Flight of the Kumquats

There's loving someone, and then there's loving someone. You know that it's the purest kind, the loving-est kind, when you miss them if they're in the shower, or when they're asleep, or when they run out to get the mail. Not like creepy-stalker kind of missing, but the I-don't-want-to-be-away-from-you-for-a-second-because-you're-so-amazing kind of missing. That kind.

I was on a little trip last week to Los Angeles (you know, that sunny, hip place sometimes called L.A.), visiting my brother. Now he is a person I love. I wanted to power us into staying awake all night so that we could keep being together. I wanted him to stay dirty so that we could maximize our time. Thankfully, though, I was with him every time he checked the mail. We did end up doing lots of things during my short time there, and we certainly exhausted ourselves exploring the many hamburgers of that fair city, but mainly we discussed really important matters, like why things are the way they are, and what we can do about it. 

One of the most amazing things about Los Angeles is the vast array of citrus trees. They're everywhere, like long-haired surfer kids and those tight-jeaned bicyclists without helmets. But unlike the kids and the bikers, citrus trees are endlessly useful, and so lush, and such carriers of hope. I think, first of all, there are few things that make me feel as giddy and joyous as a citrus tree. Maybe it's because I'll never see them here in this barren Midwestern land of frigid pain, or maybe it's because the fruit is so bright and strong (and useful!). Either way, they're lovely, and especially lovely is the kumquat tree in my brother's yard. Okay, well, it's not his tree, it's a tree that lives in his neighbor's yard and hangs its branches over into his yard, dripping beautiful kumquat branches onto his side of the fence.

I admired the kumquats for days, and all that admiring eventually paid off: it got me five kumquats to take home in my purse on the last day of my trip. The kumquats were pretty good at traveling, but most of them got a little juicy and wounded as my bag was kicked around on the airplane floor for four hours. When I arrived home with my kumquats, I remembered that I don't even like to eat kumquats, which is sort of funny, but not uncommon for me (I tend to fall in love with the idea of a thing before I love the actual thing -- eggplants, for example, are beautiful to me, but I don't really love to eat them). But! I did have an idea. Precious fruit shall not go to waste! Especially these precious fruits that traveled all 1,739.76 miles just to be with me in Chicago. And I say, when life hands you kumquats, make a cocktail. I mean, that is the best solution, right?

So, the drink featured kumquats, but also had in it mint, agave syrup, vodka, bitters, and seltzer water. It was a nice cocktail -- smooth but excitable, although a sort of potent cocktail to have on a school night, I've discovered. I drank it and felt summery, although there were merely 45 degrees lurking outside, and I tried to remember all the reasons I live in Chicago, rather than somewhere sensibly warm, like California. I counted at least four reasons that I live here, and then concluded that would have to be enough. Since then, I have thought of one more reason, which is, of course, that my cocktail shaker lives here. I mean, I don't exactly miss it when I'm asleep or anything, but, well, it keeps me from steering myself off this cold cliff, this un-warm, odd-temperatured, citrus-starved land of no-brother access. It keeps me remembering, and memories, you know, were invented to hold love. You know, love love. The best kind.

Proof of My (Asparagus) Love

The Aura of the Dare

I know I tell a lot of restaurant stories, but you like them, right?

The thing is, I love to watch people interact (thank you for this, Dad). I'm a fool for it, in fact. I can't seem to get enough. And the more ridiculous the interaction is, the more I am drawn to it. Me, moth. Crazy people, flame. And restaurants? They are the best of venues for um, observing. (Yes, this is totally different than eavesdropping. One day, when you're older, I will explain why.) Ah, and when you're alone at a restaurant, it's even better, because there's no talking at your table that can cover up all the juicy bits of conversation wafting toward you, just begging to be snatched up and analyzed. 

The restaurant story for today features five college boys and some sushi. For college guys, they were relatively civilized, but still, they possessed that unmistakable collegiate goofiness, that they're-adorable-because-they-think-they're-so-cool-and-sophisticated-but-they're-not-at-all-because-they're awkward kind of appeal. (Ask my mom about this. She geniusly created an entire, brilliant theory about teenage boys.) 

They were all on spring break, I presumed, since the entire city is always crawling with cute, aloof college kids in March and April. I had the pleasure of being seated next to them. I was close. It smelled like lots and lots of horrible cologne. Their napkins were nowhere near their laps. They were treating their chopsticks like swords. It was perfect. 

They all ordered their sushi in a reasonable sort of fashion, but the real antics came when the food arrived. Because sushi, you know, is automatically served with every adventurist's favorite challenging explosion of excitement. Wasabi.

Let's think here for a second. It's hot. The power of it dies on your palate quickly, but it burns so viciously for a few short moments. In its traditional usage, it is dabbed onto pieces of sushi or maki and enjoyed in small amounts. In 19 year-old boy usage, it becomes entertainment. And what could be more entertaining than, you know, consuming the whole wad at once? In front of your friends, no less, who are daring you to do it. In front of me, other customers, and the staff, who all clearly support this kind of activity. Ah, the joy of the dare!

