Category Archives: Food

July 28, 2011 · 12:05 pm

Torte tango

If you’ve been following the Nymph this week, you’ve now learned at least two things about the writer: one, that there is an abundance of musical talent in my family that has eluded me with a wide swath, and two, that I make a good pesto torte, which we agree is more aptly called a cheese loaf. If you’ve read this week, you also know I have a fondness for all things Spanish.

To further illustrate these tidbits—and because you know I like occasionally to share the clever writing of others in this place—I must share something that brings these morsels to life.

Like my father, his brother has a gift for parody. My uncle wrote me one when I got married and another for my 40th birthday. After we spent time at his place over the weekend, enjoying food and music, he sent over another—in honor of my pesto torte.

Imagine a tune similar to “Jalousie.” (Among the popular lyrics set to this instrumental tango are: “Jealousy, night and day you torture me! I sometimes wonder, if this spell that I’m under can be only a melody, for I know no one but me has won your heart but, when the music starts, my peace departs, from the moment they play that langourous strain, and we surrender to all its charms one again. This jealousy that tortures me is ecstasy, mystery, pain!”)

If you don’t remember it, the melody goes something like this. Join me in listening, while reading along the lyrics of “Monica’s Spanish Tango.”

“Pesto torte?” I snorted
“A pesto torte?”

They had come for a visit;
I had asked her “what is it?”

It was so beautiful, I must report
I adored her and her “pesto torte”

The only trouble was
It seemed too pretty to eat

Still, I took a slice and shouted
“Hold the fort!”
It didn’t taste like a “pesto torte”

I was thrilled with a rapture
That no title could capture 

And I’m lost in the language of España
My tongue trips and slips
Like the heel on the peel of a banaña

In short
It’s not a pesto torte

I’m a linguistic oaf
And I love love love
Monica’s
Cheese-loaf

 Olé!

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July 27, 2011 · 7:20 am

El plato ostentoso

I gather the Spanish gastronomic community is deeply mourning the closing of El Bulli restaurant. For 50 years in Catalonia, El Bulli created culinary inventions that inspired chefs worldwide.

If you like food or if you like Spain, read The New York Times story about El Bulli; you’ll be captivated. During the short time I attended university in Spain, I lived on dorm food and bread and cheese. Oh, to have had the chance to go back with a little jingle in my pocket to indulge in some real cocina española.

If you like food and the words that describe it, check out Slate’s recent piece on the names of El Bulli’s menu offerings. This one caught my eye; then kept me entertained for way too long.

We’ve talked in previous posts about the wording of restaurant menus, about which you shared some of your favorites, some with tongue in cheek, hold the beef.

In the Slate piece, Jeremy Singer-Vine muses that dishes bearing such names as “Irish coffee of green asparagus and black truffle jus” cry out for satire.

Singer-Vine took the names of some 1,200 El Bulli dishes and created a technological algorithm that generates satirical sound-alikes. Though it’s not quite ready for the Wii, you can go online and play a guess-the-real-name game.

Because we have talked recently about simple versus pretentious language, I thought you might enjoy this timely diversion.

It also got me thinking about the name of my signature dish. 

In my social circles, I’m known for my pesto torte. It wasn’t mine originally, but because I have no one to whom to attribute it, and because I’ve made more than 50, and because I don’t know anyone else who makes it, it’s mine.

The problem is, when I say “pesto torte,” no one ever knows what it is. It’s fair to say some people know neither pesto nor torte.

My son’s girlfriend calls it “cheese loaf.” And you know what? That’s exactly what it is—cheese stuffed inside cheese, prepared in a loaf pan (layered with enough other ingredients to almost justify the fancy name).

I took one to my aunt and uncle’s last weekend. As I was setting it on a platter, someone said, “It’s beautiful; what is it?”

I said, “Pesto Torte,” which didn’t tell anyone a thing.

“What does that mean?”

I threw the question to my son’s girlfriend who said, “cheese loaf.”

Aha. Everyone knew immediately. Kind of like in My Big Fat Greek Wedding: “It’s a bundt.” (After several rounds about, the realization, “Oh, it’s cake!”)

In El Bulli’s defense, who’s going to pay 50 euros for a glass of asparagus juice?

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July 18, 2011 · 12:46 pm

No secrets

Having just opened today’s mail, I eyeballed a credit card statement for accuracy before I put it in the queue for payment.

There was a charge I didn’t recognize, from a hotel in which I stayed on a recent business trip. All expenses for the trip had been put on my business card and charged to my client. This one, for $39.77, was a mysterious personal charge.

