And now, a belated mobile blog

This was the scene at the Paradise on Friday when Betsy and I were so terribly unimpressed by opening band Virginia Coalition that we wanted to blog about it. I now hope that I have this iPhone to blogger thing figured out and can share with you just a glimpse of how many drunk white guys were dancing (and I mean dancing with gusto) to this band which should never have emerged from a frat basement. Enjoy.

P.S. The Alternate Routes were well worth waiting for.

Cheesecake

While this post is a long time coming, the delicacy I shall describe is worth the wait. In March I ventured across the Atlantic to visit friends, Claire & Bamber, in England. Their mission in life, whenever I visit, is to convince me that the food in England is incredible, thus forcing me to spread this wild notion to the rest of the American population. While I still cannot warm up to blood sausage, there is much to be said for (and about!) British food.

Both times that I have visited, we have eaten at countless pubs. Most are dank and a bit cavernous, but truly in the best possible way. Once you light a fire in a place like that and procure a pint of proper English ale, the space suddenly becomes both cozy and welcoming, cradling you within 15th century stone walls.

Beyond the architecture, though, the Brits have a true appreciation for dessert: the course so oft forgotten at home. Instead of the chorus of "No, I really shouldn't" and "I'm just so stuffed," the Brits saddle up and eat dessert. On two occasions, while perusing the menus in two different eclectic English pubs, I made joyous, startlingly similar tart/sweet discoveries. In one, Gooseberry Cheesecake and in the other Cranberry Cheesecake.

The gooseberry looks similar to a green grape in color and transparency with the tartness of a cranberry. It is the sour flavor, when paired with the smooth richness of cheesecake, that really shined. Lesson learned: tart plus cheesecake = bliss.

Here comes the cold...

That opening line of John Mayer's "St. Patrick's Day" captures the beginning of November perfectly for me. After five days in Dallas, I awoke Saturday morning ready to return to land with hills, only to find a barrage of canceled flights and Weather Channel reporters being blown sideways through Chatham. Once our retro plane descended through the tumult of clouds and I finally got home, the heat was on in my building.

Inside, my living room was relatively temperate, but my bare feet were instantaneously freezified on the bathroom and bedroom floors. I HAD TO WEAR SOCKS. (I seriously just typed "sox" on the first try there.) Enter winter cooking.

Tonight, (well, most of this afternoon) I made chili with ground chicken, sweet potatoes, and black beans. Why?

• I spend many a day thinking of how I can incorporate sweet potatoes in to things, and this seemed to be the best way to marry this charming vegetable with comfort food.
• Black beans are the only beans I eat. Sometimes I don't have the energy at Anna's to tell them not to put the regular beans in my burrito, and I always regret it.
• Why no lamb? No beef? Cause I'm getting fat. Had to make the trade-off somewhere.

It's a good thing that Betsy, her mom, and Katie could come over, because I made a whole lot o' chili. I also cooked some polenta and warmed the solidified slices in a pan. Everything was delicious, especially the flavor and texture complement of the polenta.

We also started training for the EBWOWEC Custom House New Years Champagne Marathon by enjoying a bottle of Mumm blanc de noirs. Bubbles always soothe my chills.

So Good, So Good, So Good

Have you ever basked in the glow of Red Sox glory while drinking Mumm Napa demi sec on a Beacon Street roof? We have.

Were you interviewed, and now immortalized on redsox.com? We were.
http://boston.redsox.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20071029&content_id=2286428&vkey=news_bos&fext=.jsp&c_id=bos

When your fingers were frozen, did you continue to celebrate in the apartment, blasting Sweet Caroline on vinyl while the police with riot gear and horsies went by? We did.


Thanks for an amazing night, Boston! Re-sign Lowell!

I scream, you scream, we all scream for braised beef and root vegetables!

