New Hampshire pig roast and Boston's North End

Proving my theory that everything good comes from Vermont.

I spent last weekend visiting my friend James in the wilds of New Hampshire, and the decidedly unwild streets of Boston. Actually, that’s a lie. We did witness a little wildness in the form of an unsuccessful electronics store robbery. It ended when the owner chased the guy down the street and he dropped the merchandise.

Saturday began with a breakfast sandwich from the only gas station in Canaan, New Hampshire. It was assembled by two very old woman; one with a hump and one with elaborate hair that had been teased into hundreds of tiny blond curls. We also picked up a bottle of Moxie, a cola-colored soda which is made in the South but available in the East, and which I would later sample and find to be almost intolerable. It tastes like a dirty root, with a touch of herbal cough drops and a startlingly bitter finish.



There was a giant party being held in the woods that day by James’s relatives, so we made our way over around noon and from that point on basically lay around drinking and eating until the sun went down. The property had everything: volleyball, badminton, ping pong, kayaks, canoes, a jukebox, a margarita shack, and most importantly, an itinerant pig roaster who showed up around 2 p.m. with a giant hunk of pork already partially smoked. Some roaming dogs and I watched, salivating, as he tied the pig to his homemade contraption and fired up the hickory. Here are some pics:



As we waited for the pork to finish becoming incredibly freaking delicious and tender, we kayaked around Tewksbury Pond and saw this loon:


Our kayaks had beer holders. I liked that.

Here’s the pork getting prepped for dinner:

See how it’s actually served in its own skin? Genius.


There were lots of salads, beans, dips and breadstuffs to accompany the pork. It gave me faith in America again to see a giant table filled with homemade foods. The potlucks I’ve been to lately are usually little more than a collection of grocery-store readymade foods that haven’t even been taken out of their plastic containers.


In Boston, we spent a lot of time in the North End eating Italian food. We had a fairly good meal at Terramia, but it wasn’t mind-boggling. Luckily the gelato (pistachio and bacio) we found down the street made up for the slightly underwhelming dinner. The next day I picked up some biscotti at Maria’s Pastry Shop, and we ordered giant subs from Bova’s that were stuffed with things like prosciutto, mortadella, mozzarella, and basil. Very satisfying.




Many of you know I have historically bad luck with flights. On this trip, I am happy to say that my plane averted extremely long delays in the air by managing to land approximately three minutes before a giant storm hit O’Hare. As I was exiting the terminal, the thunder and lightning became so intense that the airport basically shut down for an hour. You can imagine the fallout this caused. Just in case you can’t, here’s an idea:


I smugly proceeded to the baggage claim, pitying all the poor bastards who were going to be delayed hours and hours in the airport. I began to wait for my bags. And wait. And wait. Little did I know that when lightning strikes the area around the airport, the baggage handlers aren’t allowed to unload the planes. I received my luggage approximately one and a half hours after I landed, all traces of smugness completely erased and replaced with fatigue and irritation. But the memory of that pork made it all worth it.

To Carrie and Ryan: The kind of toast you can't eat

I spent this weekend in Denver taking part in the wedding of one of my best friends. Lots of people stood up at the rehearsal dinner and made alternately silly and teary toasts. I chickened out because I hadn't thought to write anything and I'm not very good off the cuff. But later that weekend, after the madness of the ceremony and the reception had passed, I couldn't stop rehearsing a now-obsolete toast in my head. I kept digging through my memories and recalling anecdotes from the history of my friendship with Carrie that I wish I had been able to share on Friday night. Many of them involve food. So, without further ado, here are a few.

My most powerful mental snapshots of Carrie involve travelling. We have travelled vast distances together, and I mean that literally, rather than in the sense of emotional growth. In that respect, we have not travelled very far beyond the place where our friendship began: in history class during our junior year of high school, when we'd trade the dumb cartoons that we'd drawn on our notebooks and sing stupid songs under our breath as our teacher droned. We still sing, but now it's to stuffed animals, pets, boyfriends and even husbands. So yeah, there's no growth or maturity here.