I called Marriott and was put through to the corporate billing office. When I reached a human being about the charge, which had been tagged “F&B” for food and beverage, the billing clerk and I together determined that the charge was made at the hotel gift shop. This still did not jog my memory.

The clerk delved deeper in to the system.

“Our system shows that you purchased 13 paper items.”

“Paper items,” I questioned myself silently, while staring at the stack of greeting cards that has towered on my desk, neglected and unaddressed, for the last three weeks.

“Oh, those must have been greeting cards,” I remembered aloud.

“Yes,” said the clerk, adding, “and one candy bar.”

Embarrassed, I replied, “Did you have to remind me of that?”

She was  not amused. “Would you like me to e-mail you an image of the itemized receipt?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” I huffed back. Now she and whoever monitors the call for security purposes are privy to my greeting card and sugar addictions.

With a little nudge, I remembered the gift shop, I remembered the candy and I remembered the cards. If you have a June or July birthday or anniversary, I have this great card for you. I just need to remember to send it.

The moral of this story had something to do with memory but I can’t for the life of me recall what it was.

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July 14, 2011 · 8:21 am

Lil something for everyone

The other day I complained to you about a recent case of writer’s block. You reassured me with good advice.

Truth be told, I’ve also been suffering from acute reader’s block—provided that too isn’t a made-up disease of lazy people.

While I usually read more than ever in the summer, I’m still reading a book I started last December, while nibbling bits of other books and articles in between.

I’m three months behind on my Vanity Fair and two months behind on Esquire and, these days, it takes me longer than usual to get through The Washington Post in the morning—sometimes until well into the evening. Or the next morning, when I feel I must read it before starting that day’s paper.

I know this all seems strange; I know it’s strange for me. I’m still reading; I’m just reading a variety of things in no logical order. Habits change, I suppose.

All this said, a magazine has come into our house that recently captured my attention.

In April my husband received a birthday gift subscription to Garden & Gun. Perhaps you’ve seen it.

I know, Garden & Gun doesn’t sound like reading material suitable for a household of flaming libs. Well, maybe the gardening part. Our household is, however, composed of one native North Carolinian, one recently-returned North Carolina transplant and one whom my father calls the “Beltway Baby.”

The magazine’s full title is Garden & Gun: The Soul of the South and, obviously, covers all things Southern. This week I decided to crack open the last two issues—while I was in the middle of reading something else, no doubt.

I commend it to you. Rest assured; you won’t see Larry the Cable Guy or read anything that reveals, “You know you’re a redneck if…”

G&G a rather nice piece of publishing and superb writing on some interesting subjects.

Granted, you’ll be shown the anatomy of the perfect hush puppy and learn the characteristics of the ideal tomato and maybe learn something you didn’t already know about rhubarb.

You’ll also get to meet Nashville painter Emily Leonard; Merigold, Miss., pottery artist Lee McCarty; Athens, Ga., fabric designer Susan Hable; and Steve Huff, thought to be the Best Fishing Guide Alive.

If you pick up these latest issues, you’ll read about the so-called Memphis Mafia, learn the Rules of Yard Art and get a glimpse into Livestock of the Rich and Famous. This Beltway baby was tickled to see a spread on the Washington, D.C. dining scene.

Moseying through Dixie on your summer vacation and want to know where to find a good barbecue joint? I recommend their list of the 20 best, in part because Red Bridges of my husband’s hometown of Shelby is featured.

Last night I was finishing an article on Gregg Allman when I wondered why I hadn’t seen anything about guns. Then, near the back, on page 108 of the April/May issue, I saw a piece about Griffin & Howe, a famous gunsmith and store—in Greenwich, Connecticut. Maybe it’s in south Greenwich.

The piece notes that Griffin & Howe “is presided over by Guy Bignell, president and CEO of G&H and a Brit of such surpassing handsomeness that he is often assaulted on the streets of Greenwich.”

Am I the only person who finds that funny?

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July 7, 2011 · 8:28 am

Transition

My husband used to say that summer doesn’t really begin until the Fourth of July. I think he meant it in the context of the Dewey Beach calendar, but I suspect most beach resorts look at it the same way.

This summer, I definitely believe it. Even though we’ve already had our summer vacation, it feels as though everything we’ve done since Memorial Day has been an orchestrated lead-up to this week.

Mostly, we looked forward to and planned for the arrival of my brother’s family for the Independence Day holiday and worked backward. Between my work travel, our beach vacation, my dental surgery and a few other obligations, the open time slots were scheduled for buying groceries, pre-preparing meals, cleaning the house, getting the yard in shape, washing the car and making beds. This was the fun part, the anticipation of our visit with our nephews and their parents.

