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Here’s my latest article in Post-, the weekly magazine of the Brown Daily Herald.

Finally it’s that time of year when Brown starts to actually feel collegiate again. The sun is out and so are we — masses of undergrads OD-ing on Vitamin D as we languish on our lawn of choice, impressing the tour groups with our proficient binge drinking and sociability. As we prepare for our picnics with blankets and PBR, we’ll need some treats that require minimal effort. Here’s a list of things that can be tossed into the nearest woven wicker basket with little to no prep work so that you, too, can partake in the vernal merriment.

Sandwiches: Popular legend has it that the Earl of Sandwich invented these ingenious parcels because he needed a lunch that was as hearty as it was portable. There are infinite permutations, so pick up whichever breads, spreads, and fillings suit your fancy: Black Forest ham with Brie and caramel mustard; a smattering of fancy cheeses, salumi, and a baguette; PB&J; turkey and cheddar; hummus, balsamic, and veggies; BLT. Get creative!

Produce: Need I say more? We all get visceral hankerings for the raw and vibrant this time of year. Dig into an avocado or a kiwi with a spoon or pick up some clementines, a picnictime staple; it’s easy to find them in bags of about 20. Eat berries alone or dip them into Greek yogurt and honey. Or, should you be so lucky as to obtain the perfect peach, bite into it and don’t look back. And then tell me where you got that thing of beauty.

Fanciful salads: Toss predispositions to Caesar and ranch to the wind, for this is neither the time nor place. Go classic by tossing sliced cherry tomatoes with bocconcini mozzarella, fresh basil, and a bit of balsamic + olive oil. Dress raw kale with lemon juice and olive oil, then mix in pine nuts and Parmesan. If you’re into hitting salty and sweet in one go, stir together watermelon, feta, and mint sprigs, then drizzle with olive oil and red wine vinegar.

Gazpacho: This chilled summer soup is as refreshing as you can imagine. Dice fresh veggies (tomatoes, cucumber, zucchini, red onion, celery, garlic) and toss half of this blend into a food processor (full disclosure: I once made this with a blender and my world did not skid to a halt). You can toss in some red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt, and Tabasco, but that’s about as complex as it needs to get. Once the vegetables are chopped but not pulverized, stir in the rest and chill. This is best when made ahead, but recruit people to help you chop and then bust out your finished product the next day.

Lemonade: Little-known fact: the word “lemonade” is actually just another word for “picnic,” kind of like Aphrodite is another way of saying Venus. There’s no reason not to go all out here. For plain fresh-squeezed lemonade, make a simple syrup with water and sugar, then add in lemon juice to taste. Fancify with any of the following: sprigs of rosemary; a wee bit of lavender; juice from smashed berries; spearmint tea; blood orange juice; vodka; gin. Go wild.

Sangria… does not equal Franzia. Pour a bottle of wine into a pitcher plus a heaping of whatever fruit you desire. Oranges, lemons, apples, limes, and peaches are all good bets, but there’s a lot of wiggle room here. The only other things you need are a bit of sweetener (sugar and honey both work) and ice to keep it chilly.

The next thing you have to decide, after buying groceries, is where to set up camp. Everybody has her favorite place to lie in the sun so I won’t dare prescribe yours, but if you’re getting a little antsy on your usual patch of grass, you can do something as simple as switching from Lincoln Field to the Quiet Green (different people, different sunlight, just a skip away) or you can take more drastic measures. There’s a quiet, bamboo-lined lawn behind Watson, or venture off the hill to Prospect or India Point Parks. You could also happen upon the verdant little pocket wonderland behind the MCM building (complete with a trellis!). I’ve heard fairies live there. No matter where you go, you’re in luck; you need little more than daylight and a nice wedge of Gouda to get your kicks. Just don’t forget the lemonade.

I live for the lunches that are satisfying and elegant but no-frills. They’re accompanied by no fanfare or grandiosity but just the right amount of attention and care. Simple and clean, they’re precursors to what may be a fantastic dinner later on. But this is nothing more than a quick midday respite, some tasty things arranged artfully on a dish to tide you over and make you smile a little brighter.

This salad from Café Degas was, in short, exactly that. Romaine is tossed with succulent, chewy sundried tomatoes, creamy feta, and briny hearts of palm. About a half-dozen flash-fried Louisiana oysters, fat enough that you get one crispy morsel per bite, are scattered happily atop the mix. All this is dressed in a creamy vinaigrette that tasted, strangely, vaguely redolent of the broth they serve with their mussels. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I think it may have been white wine and even a hint of fennel — if any of you happen to know, please feel free to step in and put my puzzled mind at ease.

