Los Angeles, California
Last night I walked into Bogie's in Westlake Village, where I dance salsa on Thursday nights, and joined my friend, Joel, who was watching the class (there are always classes at the beginning of the night at almost all salsa clubs). The first thing he said to me was: No cake. At Bogie's, there is always, always cake. Birthdays are a big thing in the salsa community. And the law is, if it is your birthday, you get a birthday dance (scary thing where you are in the center of a circle of salseros and each one dances with you before handing you off to another who dances with you, then hands you off again -- with each salsero trying to top the other by the combinations he leads. I repeat: scary!), and you get CAKE. But, alas, there were no birthdays to celebrate on this rainy So Cal night. And, therefore, alas again, no cake.
It was a bad time to go without cake, as it was just after Thanksgiving and everyone was more or less so over with the pie thing -- especially me as I'm not a great fan of pie (except for pecan pie and that's another post altogether). And, as I believe I've written before, nothing, nothing, nothing tastes better than cake at the end of a night of salsa dancing. I've come to the conclusion that it is something chemical -- that you have evidently depleted your body of its essential supply of: flour, sugar, butter, and eggs, and it is rewarding you for restocking by gifting you a hallucinogenic blast of flavor. Seriously, salsa and cake go together like nothing else...except things that I should probably not write about.
But again, there was no cake. I took this as some cosmic connection to the demise of Hostess. I can't even recount all the recent conversations I have had with friends about the soon-to-be-disapparating Twinkies (or are they already gone?). It's been interesting because everyone has a staunchly-defended stance on this. We have our Twinkies people, and we have our Cupcakes people. I didn't question the Twinkies people on how they ate their Twinkies (because, frankly, I didn't care). But all of the Cupcakes people (like me) recalled eating their Hostess Cupcakes the same way -- by peeling off the frosting in one layer and eating it separately. There was no dissension from this, the way you would find in, say, the way people eat Oreos. The Cupcakes-eaters all peeled frosting. Like it was the law.
And now, a word about Snowballs. I didn't run across anyone in any of these conversations who liked Snowballs. Someone commented that the pink ones were the same color as Pepto-Bismal. Then, Billy summed it up: I didn't like Snowballs because they had that membrane. Right. Foods with membranes--not the best idea on the whole. So, it is a mystery how and why Snowballs stayed in the Hostess' business plan. Perhaps it was a regional thing -- like they were the thing in, say, Arkansas. It's a mystery.
My grandmother was an amazing cook and baker. I have probably written before, that her parents had emigrated from Prague, Czechoslovakia and she had learned to bake pastries from her mother and eight older sisters (seriously). I grew up close to my grandparents both emotionally, as well as geographically. Like, walking distance. And my grandmother was always baking. So, we didn't have a lot of Hostess (or Oreos for that matter) in either house. And had we had them, they would have been Twinkies. I have a sibling who has radar for chocolate -- responding to even the sight of it as if it were poison ivy. As a result, chocolate was rarely in the house. So my Hostess experience was about using a portion of my allowance to buy Cupcakes at our neighborhood Thrifimart, in Burbank, where my friends and I would walk home, peeling as we went, and washing them down with Tab or Diet Rite Cola. Another world.
Later, when I was in college, and working an early-morning schedule at my part-time job for Prudential Insurance, I often subsisted on Hostess Donuts, the chocolate ones, for breakfast along with coffee from the office vending machine. This was WAY before there was even the thought of a Starbuck's on every corner. And also long before I gave up coffee and became a tea drinker. The good news is that I also gave up the Hostess donuts. Surely not the best breakfast to have (though I did go through a blessedly brief Krispy-Kreme phase) in terms of health and welfare.
But none of this speaks to the lack of cake last week at Bogie's. Joel confessed that he was going to drop by Jack-in-the-Box for churros after salsa. Churros -- tempting, as they would hit the right button when it comes to the sugar. But they are fried, so probably not the best choice before bedtime. Not to mention that I have a salsa wardrobe which is substantially black, and learned long ago, the hard way (after a startling experience with beignets), that one should not mix powdered sugar with black attire. So, sadly, I went home bereft of cake. But here is the thing. There is always next Thursday! With a little bit of luck, there will be cake. I just hope it's not carrot cake. That would just be too cruel. Thank you for reading my blog. Life is short, eat cake and dance. Strike that; reverse it.
November 30, 2012
November 15, 2012
Flying Solo
Los Angeles, California
Writing a blog sometimes reminds me of those scenes in films where people happen into the mouth of a cave, calling out Hello-o-o-o? Is anybody there? Probably the one thing you surely wouldn't do if you happened to close in on a cave or mineshaft. When I was taking film classes in college, a recurring example of cinematic cliche was the young woman going up the stairs when she heard something scary happening up there. Don't go there, our brains are screaming at the hapless bimbo. But, in the case of blogging, you just keep stumbling along, hoping and trusting that someone is in the cave or even up the stairs, as long as there is someone. Somewhere.