There's a prelude to the rest of this story, called "As long as his you-know-what isn't crooked."Tai from Clueless would not approve of this carrot from the farmer's market, but my braised beef and other root vegetables did. (The stalk of brussels sprouts upon which the carrot is reclining were chopped and sauteed with cumin seeds and butter earlier in the week.)

It's really fall, which I hate on behalf of my flip flops, but love on behalf of my comfort food palate. Butternut squash, sweet potatoes, and all other delicious orange things are just calling my name. About a year and a half ago, I had the best ever braised beef/veg dish at my aunt's house in Florida. I begged her for the recipe, and she referred me to the Silver Palate Basics Cookbook. Spendthrift that I am, I went to Borders and copied down the recipe. Notable: it calls for leeks, which neither she (nor I) included.

What really set this one apart for me was the layers of flavor, provided by bacon, red wine, and jam. The recipe begins with cooking bacon, and ends with sprinkling it on top. Once the meat is browned and carrots and onions caramelized, the recipe called for currant jam to be added to the liquid, but I used seedless raspberry with great results. I think the wine I used, Graffigna 2004 Shiraz from Argentina, was a great match for the dish. It was very open and smooth right out of the bottle; a great deal for $8.50.

If summer has to go, it might as well go out like this.

Tomato Porn: II

The tomatoes in my life these days are so juicy and fresh, they border on explicit. First, we have the fleeting drunken make-out, one night stand type of tomato. Market Basket, 99 cents. Sweet, tangy, perfect for the Mario Batali pomodoro recipe I've been looking to try (will advise should this happen).

Then, there's a whole 'nother world. The farmers' market heirlooms that I picked up today might be the most amazing I've ever encountered. Not only are they exotic and intriguing on the outside, but the flavor is unique with a balance of sweetness and acidity. I chose these three for pure aesthetics, as the descriptions of the difference varieties are generally useless. (That pepper on the lower left is a groupie.) I'd like to cleverly continue to describe them in porn terms, but I'm exhausted, and there's just one place to go -- the money shot.

Organized Religion Got One Thing Very Right

Throughout my life, religion has been something of a confusing topic. My father was Greek Orthodox and left his church when he married the tow-headed, blue-eyed Queen WASP (that would be my mother). I was baptized in a Congregationalist church. My family has been known to frequent the Sermon on the Mount. No, I'm not talking about Jesus and his faithful disciples, instead I refer to a priest named Skip who practically wears full ecclesiastic robes and an acoustic guitar while on skis; the service starts at the top of the mountain and concludes at the chairlift after various scenic vistas and sing-a-longs. As if this weren't strange enough, my high school was Episcopalian and mandated chapel twice a week for all students. You have never seen 250 teenagers look so unenthused. After all of this divine exposure, I still find little solace or joy in organized religion. What I can support that rose as a result of religion--no not just Jesus-- is Sunday brunch. It's the meal that one eats after the Sunday service is over.

This past Sunday, Liz came by my place for brunch preparations and consumption. On the menu? Stuffed mushrooms and potato latkes. The mushrooms were standard stuffing mushrooms. In Liz's travels she has come across the most inexpensive and fresh butcher in all of New England and perhaps the country at large. The hole in the wall is right in Davis Square in Somerville, and Liz picked up a pound of sweet Italian sausage for $1.10. As if this weren't incredible enough, my co-conspirator reached into her canvas satchel and then produced the most gargantuan potato I have ever seen. Think Russett, think two and a half pounds. In a word, spudtacular. After shredding only half of this (the whole thing would have provided food for 1/2 of Ireland during famine) with a standard grater, the potato was drained and then fried into pancake form. The sausage was also pan-fried along with sweet onions. This concoction was then generously stuffed into the mushrooms with a blend of mozzarella and cheddar cheeses. The remaining meat and cheese were tossed into the pyrex baking dish alongside the mushrooms for bonus snacking material. Accompanied by an oversized cup of coffee, the result of our Sunday morning ritual was nothing short of spiritual.