The best part about eating at Café Degas, though, is the atmosphere. The restaurant itself is burrowed behind lush greenery in a tiny house whose kitchen churns out traditional French fare that occasionally slips and lets out a southern twang. The dining room is covered but open-air, and its perch right on Esplanade will unleash your inner voyeur. It’s charming and the definition of quaint. When the service is slow, you feel all the more that you’ve been elaborately tricked and have in truth ended up on a sidewalk bistro in Paris; for this lunch, though, the service was so quick as to border on “hello, we’ve read your mind and put your order in the kitchen before you were even seated.” Followed by a shared slice of lemon icebox pie, whose thick crust and potent strawberry coulis were as tasty as the canned whipped cream was mediocre, it was a perfect midday pick-me-up.

roadfood

Since its inception, I’ve found the wording of the New Orleans Roadfood Festival a bit tenuous. When I mentioned it to out-of-towners (and to my very local grandfather), they scratched their heads and said, “…roadkill?” Indeed, “road” and “food” aren’t necessarily two words that get along swimmingly. Carry the word association a bit further; the eateries dotting most of the highways I take are more along the lines of Subways and Burger Kings than rootsy local fare.

Antoine's oyster Foch po-boy. You'll have to go to confession after eating it, but it's worth it... oh my, is it worth it.

If I can give the festival planners one thing, though, it’s their impeccable timing. I had already booked my flight home for spring break, scheduled to land at MSY on the night of March 26, when I started making plans to head over to Royal Street in the French Quarter the next day, for better or for worse. I didn’t get to check out the offerings when the fest debuted last year, but I’d heard good things about the event and the people behind it, so I had high hopes.

Little white tents dot blocks 300-700 of Royal Street, offering a wide variety of snacks including Vaucresson’s sausage po-boys, duck cracklins from the famous purple Que Crawl truck, and strawberry shortcake from Café Reconcile. It’s worth checking out for the antique shops and heavenly architecture that permanently reside in this neighborhood, but also for the colorful array of visitors (demographic groups were represented from frat boys to the conservative middle-aged crowd to a few adventurous elderly folks) and the street performers (who, I always have to remind myself, are not fixtures in most other cities).

Alleyways to luscious little hidden courtyards will always be one of my absolute favorite things about visiting the Quarter.

Not exactly sure what this fellow was up to, but he stood stock still in that position, which is cause enough for stealthy snapshotting.

You may also have been lucky enough to get a glimpse of this fascinating pair, just a girl and her bike:

The girl’s outfit speaks for itself, but you may not be able to catch the detail on the unicorn’s head. Luckily, she was totally cool with me getting a little closer for a picture.

Rhinestones and glitter and heavy eyeliner, oh my!

But I digress. This was, after all, about the food. My point is simply that there’s a bit of sensory overload going on here, which is all the more reason to hightail it there next year.

Blue Dog Café, coming from Lafayette, LA, was serving chicken and andouille sauce piquante over roasted corn grits. The sauce was bright and celebratory, just fruity and sweet and tangy with a little kick at the end that was bolstered by morsels of andouille sausage and chicken. A bit more spice wouldn’t have hurt, but I’ll take it. The roasted corn grits imparted a thickness and richness to each bite that somehow didn’t feel overpowering on such a hot, sunny day. One trick? Share with someone. I still miss how festive and springy that sauce was.

Coming from the same booth were these crawfish enchiladas, which brought to mind issues we’ve been discussing in my Ethnic Eats class about authenticity and hybridization. Fat crawfish and diced jalapeño studded a thick creamy sauce, all of which was encased by a flour tortilla that was crispy in parts, soggy in others. Whereas the sauce piquante lightened and livened up the grits, this was a bit heavier — but I was yearning for my first bite of crawfish of the season. Eat it for the crawfish. Always do it for the crawfish.

Moving right along to Shrimp Uggie with new potatoes, propagated by none other than the now-closed Uglesich’s, which made a comeback for this weekend only. Perks: they cook it to order; the garlic and spices took root deep in my soul and reminded me, for the millionth time, why I’m glad to be from where I’m from. Downsides: the portion was comically small; the sauce was a bit greasy. Not sure how I felt about the potatoes since they seemed, if anything, to be compensating for the sparse allotment of shrimp, though they made for tasty bites.

New Orleans’ august institution, Antoine’s Restaurant, set up shop with this oyster Foch po-boy, a big ruckus of oysters fried in thick cornmeal batter, tossed onto French bread that’s been smeared with foie gras, finished with a heap of thick brown Colbert sauce. This felt a little bit like drinking in the daytime: naughty, decadent, exciting, excessive. Tasty.

The damage! Crikey, and sorry for bad lighting.