In college, we both spent a year studying in England. I saw Carrie frequently during this time because she'd come up to visit me in London on weekends to get her party fix before heading back to the more sedate city of Brighton. We'd often begin our nights of debauchery with dinner at the EuroTandoori, a cheap curry house across the street from the King's Cross Tube stop near my dorm. I'd order a sweet martini (god knows why), Carrie would get a glass of cruddy house white wine, and we'd share a collection of insanely spicy dishes that were guaranteed to create (for me, at least - Carrie has always had a remarkable bounce-back ability from most kinds of excess) a fiery, toxic episode of gut-wrenching pain that somehow never seemed to strike until the next morning. Despite this, our EuroTandoori dates always seemed like the perfect way to commence these nights of clubbing and excessive alcohol consumption.

Later that year, we backpacked through Europe together. One day we took the train from the south of France to Florence. Carrie grew hungry during a stop somewhere in northern Italy, and bought a jar of Barilla pasta sauce and a bag of breadsticks at a little grocery for a snack.

(Incidentally, Carrie is a masterful snacker. Once I came home from work to find that she'd propped a giant watermelon in my sink, hacked into it and eaten most of it using no other utensil than a small fork.)

Anyway, back in Italy, our train arrived, and we squeezed into a car and found seats opposite a group of cute Italian sailors. I'll never forget the way their expressions turned from flirtatiousness to a kind of fearful fascination as Carrie ripped into the bag of breadsticks and began swirling them vigorously in the open jar of sauce. She proceded to defame their national cuisine in this manner without a trace of self-consciousness until the crackers were gone, at which point she sat back contentedly, covered in crumbs from head to toe. I will always admire her gumption in these sorts of situations.

And, finally, a few months ago I had the pleasure of inviting myself along on a trip with Carrie and Ryan to Tulum, Mexico. Lately, Carrie has developed an insatiable affection for all children and small animals, and by the time we departed I think every toddler and dog in the Yucatan had received an approving coo or a pat on the head. Once we stopped for lunch in town at an Argentinian steak place, and while we were eating a mangy stray dog wandered in and began begging for scraps. Carrie slipped him a few pieces of steak and he took up residence beside our table. The staff kicked him out, but he returned a few minutes later. Even I gave him an occasional scratch. He was just so pathetic. Carrie continued feeding him until our waiter came over to reprimand her.

"Please, you cannot feed this dog. He is very sick."
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"He has a disease. How do you call it? Herpes!" Our hands snapped back from the dog's head like a rubber band.
"See this?" The waiter pointed at the floor, where we noticed a small trail of blood leading out to the street. "It is illegal for us to have him here because it is dirty. I am sorry."

I'd had my fill of canine affection for the day, but even the risk of communicable disease didn't stop Carrie. She wrapped up her meat and fed the dog out in the street after our meal was over, herpes be damned.

I can't really execute a graceful transition from herpes to warm wedding wishes, so I won't even try. Congratulations, Carrie and Ryan!

Life Lessons: The Fragility of the Frangipane Tart

I made this Frangipane Tart with Strawberries and Raspberries last week. I have been gleaning many of my recipes from Epicurious because my beloved cookbook collection has been languishing in storage (along with pretty much everything else I own) since last September. Funny, that's about when I started this blog. Hence the "migration" part of the title, I suppose. Migrants generally don't tote along garages full of crap on their adventures, and so I am reduced to typing in things like "strawberries raspberries" into the Epicurious search engine and seeing what appears. If it has earned three and a half forks or more, I just might take the plunge.

My mom brought home large quantities of dangerously peaking fruit from Michigan, and something needed to be done quickly. The raspberries were turning darker by the hour, and the strawberries were starting to get that pale, withered aspect that is heart-breaking to see when you are painfully aware of how short their season is.

Epicurious suggested the frangipane tart, and who was I to argue? It came out quite deliciously, and the extra frangipane and pate brisee also lent themselves to being transformed into some delicate, rich cookies. However, I learned two important lessons from this particular experiment (and isn't that what cooking always is? A crazy experiment in an entirely uncontrolled environment?) that I will now share with you:

1) Fruit tarts really should only be attempted with the most gorgeous and perfectly ripe (or even slightly underripe, I suspect) fruit one can find. Overripe fruit should not be trotted out and put on display for all the world to see. Instead it should be encouraged to remain in the shadows and contribute its strengths in more subtle ways.