They’re gone now, we’ve done about eight loads of laundry and it’s eerily quiet around here.

It’s time to think about the rest of the summer, drum up some more business, conjure up blog ideas and send belated greetings to a lot of people whose birthdays came and went during the frenzy.

I still have a bit of a junk food hangover. Today will be my day to clear my mind and my body and make the switch over to official summer, before the rest of it slips away.

Oh, and I’ll try and think of something more interesting to write about tomorrow.

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July 4, 2011 · 7:10 am

Celebration

There’s a lot of activity in our house. I’m up early this morning to post a few words and power up for the holiday.

My brother and his family are visiting from Utah and are staying with us. My nephew’s marching band will be in America’s 2011 Independence Day Parade today in Washington, so his parents and brothers are here for the festivities. The family hasn’t been here since the eve of the millennium more than 11 years ago, and our son doesn’t get to see his cousins often; this is a special visit for all of us.

There are seven humans and two cats in a house normally occupied by two, plus various and sundry others dropping in, so we’re operating at a heightened state of energy. The glorious sounds of giggles, piano music, video games, pets being chased and balls being thrown waft through the air. I can never hear “Hey, Aunt Monica, …” enough times.

Because we are one person over bed capacity, our son sleeps on a cot in the living room. This has turned out to be the most coveted space, a place to lie down in the middle of it all. I took a serious nap there yesterday.

Our recycling bin is brimming with empty orange and grape Fanta cans, evidence of the fuel that has thus far powered our holiday weekend.

Well, that pretty much sets the stage. We’ll be leaving for the parade in a few minutes, implementing the complex transportation plan we’ve created for moving about the city today. I haven’t been to the National Mall for the Fourth of July in about 30 years. I’m excited about sharing my native capital city with visiting loved ones on this day set aside for celebrating the birth of our country. If I’m lucky there’ll be stories to tell, though those may need to wait until I have more time to write.

God bless America and pass the Fanta.

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June 23, 2011 · 9:18 am

That’s no fun

About six months ago, San Francisco’s board of supervisors voted to ban the inclusion of toys in kids’ meals at fast food chains. So began the demise of the McDonald’s Happy Meal in that neck of the woods. I suggested an underground market to keep kids from melting down when their meals consisted of, well, meals.

This week, fast food chain Jack in the Box announced it would eliminate toys from its kids’ meals.

A company spokesman said the decision had more to do with the chain’s focus on food than on the matter of toys.

Luring children into fast food restaurants with colorful toys has become an issue of moral debate in our nation, fueled largely by food-policing advocacy groups.

One question becomes whether these kids are driving themselves to score the coveted toys and the fat laden lunches that accompany them. Another question is the company’s latest ad campaign that targets the stoner clientele Jack in the Box enjoys in its late-night hours and how that squares with JITB’s cute and bouncy persona.

But the question lurking in my mind is why a company bearing this name is turning against toys. Does anyone else see the perversity in that?

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June 3, 2011 · 9:32 am

Bedlam

Often when I return from a trip to the grocery store, I report to my husband that the store was “Bedlam.” Bedlam is the most apt descriptor on a Saturday morning, which often is when parents give their spouses a break by taking the kids to the supermarket, parking their carts in the middle of the aisles, ignoring the indoor traffic conventions and letting their young kids run around in circles and climb the cereal shelves. It’s Bedlam, I tell you.

It wasn’t until I reviewed the origins of food names for yesterday’s blog post that I realized how appropriate the term is for the supermarket. Okay, that might be a stretch. But maybe for the bakery.

According to Martha Barnette’s book,  Ladyfingers & Nun’s Tummies: A Lighthearted Look at How Foods Got Their Names, Bedlam has its roots in food; specifically, in bread.

She tells the story in the chapter on Places Named for Foods, right after how Topeka, Kansas, takes its name from “good place to dig potatoes.”

She explains:

From the Hebrew words beth, “house,” and lechem, “bread,” comes from the name of the little town of Bethlehem, or “house of bread,” which, in turn, eventually gave rise to an English word for “crazed confusion and uproar.” In medieval London, the Hospital of Saint Mary of Bethlehem was converted into an asylum for the insane. Over time this grim institution came to be known simply as Bethlehem, then Bethlem and Bedlem, and eventually, Bedlam, which in turn led to today’s term for crazed noisiness and clamor.

She then explains how the word marathon comes from the ancient Greek word for fennel, but I’ve got to end this somewhere.

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June 2, 2011 · 5:12 am

Who’s hungry?

