warm plate in a low oven. Continue cooking the rest of the crepes, buttering the pan and stirring the batter before starting each one.
It's a comforting and comfortable pattern. The crepes go quickly once you get into a routine. I'm definitely making these again next time I plan on serving dessert or maybe just a sweet breakfast in my home.

P.S. I went back to the boy's apartment the next morning. We have since made crepes toghether - both the Nutella described and savory ones with brie, thyme and port-simmered mushrooms. New things are scary, esecially in all this post-Bugs business, but as Julia Child said when flipping omelets (or was it hash browns?) "All you need are the courage of your convictions." I thought about this while flipping crepes.

Buttercream's Body

I apologize that April somehow slipped by without a post. I've previously mentioned that burlesque is a new hobby of mine and on April 17th I debuted as Betsy Dean Buttercream. Up until the performance, I was entirely consumed with choreography, costuming and cake props. I never knew that corset-shopping  and glue-gunning pink satin bows required so much energy!

I think of burlesque as the creation of a fantasy world where everything is more beautiful and sparkly and liberated than in real life. The main goal of my performance, which involved an Easy Bake Oven, a ridiculously oversized cake and tassel twirling while eating, was to be equally food positive and body positive. Though burlesque does raise a heightened awareness of the body, and the process certainly brought a few pangs of self-consciousness, I didn't change my eating habits in the weeks leading up to the striptease. I fully admit to some feelings of guilt after indulging in desserts, but part of Buttercream's achievement, I decided, is that she takes pleasure not just in eating food, but in the full bodily experience. Our bodies, after all, are inseparable from what sustains them.  

My relationship to food, and from food to body, is generally a stable and loving one, especially if I compare myself to some female peers, but it's always in flux. It's strange that my body should be a relative thing. Lying beside different men, my parts take on different proportions and my perspective of my own size can change dramatically depending on how tall or large or small my partner is. Burlesque has further altered my perspective,  forcing me to view and present myself as an object of beauty. First coming into this body, I never would have imagined such a thing, but the desire to dance crept up over the past few years, a secret, seductive itch.

I'm happy to've created two alternate identities, one a stripper and one a cook, and that their meeting place is somewhere inside me. Lucy and Betsy represent different facets of myself, but they both place the kitchen table center stage.