2) When it is in the low '90s with high humidity and for some perverse reason nobody in the house wants to turn on the air conditioning, do not leave a pretty tart that has been bedecked with already-peaking, exhausted fruit out on the countertop overnight. If you do, you will find that a thin layer of fuzzy white mold and a fruit fly cotillion will have rendered the creation absolutely repulsive and inedible by morning.

The End.

The haunting Sichuan peppercorn ...now available in the U.S.

A few days ago I read somewhere that Sichuan peppercorns were finally approved for importation into the U.S.; they had been banned for several decades because they carried bacteria that might harm citrus fruits. I have long wondered about them because food writers always seem to describe them so reverentially; I recall that somebody somewhere even went so far as to call their aroma “haunting”. I don't think I could say that without giggling, or at least not without using an extremely melodramatic English accent.

A few months back I had inquired of my friend Jason, currently living in Shanghai, whether he might be willing to mail me some of this dangerous contraband. He agreed, but that was the last I heard about it. What could he possibly have to do that’s more important than mailing a packet of banned spice to his desperate friend in Chicago, I ask? He was probably too busy dining at Hooters.

Anyway, it no longer matters, because I was able to procure the elusive and haunting Sichuan peppercorns a mere two blocks away from my place of employment at The Spice House in Evanston, IL. As soon as I walked into their wonderful shop, I darted directly over to the prominent Sichuan peppercorn display and took a big, long whiff. The odor is indeed quite powerful and complex (insert pretentious English accent here). It’s gingery and citrusy, with a slight peppery tickle, even though they are not technically peppercorns but are actually the bud of a shrub.

The wildest thing, though, is what happens when you pop one in your mouth. Your tongue kind of dies. Not because they are particularly spicy, but because they create an odd numbing sensation that is, I have to say, a little disturbing the first time it happens. I just wasn’t sure when I was going to regain control over my taste buds. But it soon passed.

I have to think that this peppercorn news must be about as exciting as it gets over at The Spice House. I wonder if there are spice trade magazines trumpeting the triumphant return of the Sichuan peppercorn to American shores. Is there even such a thing as a spice trade magazine? If there is, the cover probably features sexy women dusting themselves with Vietnamese cinnamon and tomato powder. Or maybe that only happens at the spice trade shows. Inquiring minds want to know.

Anyway, I spent the rest of the day at work sneaking the package out of my bag for occasional sniffs. It’s just such an odd scent. Some of us who lack sophistication and who are acquainted with the world of vice have even described it as not dissimilar to, and I quote, "kind bud" (and that should NOT be spoken in a fake English accent, but rather with a West Coast back-of-the-throat laxity). I'll leave that comparison up to you.

That night I asked for Sichuan peppercorn recipe hints on the fabulous LTH Forum, and received the usual lightning-fast, helpful response. That site has been responsible for more successful meals in my life than any other, I think, and I don’t even have a link to them on this blog! Someday...

The dish I made was from Grace Young’s The Breath of the Wok, and it was superb – a classic chicken stir-fry that really showcased the complexity of the peppercorns. Plus I finally got the heat cranked up high enough under the wok to actually stir-fry, instead of just creating that disappointing combination of sizzle and steam that happens when I overload the wok and wimp out on the flame. Flame is now my friend! Chicken thighs are also now my friend. I was slightly fearful at first because I'm not a big dark meat fan, but now I know what the hell Chinese restaurants have been using in my kung pao lo these many years. Thigh meat is rich and tender and much more forgiving than breast meat. Combined with the haunting, elusive Sichuan peppercorn, it becomes very delicious indeed.

Encased meats cultural activity

I have never tried currywurst, but I have no doubt that it deserves its own museum.

My First Meme: The Cook Next Door

Until today, Food Migration has been a food blogging meme wallflower. My blog has watched glumly from the sidelines as other more popular and good-looking blogs have been asked to answer a circulating list of questions relating to their owners' eating habits and history. Food Migration has remained in the shadows, sipping punch and trying to look cool, but all the while she has been secretly hoping somebody would ask her to join in the fun. And now, Amy of Cooking With Amy has crossed the dance floor and broken the ice. Thank you, Amy! (This meme originated at the blog Delicious Days).