Wow, I have this craving for some good bird’s tongue. How about you?

This post is another in the series in which I pull a book out of the stacks and write about it. I hope you’re game.

Fourteen years ago, long before the word nymph in me emerged, or so I thought, a friend and former colleague gave me a book entitled Ladyfingers & Nun’s Tummies: A Lighthearted Look at How Foods Got Their Names, by Martha Barnette, who was once a reporter with The Washington Post. I remember my friend saying he thought the book suited me because of my love of food and words.

Barnette grabs readers of my type with the first sentence of the introduction: “Sometimes the very name of a food tickles our taste buds before a bite of it ever reaches our mouths. Saltimbocca, tiramisu, teriyaki, shabu-shabu, passion fruit, angel hair, soubise, bubble and squeak, chimichanga, couscous – rolling any of these words around on our tongues is a sensory experience all its own.”

Bubble and squeak? Come again? Bubble and squeak comes from the chapter on foods named for what they do while cooking. It’s a potato and cabbage dish that apparently makes noise when it’s frying.

Bird's tongue (orzo)

There are chapters on foods named for what they look like (e.g., bare buttocks in the grass); food names associated with religion or the supernatural (no surprise that there are lots of angels and devils, but also Judas’ ear); foods named by mistake, often as a result of goofs in translation (including German chocolate cake and Jordan almonds); foods named for people and places (the chapter  is called “Edible Eponyms and Tasty Toponyms,” surely a topic for another day); foods named for what’s done to them or what they do to us; and words deriving from other words about food and drink.

Did you know that, In Lebanon, the long rolled pastry known as zunuud as-sitt translates from “woman’s upper arms?” It’s in there.

The book contains hundreds more little-known facts about food names and where they come from. I could stretch this out over several days, and maybe I’ll regret it if I don’t. In the meantime, maybe I’ll give you a little homework assignment.

See if you know—or can find—the recognized food names for the following:

  1. Apple in its bathrobe
  2. Angel’s breasts
  3. Boudoir biscuits
  4. Dad’s beard
  5. Dead fingers
  6. Friar’s balls
  7. Naughty children’s toes
  8. Tipsy parson
  9. Spicy bishop
  10. Whore’s pasta

Want to have some more fun? Look up the origin of pumpernickel.

One final note: my father recently suggested I address the origin of the word “bedlam,” and he traced its origin for me. What I learned from Ladyfingers & Nun’s Tummies, though, is that the word goes back even farther, with its origin in food. Maybe tomorrow?

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April 19, 2011 · 8:33 am

Trash talk

You may have seen the Johnson family of Mill Valley, Calif., on Today or read about them in Sunset magazine though, if you’re like the Johnsons, you might not have any magazines in your house.

The Johnsons have come to be known as a zero-waste family. They generate no trash and very little recycling. You can read for yourself how this family’s desire to live simply and cleanly has decreased their contribution of refuse to our planet. Admirable, I’d say. And guilt-provoking.

I’m a little ashamed of our household’s size 16 carbon footprint. We are the antithesis of the Johnsons. I’m not sure exactly how two humans and two felines can generate enough weekly waste to fill the Johnsons’ bins for more than a year. See for yourself. Not counting the bags of yard waste that already await pick-up at the curb, we’ve filled a 20-gallon can and an even larger sized Hefty bag in less than a week. Plus this large recycling bin and a paper bag’s worth of newspapers joining the yard waste at the curb as we speak.

Granted, we did a little spring cleaning over the weekend. For example, in preparation for our kitchen project, I decided to thin out our spice collection. “They” say kitchen spices go bad after six months and that we should discard them after that time. “They” would probably also say that the bottles should be recycled and the spices themselves composted or trashed, but that presumes the spices aren’t permanently adhered to their receptacles after years of neglect.

As someone who keeps her spices in alphabetical order, I’d appear to have a good grip on this. Over the weekend, I went through all my spices, A to Z. I discarded four bottles of curry powder, while being hard pressed to remember when I’d ever used curry powder in my life. Maybe they were part of my husband’s trousseau. Cream of Tartar? I’m not sure I even know what that is.

I swear there was a bottle of whole cloves that came from the house I grew up in, which we vacated in 1976. Somehow I manage to go through several bottles of chili powder a year, and yet can barely twist off the gummed up lids of nearly a quarter of these fastidiously filed spices. I had samples of every Spice Islands and McCormick’s label design of the last 30 years. Never mind all the other relics I came across while cleaning out my kitchen for the first time in 20 years.

Perhaps the Today show would like to interview me.

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