But the highlight of my day was the alligator burger from Creole Delicacies Catering. Okay, a good part of that was telling my friends at college that I ate an alligator burger. Imagine the shock of people from the likes of Long Island and Istanbul! But this is most assuredly what the Sterns must have meant by road food.

The sesame seed Bunny loaf was a bit of a buzzkill, an underwhelming accomplice to the hunk of gator meat, but really, try and see past it. I asked for my cole slaw on the side since slaw and I don’t often get along (it takes a special attention to cabbage:mayo ratio for me to get remotely interested), but a light sprinkling on the patty would have given a crispness to bites of what was otherwise a very dense, very piquant burger. I really like alligator, though it’s a little on the chewy side; it’s sweet and, if prepared right, juicy and spicy. Added bonus: jars of smoky Bone Suckin’ Sauce were available for our drizzling pleasure.

Still grappling with the Bunny bread. Otherwise, this was a paradise of a snack.

I wrapped up my day with my first snowball of the year, provided by Plum Street Snowballs. I can’t get nectar cream at any place other than Hansen’s Sno-Bliz, so I opted instead for cherry and coconut cream. I can’t really explain it; it was very out of character for me, but actually quite yummy eaten on the walk back to the car.

Hi there, beautiful. My heart pitter-patters for these deep, verdant balconies and painted shutters that seem so ubiquitous once springtime rolls around in New Orleans.

speedyspeedyfast

It’s true what they say about getting out of the scheme of things. It’s been a month since I blogged and for a second, I entertained the idea of just saying I gave up blogging for Lent… until I realized that, oh hey, I was going two weeks between posting anyway. Fail. Point is, I’m happily swamped at school with every sort of thing I love to do (including a class on ethnic food) and that combined with the fact that I am not exactly going out to eat at myriad sites of fascination means that blogging just kind of takes a backburner. So, sorry for that. I’m gonna try to be better. I just uploaded some photos from a four-day weekend I spent at home and will HOPEFULLY upload them punctually after I get done editing. Until then, here’s something to tide you over…

Fluffy luv patties. Know me for five minutes and you’ll know that I am a total slave to the salty/sweet combination. It’s become a kind of kitschy trend pretty recently and I do think it should be used tastefully and not all the time, but when it works, it is just so glorious. Doughy chocolate chip cookies with chopped dark chocolate and crispy, buttery edges are the perfect canvas for snowy fleur de sel, which makes each bite taste a little different from the others.

SUPER. BOWL. WEEKEND.

I fail at blogging… In other news, here’s an article I wrote that ran today in Post-, a student-run magazine here at Brown. It’s 1:01 here which means it’s 12:01 at home… officially Super Bowl weekend! My pump-up playlist is at 32 songs and I am getting uncontainably excited. Miss you, New Orleans; wish I could be there at this special time, but I’m repping you here in Providence.

This Sunday, amid gloriously misogynistic beer commercials and eerily verbose E-Trade babies, uniformed hulks of men will hurl themselves at one another in Miami’s Sun Life Stadium as they clamor for the pigskin (and for their own oh-so-tasteful Super Bowl ring). The big, bad, vapid Colts will saunter in, finally away from the hell-frozen-over that is Indianapolis in February. Then, the zesty New Orleans Saints will cartwheel into their first Super Bowl in franchise history, magically bringing the crowd to decibel levels even higher than those accompanying the Patriots’ slaughtering a couple months back, and all will be as it should be.

As native New Orleanians and born-and-raised Saints fans, Colts quarterback Peyton Manning and I join in anticipation of this important game (and in hopes of a Saints win… can’t cheer against your home team, Peyton). As with meat and king cake during Mardi Gras, all that is delectable and cholesterol-filled during Jazz Fest, 72-ounce beers for any night on Bourbon Street, and unreasonably lavish food in the interim, celebrations like this have a tradition of good food. In the spirit of the decadence that typifies New Orleans, I’ve compiled a Super Bowl menu that fulfills the cardinal requirements of all respectable football snacks. Take note and follow suit: you, too, deserve excessive amounts of carbs and grease (and no, pizza from the Gate doesn’t count).

Giant batches of love: Most evolved, college-aged humans have a finely tuned radar for home cooking. Masses of them flock to you if you so much as turn on a stove. But, lucky for you, New Orleanians are old pros at cooking by the truckload. Grab the biggest pot you can find, toss in a bunch of meat, veggies, and rice (and, if you’re feeling feisty, more hot sauce than Jesus would approve of), and you’ve got jambalaya. Chili is an acceptable substitute for this if and only if you harbor an obsession for clichés and/or the other team.