What all of that mineshaft business happens to have in common with this post is a mystery. Except, as I've written before, writing a blog can sometimes be a lonely endeavor. But, cooking and eating alone should not be so. I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment off-campus in my last three semesters of college. What bliss! I had reached the end of my tether, roommate-wise, and living on my own enabled me to set up and stock my kitchen larder in a way that was like designing my own universe. Solipsistic beyond my wildest dreams. I bought bacon, and good cheeses, and cans of Smokehouse almonds to go with cocktails. Needless to say, I stocked a bar -- though nowhere near the extensive bar that we now run here. It was simple. It was well-thought out. It was fun.
Now, bacon and Smokehouse almonds may not seem like the epitome of good living, but again, people, this was college. It was also a time when I experimented a lot with ethnic cooking (which seems to be what we all did if we were cooking at that time). I pretty much had enchiladas down -- the story goes that I was eating them at the LA Farmers Market on Fairfax from the time I was about two, and making them since I was a teenager. But during college I acquired a paella pan, conquered a b'stilla, and polished all the rough edges off of my cioppino. I had a boyfriend who was also adventurous, food-wise, and off we went as I prepared something new and challenging, usually on Friday evenings after our week of classes and part-time jobs.
But, as much fun as that was, I also spent a lot of time eating alone. I could write about the time that I ate eleven flour tortillas with butter while I was studying for finals. But we all have stories like that, mine not much different than the rest, though illustrating my lifelong love of carbs-as-comfort. And, probably what I was eating alone in those days was not as good as what I eat alone these days -- when I am in Carmel, or feeding myself before I go out to dance.
I have two books that speak to this: Solo Suppers by Joyce Goldstein, which I gave to my mom after my dad died, and has subsequently come to me (along with more than a hundred other cookbooks which my mom had collected). And, a book entitled What We Eat When We Eat Alone, by Deborah Madison. This book is fascinating -- not a cookbook, but a collection of, well, what people eat when they eat alone. Amanda Hesser, of the New York Times, also wrote a chapter about this in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte -- a book I have been referencing a lot lately as I try out several of her recipes which are included in her memoir about meeting and marrying her husband. I find it an intriguing subject -- what we go for when no one is around, and we eat to satisfy ourselves.
Now I could confess to a dinner of Mallomars and The Macallan 18-year-old scotch, and that would probably make a better story. But, alas, I've never. Yet. It's probably more heinously boring to admit that my favorite solo meal is late breakfast or lunch, and it consists of a slice of good multigrain bread, toasted, then toasted again with a slice of fine extra-sharp cheddar or gruyere cheese, until barely melted. I slice this across diagonally, and eat the halves with cottage cheese and apples -- chunky, cooked apples (see blogpost: Come Sunday, available now for a limited time), though cranberry sauce will work in a seasonally-appropriate pinch. If I don't have the fruit, a glass of apple cider can step in. It's not perfect, but accommodations sometimes have to be made even when you are serving yourself (and, of course, more often when you are serving others).
Cranberry Sauce
1 bag cranberries (organic if you are so inclined)
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup apple cider
1 cinnamon stick
2 tablespoons Calvados
Combine first four ingredients in a medium saucepan. Cook over moderately high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. When it comes to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for about six minutes. Take off heat, and stir in Calvados. It will thicken a bit as it cools. Makes about a pint, mas o menos.
My new favorite dinner before salsa is a quinoa salad: quinoa rinsed and cooked; then tossed with arugula or chopped romaine. Add avocado, a handful each of halved Sweet 100 tomatoes and kalamata olives, and a sliced up cooked chicken breast. I toss this with lemon olive oil, a drizzle of sherry vinegar, a pinch of sea salt and freshly-ground pepper. Have also been known to substitute a roasted slab of salmon for the chicken, or some cooked shrimp. If I'm not dancing, I add a sliced scallion, maybe a handful of feta cheese or some marinated artichoke hearts. It's so easy and adaptable to your whims (the best thing about a recipe for solo dining).
My heartstrings are tugged at the thought of those who have no choice but to eat alone. Truth is, breaking bread with others is part of what makes food and dining so special. Though sometimes just the taste, along with the comfort found in the food I eat, is, well, satisfying enough. I have a frister who says that she has so little interest in food that she only eats because she has to in order to survive. This hits my heart in the same way that I feel about people going through life without dancing, though I realize that one person's joy is another person's misery (ask Billy how he feels about dancing). Still, when you enjoy something so intensely, it is difficult to accept or even comprehend that others can just take a pass. Alas, I have learned that such is life. Being smarter than me, you probably already knew that. If not, in spite of everything, you must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. Now go grab a friend and share something good to eat!
