Blueberry Pie Addendum

Check out these pics. Some blueberry pie recipes call for 4 cups of fruit, some 5 and some 6. I like to use a deep pie plate and use 8 cups of fruit. I received some inquiries about the seemingly large amount, but look! This is how 8 cups will gently mound...I like my fruit pies to be Full of fruit:)

Come to The Dutchess County Fair

If you live within driving distance of Rhinebeck, NY, take some time out of the end of your summer and come to the Fair. You will find all the typical country fair trappings: farm animals, arts and crafts, turn-of-the-century displays of farm equipment, vendors, musical performances, all kinds of food - including my favorite kettle corn - and much more. I have appeared at the fair for 3 years in a row with various food demos. This year come by The Harvest Kitchen on Tuesday August 25th at 11am and 4pm for a guided chocolate tasting and demo. I will have books to sell and sign and believe me, you will get your fill of some truly delectable chocolate. If you do come and you read about it here, introduce yourself and let me know!

No Food of Life Today

Taking a break with the story postings...other stories in the pipeline coming up though, so come back.

Melons!

Thanks to ALL of you who tried to watch my Bon Appetit Melon segment yesterday on the CBS Early Show. (It is based on the At The Market article in the current issue). We got about 60 seconds in and were pre-empted by President Clinton's plane landing with the released hostages. A worthy thing to cut to for sure! We did go live for the midwest and the west coast got to see the segment too. My producer said the video would be posted. Can't find it so far, but I'm still looking. For now, HERE is the article and some recipes. And HERE is a great link for some tips on buying the best honeydew. Enjoy!

Food of Life Fridays: A New Weekly Entry

Poolside Dining

When I was thirteen my parents decided I should go to France for the month and stay with a French family. The father happened to be a top executive at Air France and was a business associate of my father’s, so that is how the host family was chosen. They also had a 16-year-old daughter who loved to ride horses, as did I, so all the adults agreed this was a good match.

Their summer home was in the south of France near Lyons. Their daughter had a cousin of her age visiting as well. I have blocked out their names. The social aspects of the trip were a disaster. The disparity between a 13-year-old and a 16-year-old were much greater than any of the adults imagined. (They should have just asked us kids). Throw in the cultural differences and I felt like a the odd gal out. We did ride some beautiful horses on the occasional morning (it would get too hot by midday), but the instructor only spoke French and my comprehension was not up to snuff, so frustration abounded.

The two bright spots were her stereo and record collection, which included Deep Purple and Cat Stevens, and also her uncle’s modest chateau. Her home was at the base of a small mountain. Up the mountain was her uncle’s place, within walking distance. On a daily basis we would take off in the hot August sun and begin our trek up the mountain. As soon as we got to the edge of the property we would be greeted, if that’s the right term, by her uncle’s scary Bouvier des Flandres. This is a large breed of dog known for its formidable appearance and protective nature. He knew this was his land and he would give us the once over every time, but either he was all bluff and no bluster, or perhaps he grew accustomed to our scent. No matter, he looked scary, but he never followed through on any of his apparent intent.

Once at the chateau we would head for the pool. It wasn’t opulent. Just a simple cement rectangle and just clean enough to swim in. I think us kids were the only ones who really used it. I was a very proficient swimmer and adored spending time in the water, to the point of becoming waterlogged with prune-like fingertips. But I had never experienced water like this. The first time I dove in, it took a few minutes, but it became apparent that there was something different about the water. I was used to pools back in the States, where, whether it was in a friend’s yard or at a public facility, there was usually some measure of chlorine that you had to contend with. This was not chlorine I smelled – or tasted. It was sweet and musky and was definitely of food origin.

I looked around and realized that the vines that wrapped around the railing along one long edge of the pool were grape vines. The vines hung over the water and very ripe grapes had dropped into the pool, perfuming it and my experience. I swam over to pluck one from the vine. They were smaller than the grapes I was used to seeing in the supermarket and quite firm. And they had that foggy look to them that some grapes and even blueberries get when they are on-the-vine or just picked. I popped one in my mouth, which puckered up immediately. They were quite sour, but I could immediately smell and taste the flavors that I had noticed before. I was swimming in grape juice! Fancy French grape juice! The grapes that landed in the pool were ripe to the point of being almost fermented, which just enforced the aromatic wine association. What a romantic notion, especially to a 13-year-old. No one else seemed to find this fascinating or as amazing as I did. I don’t think I even discussed it with anyone. It became one of those private moments you have as a young adult that no one around you is aware of, which suited me just fine.

The trip didn’t last. I was supposed to spend the month, but after two weeks I had had it. I was lonely and if I had to listen to Smoke on the Water or Wild World one more time I was going to explode. Arrangements were made for me to come home early. I got through it by taking long walks by myself along the country roads and talking out loud to my bull terrier Lily, who was at home. I was convinced she could hear me and I would complain to her about how no one there understood me like she did and that I couldn’t wait to see her. It offered me an immense amount of comfort; these “conversations” held me together just enough until I left.

I don’t think I even had a conscious farewell swim in the pool. The rest of the visit was just too miserable and cancelled out the perfumed water. But I still remember the aquatic immersion experience like it was yesterday, while I don’t even remember the people’s names.

Steel Cut Oats: Our Daily Breakfast

Several months ago, my partner David and I decided to forgo our rolled oats for steel-cut. We had been enjoying oatmeal as our first meal of the day for years, and all of a sudden we wanted more out of our dish. Maybe it had been roiling in our minds for a while, but it really just got to the point where we Had to make a change.

