And now back to our regularly scheduled eating and blogging.... Yes, it's time for a cocktail recipe. You have to be open to inspiration from wherever it comes, so when my step-daughter left the remainder of a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey at the house when she headed back to college after Christmas break, I knew I'd end up playing eventually, if nothing else to speed the bottle, at last empty, to its recycled future (I am nothing if not a civic-minded drinker). As a kid myself (that is a legally drinking kid--the age was still 18 in those less MADD days) I had a bit of a Drambuie fixation--perhaps a way to sweeten my dad's love of Scotch, and may you Freudian mixologists have with that fact as you will--so I can see the interest in turning whiskey into liqueur. It just means you get to drink more of it, if nothing else. But the stuff is pretty sweet. So here is my solution, as pyschocandy is dandy, but liquor is quicker:
Just Like Honey Cocktail
(makes two--always make two, as either it's about romance or the lack thereof)
4 oz. Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey
1.5 oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 oz. dry vermouth (Noilly Prat recommended)
1 oz. Low Gap clear whiskey
lemon strips for garnish
Shake all the liquids with ice in a shaker. Split into two chilled up glasses. Add lemon strip as garnish.
This is particularly recommended for Monday, slightly damp evenings when you think a bit of a cold wants you, and you want to fight it off as tastefully as possible.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Day Four-ever
Time has slowed to a crawl, like trying to watch the dead run a race with no zombie in them. That's how this Thursday has felt, since I know tomorrow evening I go home to the land of carbs, of nightshades, of funghi, of the pickled and fermented, of the distilled and brewed. They will welcome me with open toxins, and they better stay open late. Sure, by the end the whole detox will only have been slightly over 100 hours, but this day alone felt like that.
The odd part is it's not so much I'm wracked with cravings. It's that I'm bored. So much of my life is about thinking about the next meal, shopping for it, preparing it, savoring it, and now it's like, "How do we dress up a green salad this time?" (Answer: go for an herb one complete with flowers.)
.JPG)
Here's tonight's dinner, about which my wife said, "Detox isn't as good as it looks." Alongside that salad is fresh local black cod, pan sauteed in a bit of canola oil that first fired up a mess of garlic, ginger, and spring onion (that's the crispy goodness atop). There was also roasted asparagus, Brussels sprouts, leeks. At this point I'm so sick of green I might turn away cash if it were offered (but I'm open to you trying to see if that's true). Everything tasted fine, yes, but I long for what I cannot have. The grass is always greener on the non-green side, I guess.
The odd part is it's not so much I'm wracked with cravings. It's that I'm bored. So much of my life is about thinking about the next meal, shopping for it, preparing it, savoring it, and now it's like, "How do we dress up a green salad this time?" (Answer: go for an herb one complete with flowers.)
.JPG)
Wide-Screen Cuisine
Back for its second year, SBIFF’s Film Feast
program features more than 25 restaurants, tasting rooms, and bars
offering special deals — usually three-course specials, but sometimes
even more elaborate affairs. It’s hard to highlight everyone, but here
are five very different approaches worth checking out:
Want to read the rest, then do so at the Indy's site.
Want to read the rest, then do so at the Indy's site.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Viva la Detoxico (Day 3)
Negotiating the fine line between will power and masochism is like tossing a two-tailed quarter into the air--someone's going to lose a sucker bet. Up to this point the detox hasn't been mightily miserable--avocado rights so many wrongs--but we were invited to go out for a friend's birthday tonight to the recently opened and ridiculously delicious Cielito (look for my article about it in next week's Indy). All along the walk there I practiced under my breath, saying, "Get thee behind me Satan," so I'd have my answer for when I was asked if I'd like a drink. And they do know how to make a cocktail here, not just margaritas but a lovely chili-infused-Bulleit bourbon-honey-lemon concoction that practically urge you to get sick so it can nurse you to health. From behind the bar, I believe all the worms in all the Mezcal bottles waved me a howdy, beckoning, but then I remembered you weren't supposed to hallucinate till after imbibing.
It weren't easy.
But I didn't give in, even if it took three asks to get water (the one at the bar ignored, then two at the table), and I needed water, bad. It certainly wasn't because of the chips, as I couldn't have those, despite my junk food jones for them (I remain a potato chip over corn chip kind of guy, but I am glad there's a separate chips-and-salsa stomach, or so I've been told). It was more the need to do drinking as a motion. Lord knows if I tried to detox for two weeks, you'd catch me drinking Shirley Temples, but even the kids got it over on me, as I couldn't drink all that juice.