To be honest, I'm still not quite sure what "meme" means. I guess I could research it, but I prefer to speculate that it is either a) a made-up internet word, or b) one of those scary graduate school words like philology or liminal that I repeatedly look up and then forget the meaning of.

Anyway, on to the questions. (Is a meme just a list of questions that you get to answer self-indulgently in the name of contributing to the blogging community? If so, I'm all for it, cause this blog is all about self-indulgence, if you haven't already noticed...)

What is your first memory of baking/cooking on your own?
Baking bread in third grade. I checked out a bread-baking book from my elementary school library over and over and made white bread that had a long slit in the crust which I would brush with honey and butter before baking. I don't really remember cooking anything before that, and I have no idea what inspired me to start baking bread to begin with, but the smell of those first loaves is burned into my brain forever. I had to stand on a stool so that I was tall enough to get leverage for kneading.

Who had the most influence on your cooking?
My mom influenced me by absolutely encouraging me to cook anything I wanted when I was growing up because then she wouldn't have to (she doesn't like to cook). She also took me out to loads of restaurants when I was little, so I got a lot of exposure to new and fancy foods through her. My dad probably supplied my love-to-cook genes and my tendency towards gourmandism, as well as my enthusiasm for ethnic foods and spice.

Do you have an old photo as 'evidence' of an early exposure to the culinary world and would you like to share it?
Um, not really, but I will because I want to do this meme thing right. A bit of background: this first Christmas card was produced when I was in fourth grade (note the uber-hip Esprit shirt):

Now, here is my parent's Christmas card from 2003. I was 26.

It is the same picture! The same pie, in fact! The only change is the improved orthodonture! Actually, the pie I made in fourth grade looks better than the one at age 26, but I must tell you I was baking in an extremely unfamiliar and temperamental oven in St. Louis that year, so cut me some slack for the burned bits, at least. Plus, that wine glass I'm holding probably wasn't the first of the night. Family gatherings, you know.

I show these to you to provide the required proof of my interest in cooking at a young age, but also to demonstrate how mortifying it is to have parents that insisted on making me the focus of their Christmas card at age 26. My friends mocked me unceasingly after that little number arrived in their mailboxes. I made my mom promise never again. For the good of the meme do I share with you this horrifying morsel from my past.

Mageiricophobia - do you suffer from any cooking phobia, a dish that makes your palms sweat?
I don't think I could eat a raw egg or an eyeball without gagging (or balut, which combines the two into one disgusting package) but other than that, I'll try anything. Not a fan of beets and raisins, though.


What would be your most valued or used kitchen gadgets and/or what was the biggest let down?
Most valued: rice cooker, microplane grater for parmesan and zesting, garlic press, Le Creuset pink sparkly spatula, KitchenAid mixer, jadite pie pan. The pie pan and spatula make me happy every time I use them. Who can argue with that?

Biggest let down: I almost never use my blender, and I have never found a decent and affordable espresso machine. I also hate gimmicky shit, such as anything sold on a informerical, or anything dedicated to helping you cook things in the microwave.


Name some funny or weird food combinations/dishes you really like - and probably no one else!
Broccoli with mayonnaise, and strawberries with brown sugar and sour cream in the summertime. These are family favorites but everybody on the outside seems to gag when I mention them. I also love large-curd cottage cheese sprinkled with Tabasco sauce and black pepper.


What are the three eatables or dishes you simply don't want to live without?
- Beef teriyaki combination dinner from Akai Hana
- Pho tai
- Brownies, or pretty much any other dessert involving copious amounts of chocolate

Your favorite ice-cream
Pumpkin ice cream with hot fudge from Miller's ice cream stand near Oberlin, Ohio

You will probably never eat...
Balut! Not if I can help it... and I will never eat ais kacang again, after attempting it in Malaysia. I'm sorry, but that was soo icky.

Your own signature dish
Gosh, I don't think I have one. At this stage of the game I just don't repeat recipes often enough. I'll have to work on that.

A common ingredient you just can't bring yourself to stomach
Beets! Raisins!

Which one culture's food would you most like to sample on its home turf?
Italy's. I hear all these wonderful things, but the one time I was there the food was unmemorable. We didn't hit the right spots.


The people I am tagging are:
Yum!
Folkfood