I went to the supermarket intending to buy McCann's as those were the ones I was used to seeing. And I also like the pretty gold and white tin, so call me a sucker for packaging. Much to my surprise, when I perused the cereal aisle, there were many to choose from. The McCann's were there, but so were Quaker Oats brand, Arrowhead Mills and Stop & Shop's organic line. I decided to go cheap and try the house Stop & Shop Nature's Promise Irish Style Oatmeal Steel Cut.Simply prepare as described on the package (of whatever brand you are using). If you want to try them the way our household does, add a sliced, ripe banana during cooking. Add a handful of blueberries and a healthy dollop of canned pure pumpkin right before they are finished cooking. The oats themselves should be soft, but still chewy - a bit al dente. Dish out into a bowl, add a scattering of nuts (we use walnuts, but pecans are great). Then, David adds a dollop of nonfat yogurt and enough soy milk to make it soupy. I prefer mine a bit thicker and just add plain soy yogurt. If there are seasonal fruits around - additional ones - I like to embellish. A bit of sliced apple cooked along in the fall, some stewed sweetened rhubarb stirred in at the end in the spring, you get the idea. Now some very delicious and very healthy foods are not so pretty, and this is in the category, but here ya go anyway:

When my July 1, 2009 issue of Cook's Illustrated arrived and I saw that they had a steel-cut oats brand review, I knew the cereal had become ubiquitous and that I had been connected to the culinary zeitgeist without even knowing it. Sometimes being in vogue is the best place to be.

Food of Life Fridays: A New Weekly Entry

Welcome to the first "edition" of Food of Life Fridays. A few months ago I was overtaken by a sudden burst of energy and wrote over a dozen stories in 3 days. They just poured put of me. These are stories of my life, many from childhood, and what they all have in common is food and the great impressions it has made in my life. Sometimes the food is startling and new. Other times it is simple, yet so meaningful. The stories describe travel experiences, first tastes and observations that I hope you will enjoy. Our first installment:

Paris and Champagne

Ah, Paris and true French champagne. They will always go hand and hand for me, and for good reason. My first visit to Paris was June of 1979. I was eighteen. My father attended the Paris air show every year at this time and he and my Mom decided that I would accompany him as a high school graduation present.

We were met at the airport by our dear friends, Pierre and Francoise Kostic, who whisked us away to their Parisian apartment. Within an hour of landing, with my head and body still reeling from the flight and jet lag, we were sitting down to my first local meal.

And what a way to start my love affair with Paris. Francoise handed each of us a glass. Well, maybe a goblet would be a better term. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that each one held an entire bottle of champagne. A whole bottle! She is one of those chic French women who know how to wear silk scarves and perfume without pomp or circumstance and the champagne, as indulgent as this was, was poured with similar insouciance. This was my kind of town.

I don’t recall much else about the meal. I remember watching the tennis open, on television in the background. I remember the cheese course as there were a few I had never tasted before. But that’s about it. After a bottle of champagne, I’m amazed I remember that. Yes I drank the whole thing, as did everyone else. The last thing I recall was all of us drifting off to nap-land right there on the couches. It is such a comfort to be with such good friends that you could fall asleep in front of them without concern.

The trip was to last about a week, and that was certainly not the only time we had champagne. In fact, since my dad had lived in Paris for years, and this was the first time all his friends were going to meet his daughter on their home turf, the red carpet was rolled out at every turn. We had champagne every day. Usually two times a day.

One night, Dad said he wanted to take me to one of his old haunts. We went to a club that featured live entertainment, settled into a table near the stage, and he ordered some champagne. We were sipping and chatting and all of a sudden my Dad asked me if I noticed anything unusual. I glanced around. “Not really,” I replied. He pointed out to me that the chanteuse that had been serenading us was in fact a man in drag. I looked closer. Yup, a guy. In sequins. No biggie. My Dad had asked me if I had noticed anything unusual. In that blasé way that only a self-important 18-year old can muster I reminded my father that I had grown up in the East Village of New York City. A man in drag was not unusual. Remember the movie The Crying Game and how it was such a big secret? I knew that was a guy the moment he came on screen. Being jaded at 18 when it comes to the ways of the drag community might seem unusual to you, but for me this was an almost everyday manifestation.

We were staying at the Hotel Napoleon on the avenue de Friedland, very near the Champs Elysees. We had a suite and I got the bedroom. It was a sumptuous room with white walls and white linens and all sorts of intricate molding on the walls edged in gilt. And a balcony from which I could see the Arc de Triomphe. I got to order room service for the first time in my life and requested café au lait and a croissant. I felt like a princess receiving the tray, and yet, at the same time, I don’t think I was as appreciative at the time as I should have been. I am sure this all cost a pretty penny.

One night we headed back to the hotel and Dad said he wanted to have a drink in the hotel bar before we went upstairs. I seem to remember that we were not at the bar proper per se, but in a small room where there were a few tables. It was much more private than the bar, and a place where you could have quiet conversation. I think it was the evening before we were to leave for home. He ordered each of us some champagne, and then, he started talking to me about my current boyfriend. It was no secret that he and my Mom did not like him. This had been mentioned before. But there was something about this conversation, with champagne at hand and the sophisticated surroundings that made the words easier to hear. I felt like he was talking to me as an adult. No patronizing tone, no parental prejudice, just genuine care and concern. It was a watershed moment where I realized that my dad was “for me” and not “against me” in those ways that teenagers think. It worked. I heard him. It all made sense. He was right; the current beaux had to go.

The Air France stewardesses (they were called that back then) offered us champagne on the way home. I passed. Is there ever such a thing as too much champagne? I don’t know about that, but the ambiance was just not right.