So, it was guacamole, just from a fork, and not the guac with the pomegranate seeds and cotija, because even though that's a Spanish word, I know it's cheese. The secret, I've found, is to really relish each tiny bite, really think about eating and not just eat. Same with the amazing ceviches--there might have been a bit too much pickling going on, but I figure it's not breaking the rules too badly, eating mostly raw, very fresh fish in a bite that could barely cover a dime.
If you order the gorgeously prepared ahi tartare, it comes cylindrically, topped by micro-greens, with avocado (what else) sliced beneath and all that on a perfect pat of Peruvian purple potatoes. Someone will eat those for you, don't worry. But you and the tuna will get to love each other nibble by nibble.
Focus, thy name is detox.
It weren't easy.
But I didn't give in, even if it took three asks to get water (the one at the bar ignored, then two at the table), and I needed water, bad. It certainly wasn't because of the chips, as I couldn't have those, despite my junk food jones for them (I remain a potato chip over corn chip kind of guy, but I am glad there's a separate chips-and-salsa stomach, or so I've been told). It was more the need to do drinking as a motion. Lord knows if I tried to detox for two weeks, you'd catch me drinking Shirley Temples, but even the kids got it over on me, as I couldn't drink all that juice.
So, it was guacamole, just from a fork, and not the guac with the pomegranate seeds and cotija, because even though that's a Spanish word, I know it's cheese. The secret, I've found, is to really relish each tiny bite, really think about eating and not just eat. Same with the amazing ceviches--there might have been a bit too much pickling going on, but I figure it's not breaking the rules too badly, eating mostly raw, very fresh fish in a bite that could barely cover a dime.
If you order the gorgeously prepared ahi tartare, it comes cylindrically, topped by micro-greens, with avocado (what else) sliced beneath and all that on a perfect pat of Peruvian purple potatoes. Someone will eat those for you, don't worry. But you and the tuna will get to love each other nibble by nibble.
Focus, thy name is detox.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
It's Not Easy, Eating Green (Day 2)
In which, a mere 36 hours in, I become the not-so-jolly green giant. For it seems everything I eat and drink is green, from this mint tea with a touch of chicory (my liver says thanks, but it talks with a much more muted voice than my tastebuds, the Gilbert Gottfrieds of my body) to the kale and seaweed salad and green beans and Brussels sprouts and aovcados and leeks. True, the quinoa last night was black, with white curlies that sort of steamed off it, making it look like tiny wormlings amidst dirt. Luckily it didn't taste like that--it mostly tasted of nothing as it needed some acid, some cheese, something I'm not allowed to have.
So, yes, I'm in the whining phase of this process fully aware it's nothing like being truly hungry and that I'm doing it to myself. It's the old idea--disconnect from desire (that evidently is nothing but a School of Seven Bells album now, according to the internet). But that assumes that being human isn't all about desire; it's not some outside force, it's not a devil spinning our heads in the direction of want as Mike Oldfield eerily plays. Desire is us, our want elevated into something grand. Sure, we could just eat, but think of the show culture has turned dinner into, so many signifiers, from knowing which possibly gilded fork is for what purpose to the codes of home found deep in different sauces that explain where we come from, who we are, the meals we ate to get from there to here.
Of course, this denial is the ultimate sign of privilege--I've got enough money (mere fractions of a Mitt, but still) to play at eating as strange as I'd like, as long as I like. And the not liking is part of the like--I'm suffering for my own good, and whether it actually does me any physical good is almost besides the point. Perhaps I'm just out to prove Nancy Reagan right, and elevate Just Say No from a bumper sticker to a bumper crop of brilliance. No doubt, a bumper crop of lots of green green veggies.
So, yes, I'm in the whining phase of this process fully aware it's nothing like being truly hungry and that I'm doing it to myself. It's the old idea--disconnect from desire (that evidently is nothing but a School of Seven Bells album now, according to the internet). But that assumes that being human isn't all about desire; it's not some outside force, it's not a devil spinning our heads in the direction of want as Mike Oldfield eerily plays. Desire is us, our want elevated into something grand. Sure, we could just eat, but think of the show culture has turned dinner into, so many signifiers, from knowing which possibly gilded fork is for what purpose to the codes of home found deep in different sauces that explain where we come from, who we are, the meals we ate to get from there to here.
Of course, this denial is the ultimate sign of privilege--I've got enough money (mere fractions of a Mitt, but still) to play at eating as strange as I'd like, as long as I like. And the not liking is part of the like--I'm suffering for my own good, and whether it actually does me any physical good is almost besides the point. Perhaps I'm just out to prove Nancy Reagan right, and elevate Just Say No from a bumper sticker to a bumper crop of brilliance. No doubt, a bumper crop of lots of green green veggies.
Monday, January 23, 2012
A Lean, Clean Detoxing Machine (Day 1)
I was walking into my office building with kale salad in one hand, kombucha in the other, and I knew my life had taken a strange, strange turn. For you see before you (in words) a man who is doing something he often said he never would--I'm amidst a detox.