Writing a blog sometimes reminds me of those scenes in films where people happen into the mouth of a cave, calling out Hello-o-o-o? Is anybody there? Probably the one thing you surely wouldn't do if you happened to close in on a cave or mineshaft. When I was taking film classes in college, a recurring example of cinematic cliche was the young woman going up the stairs when she heard something scary happening up there. Don't go there, our brains are screaming at the hapless bimbo. But, in the case of blogging, you just keep stumbling along, hoping and trusting that someone is in the cave or even up the stairs, as long as there is someone. Somewhere.
What all of that mineshaft business happens to have in common with this post is a mystery. Except, as I've written before, writing a blog can sometimes be a lonely endeavor. But, cooking and eating alone should not be so. I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment off-campus in my last three semesters of college. What bliss! I had reached the end of my tether, roommate-wise, and living on my own enabled me to set up and stock my kitchen larder in a way that was like designing my own universe. Solipsistic beyond my wildest dreams. I bought bacon, and good cheeses, and cans of Smokehouse almonds to go with cocktails. Needless to say, I stocked a bar -- though nowhere near the extensive bar that we now run here. It was simple. It was well-thought out. It was fun.
Now, bacon and Smokehouse almonds may not seem like the epitome of good living, but again, people, this was college. It was also a time when I experimented a lot with ethnic cooking (which seems to be what we all did if we were cooking at that time). I pretty much had enchiladas down -- the story goes that I was eating them at the LA Farmers Market on Fairfax from the time I was about two, and making them since I was a teenager. But during college I acquired a paella pan, conquered a b'stilla, and polished all the rough edges off of my cioppino. I had a boyfriend who was also adventurous, food-wise, and off we went as I prepared something new and challenging, usually on Friday evenings after our week of classes and part-time jobs.
But, as much fun as that was, I also spent a lot of time eating alone. I could write about the time that I ate eleven flour tortillas with butter while I was studying for finals. But we all have stories like that, mine not much different than the rest, though illustrating my lifelong love of carbs-as-comfort. And, probably what I was eating alone in those days was not as good as what I eat alone these days -- when I am in Carmel, or feeding myself before I go out to dance.
I have two books that speak to this: Solo Suppers by Joyce Goldstein, which I gave to my mom after my dad died, and has subsequently come to me (along with more than a hundred other cookbooks which my mom had collected). And, a book entitled What We Eat When We Eat Alone, by Deborah Madison. This book is fascinating -- not a cookbook, but a collection of, well, what people eat when they eat alone. Amanda Hesser, of the New York Times, also wrote a chapter about this in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte -- a book I have been referencing a lot lately as I try out several of her recipes which are included in her memoir about meeting and marrying her husband. I find it an intriguing subject -- what we go for when no one is around, and we eat to satisfy ourselves.
Now I could confess to a dinner of Mallomars and The Macallan 18-year-old scotch, and that would probably make a better story. But, alas, I've never. Yet. It's probably more heinously boring to admit that my favorite solo meal is late breakfast or lunch, and it consists of a slice of good multigrain bread, toasted, then toasted again with a slice of fine extra-sharp cheddar or gruyere cheese, until barely melted. I slice this across diagonally, and eat the halves with cottage cheese and apples -- chunky, cooked apples (see blogpost: Come Sunday, available now for a limited time), though cranberry sauce will work in a seasonally-appropriate pinch. If I don't have the fruit, a glass of apple cider can step in. It's not perfect, but accommodations sometimes have to be made even when you are serving yourself (and, of course, more often when you are serving others).
Cranberry Sauce
1 bag cranberries (organic if you are so inclined)
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup apple cider
1 cinnamon stick
2 tablespoons Calvados
Combine first four ingredients in a medium saucepan. Cook over moderately high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. When it comes to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for about six minutes. Take off heat, and stir in Calvados. It will thicken a bit as it cools. Makes about a pint, mas o menos.
My new favorite dinner before salsa is a quinoa salad: quinoa rinsed and cooked; then tossed with arugula or chopped romaine. Add avocado, a handful each of halved Sweet 100 tomatoes and kalamata olives, and a sliced up cooked chicken breast. I toss this with lemon olive oil, a drizzle of sherry vinegar, a pinch of sea salt and freshly-ground pepper. Have also been known to substitute a roasted slab of salmon for the chicken, or some cooked shrimp. If I'm not dancing, I add a sliced scallion, maybe a handful of feta cheese or some marinated artichoke hearts. It's so easy and adaptable to your whims (the best thing about a recipe for solo dining).
My heartstrings are tugged at the thought of those who have no choice but to eat alone. Truth is, breaking bread with others is part of what makes food and dining so special. Though sometimes just the taste, along with the comfort found in the food I eat, is, well, satisfying enough. I have a frister who says that she has so little interest in food that she only eats because she has to in order to survive. This hits my heart in the same way that I feel about people going through life without dancing, though I realize that one person's joy is another person's misery (ask Billy how he feels about dancing). Still, when you enjoy something so intensely, it is difficult to accept or even comprehend that others can just take a pass. Alas, I have learned that such is life. Being smarter than me, you probably already knew that. If not, in spite of everything, you must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. Now go grab a friend and share something good to eat!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.