So. Four boys dare one boy to eat his entire amount of wasabi in one go. They egg him on for a bit, (I wasn't staring, I swear) encouraging, yet heckling, him into it. It takes a long time to convince him it's a good idea, and I may or may not have looked up from my book to say, Do it. My voice ended up sounding quite menacing and more threatening than I'd imagined it could have, so I tried to sound more like a girl when I followed it with, You won't die or anything. Do it.

Yes, I even shocked myself. I was turning into one of them! And it kind of felt oddly...good. For a second, I understood their entire mentality, the sheer rush of excitement you feel when you're on the edge of the absurd, the way your body kicks in to that animal-like competition mode. I starting thinking back. Have I ever dared anyone to do anything? Like, a real dare -- not just when I tell Matthew (jokingly, folks, jokingly) that I think he's too weak to finish my sandwich in addition to the two sandwiches he just ate. Have I ever really chanted, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! and meant it? And, if not, have I been missing out on the excitement of the dare for years?

But back to the wasabi. Mere seconds after my second lashing of DO IT, he does it. Just like magic! Wasabi bomb goes down the hatch. Not in any kind of traditional wasabi-bomb way (yes, there's a traditional way, and it involves actually feeling the pain on your tongue), but swallowed whole, with water, like a pill. He claimed he didn't taste it at all, and it took a few moments for a reaction to set in, but then it was suddenly sitting cozily in his organs, burning a little hole right on through, and he was sweating, and feeling uncomfortable, and the friends could not stop laughing. 

There's something so horrible, yet so charming, about the laughter that occurs after the dare. I mean, the person did it. They are still alive (see, that's what I said would happen!). They are perhaps a little uncomfortable, but they feel accomplished, though perhaps a bit resentful. And then the darers laugh, and the dared-person kind of laughs, and it's odd, like when the sun comes out while it's raining. It's so wrong, but so right. And my favorite part of the whole thing is that my over-analysis never occurred to any of those boys at the table next to mine. They were just basking in that alluring green glow of the wasabi, loving every second of the deep, pouncing aura of that dare.

Out Like A Loin

Well, folks, March came and went in a snap. It's still pretty cold out, my cough is still lingering, but it smells like magical, warm, alive spring, and the lake is starting to look sparkly and vibrant again. I will value these days in which I happily leave the oven on for many low, slow hours as I cook the hell out of a piece of meat and make the loveliest pulled pork or brisket. When I curse the weight of the dutch oven in these still-cold months, I will try to remember those blaring, blistering days of summer in which I avoid the oven like the bubonic plague, when lifting even an empty teaspoon feels like the weight of the entire earth.

Do you want your very own pulled meat?

A do-it-yourself manual follows:

1. Choose your meat. Buy it! Don't skimp. Get a nice meat piece (1 or 2 lbs). Pork is nice, as is beef. Turn on your oven to 250 degrees while you do the rest of the things on the stove top.

2. In an oven-safe pot with a lid, heat some olive oil and cook your meat for a few minutes on each side, getting a nice sear. (I don't always do this; it's not crucial.)

3. Remove the meat to a plate and cook an onion in the olive oil. Brown it and add a bit of water to scrape up the good bits.

4. Add spices. Go any flavor direction you'd like. For the pork tenderloin that posed for the above picture, I used a few tablespoons each of cumin, granulated garlic, granulated onion, salt, and pepper, plus about a tablespoon of chili powder, and a teaspoon of sweet paprika. Cook these spices with the onions and a smidge of water (things will seem a bit dry in your pot, but you want this. You need the dryness to get the flavor out of the spices.) Cook for a few minutes, adding a little water every once in a while, then cooking away the water each time. (Use larger amounts of spices and salt than you think is right -- there will be a lot of liquid in the pot too, so there are a lot of places for the spices to go.)

5. Add about 4 tablespoons of vinegar (any kind) and cook it for another minute. 

6. Add one 32 oz. can of tomato puree and one can of water. Keep cooking on med-low heat.

7. Cut up 5 or 6 carrots and 2 or 3 stalks of celery. Add to pot, along with 2 bay leaves, a halved jalapeño, 5 or 6 cloves or garlic (peeled), and a few sprigs of rosemary. Stir it all around.

8. Add meat to pot. Does it look submerged? If not, add more water to almost cover it.

9. Cover the pot. Put it in the oven. Write down the time that you put it in. Walk away.

10. Return to the pot a few hours later. Poke around. See if your meat wants to shred easily. If yes, you're done! If no, put it back in for another hour or so. When you're working with such a low temperature, and the meat is submerged, it will get soft and good, not dried out, so don't you go worrying your pretty little head about drying it all out and ruining everything!

11. Shred your meat in the pot, or take it out and shred it on the breadboard. Take out the bay leaves and rosemary. Decide what you want to do next. You can strain your sauce and add it back to the meat, or if the sauce looks reasonable and not too dangerous, just throw the meat back in. If you cooked a fatty piece of meat, the sauce will look pretty gnarly, and you'll want to strain it. You might also have loads of wetness compared to your meat, which is another reason to strain -- so that the meat doesn't feel like it's drowning.

Eat meat on polenta, or spaetzle, or a sandwich.
Think about how lucky you are.