The reasons I've avoided one are as wide-ranging as the types of pork I enjoy:
1) It seems, if you follow food news, the one greatest rule is "moderation," so I try to do that.
2) It seems that if you avoid processed foods to begin with--can't remember my last fast food meal--you end up less processed yourself.
3) Despite the appearances, "diarrhea" does not rhyme with "yea!"
4) Pasta.
5) Cheese.
6) Days without alcohol. Which of course means I must explain, as you contemporary Carrie Nations no doubt assume I'm merely going to romanticize my desire to tipple. But if it's good enough for Europe, some wine or beer with dinner is good enough for me. Plus, too much of it is too tasty to ignore.
7) I'm from New Jersey, and don't want to move so close to the lightside of California, doing a detox. It's so cliche.
8) My wife wants me to do it, so like any not-quite-comprehending male, I dig in my heels. (Go ahead, make your catty little whip-snap noises now.)
9) Not everyone thinks a detox diet is such a good thing. Often those people have MD after their names. Oddly, the ones with MD after their names who are pro detox diets often have one named after them that they want to sell you.
Ultimately, though, I'm looking at this like going to a church my wife likes--I'm an unbeliever, but a little bit of others' faith might do me some good. Plus I just want to see if I can. Willpower doesn't have a "me" in it, alas, especially on a evening of a rainy day when the idea of a finger or so of St. George Whiskey sounds like an appealing way to warm up and wind down. This is a fight with my own bad self.
Luckily it's not some crazy Master Cleanse thing (I'd look funny even with a slimmed down version of Beyonce's body) and there's no dreadful powders involved (we only have one bathroom, so colonics are out of the question). We're generally following the Candida Diet rules, which, of course, leaves me singing Tony Orlando, and so I hate the whole diet even more. But they're relatively forgiving--even olive oil is ok--and the Brussels sprouts we roasted tonight we're yummy (even sans a vinegar tang, let alone some good pork fat).
I figure keeping a journal of sorts here in the blog would be a good way to discuss what this is like, why it's like, what there is to like, if anything.
Plus I've already got an out. This detox will be so short it's really just like a practice for a real one someday, as I won tickets to see Lucinda Williams in LA Friday, plus a gift certificate to Border Grill, and we're not passing up on very very good fortune. Let alone Mexican food and good tequila.
The reasons I've avoided one are as wide-ranging as the types of pork I enjoy:
1) It seems, if you follow food news, the one greatest rule is "moderation," so I try to do that.
2) It seems that if you avoid processed foods to begin with--can't remember my last fast food meal--you end up less processed yourself.
3) Despite the appearances, "diarrhea" does not rhyme with "yea!"
4) Pasta.
5) Cheese.
6) Days without alcohol. Which of course means I must explain, as you contemporary Carrie Nations no doubt assume I'm merely going to romanticize my desire to tipple. But if it's good enough for Europe, some wine or beer with dinner is good enough for me. Plus, too much of it is too tasty to ignore.
7) I'm from New Jersey, and don't want to move so close to the lightside of California, doing a detox. It's so cliche.
8) My wife wants me to do it, so like any not-quite-comprehending male, I dig in my heels. (Go ahead, make your catty little whip-snap noises now.)
9) Not everyone thinks a detox diet is such a good thing. Often those people have MD after their names. Oddly, the ones with MD after their names who are pro detox diets often have one named after them that they want to sell you.
Ultimately, though, I'm looking at this like going to a church my wife likes--I'm an unbeliever, but a little bit of others' faith might do me some good. Plus I just want to see if I can. Willpower doesn't have a "me" in it, alas, especially on a evening of a rainy day when the idea of a finger or so of St. George Whiskey sounds like an appealing way to warm up and wind down. This is a fight with my own bad self.
Luckily it's not some crazy Master Cleanse thing (I'd look funny even with a slimmed down version of Beyonce's body) and there's no dreadful powders involved (we only have one bathroom, so colonics are out of the question). We're generally following the Candida Diet rules, which, of course, leaves me singing Tony Orlando, and so I hate the whole diet even more. But they're relatively forgiving--even olive oil is ok--and the Brussels sprouts we roasted tonight we're yummy (even sans a vinegar tang, let alone some good pork fat).
I figure keeping a journal of sorts here in the blog would be a good way to discuss what this is like, why it's like, what there is to like, if anything.
Plus I've already got an out. This detox will be so short it's really just like a practice for a real one someday, as I won tickets to see Lucinda Williams in LA Friday, plus a gift certificate to Border Grill, and we're not passing up on very very good fortune. Let alone Mexican food and good tequila.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)