Wings: Obvi. Go traditional (barbecue, buffalo) or more exotic (sesame, parmesan). Since these are ubiquitous right now, you can buy most things pre-made at the store if you’re feeling lazy, but why would you do that now that you know buffalo sauce is little more than Tabasco and butter? Bonus: guys, you get man points for gnawing meat straight off the bone.

More spiciness than your body has room for: Scrape the innards from halved jalapeños, stuff them with cream cheese, wrap in bacon (always, always bacon), and bake for about 20 minutes. Hoard before everyone else snitches them. And oh, they will snitch.

Dips. Lots and lots of dips: Chili con queso (go Rotel; I won’t judge). Barrels of guacamole and salsa. Seven-layer dip. Pimento cheese. Options abound; all you have to do is pick. Hummus will keep things from feeling too grimy. To make your own, drain a can of chickpeas and mash (or food-process, if you are so lucky) until smooth with tahini, olive oil, and lemon juice. I’ll toss some red beans in with the chickpeas and finish with Creole spices, but you can also play around with caramelized shallots, jalapeño and cilantro, or roasted red pepper to taste.

Maturity: Pigs-in-blankets are a relatively painless tribute to the otherwise gastronomically unremarkable Indianapolis, whose natives are known to prefer grilled brats. (They serve the added purpose of being mildly phallic, in case you tire of courtesy.) Extra points if you cook the sausages in beer before you wrap them in dough (cut down on time and use canned crescent rolls); serve with Zatarain’s whole-grain mustard, a New Orleans original that I’ve heard is highly favored up in Colts territory.

Popcorn: This is a huge cop-out as snacks go, but as long as your movie-watching experience is multiplied in the company of salty, buttery popcorn, so will your viewing of this game, which will likely be high-scoring thanks to kickass offense on both teams. Sprinkle liberally with Creole seasoning (cayenne pepper, garlic powder, paprika, white pepper, etc.) and look like you actually put in some effort.

Whether or not you know the meaning of a third-down conversion — no matter if you think a flea flicker is a groovy gadget you’d find at a pet store — the Super Bowl is as much an athletic showdown as it is a media spectacle and a once-a-year social event. Even if you’re not tuning in to behold Drew Brees’ otherworldly passer rating, you might as well pick a team, drink one too many beers, and meet your calorie quota for the week. And hey, if you’re lucky, you might just catch one of Peyton’s requisite sideline temper tantrums. Look for me if you get hungry; I’ll be the one in a gold leotard with buckets and buckets of food. Who dat!

With love from yours truly.

checking in

Hi, all. The two-or-so-week gap that’s filled the interim between my last few posts is inadvertent; each time I check the site, I’m amazed at how much time’s gone by. I can’t say my absence has been for a lack of good food and inspiration, since I’m home for winter break and eating better than I do all semester. For a while, I could blame my broken camera – food blogging with no pictures loses its charm fast – but now that it’s been repaired, I can’t use that, either.

So I guess the best I can say is that I’ve jam-packed my time away from my computer with lots of downtime, cook-time, restaurant-time, sleeptime, read-time, etc. I’ll be back in full force soon, so don’t tucker out on me just yet. I’ve got a couple recipes (and a great big appetite!) to share with y’all once my routine gets back to normal.

In the meantime, I’ve delved into Jeffrey Steingarten’s The Man Who Ate Everything, which I’m ashamed to say became something of a bible to me before I’d even read it cover to cover. Now I’m gleefully doing that task and loving it all the more. Steingarten has an impressive but meandering life in food: he was plucked from a legal career to become Vogue’s food correspondent, and has since been a judge on Iron Chef America, received myriad awards (including a bundle of James Beards… not bad), and experimented tirelessly in the kitchen. The Man Who Ate Everything is a collection of his essays over the years, but that barely even covers it; his witty reports are fueled by exhaustive research, endless curiosity, and a joie de vivre as insatiable as his appetite. He is humble but plucky, informative but genial, and just the man you’d want at a dinner party. (Or not. He admits himself that he can be kind of ballsy.)

Anyhow, I can’t feel completely bad that such men as Steingarten and Anthony Bourdain, who spoke at New Orleans’ Mahalia Jackson Theatre last week, are keeping me away from my writing. But I’ll be back soon, for better or worse, with real offerings to boot.

Good adjectives to describe men and brownies.

Falling apart. If you want to avoid this outcome, wait longer than two minutes to cut your brownies after taking them out of the oven.

My first go with this recipe was a miniature disaster. My friend Chris Struck, who calls himself Food Dude and may choose two of the aforementioned positively connoting adjectives for himself as a token of my gratitude for this recipe, is a culinary student at Johnson & Wales. He’s not half bad (um, hello, internship at Craft; cooking with the contestants from Top Chef New York at a James Beard dinner), so when he passed his recipe for brownies along to me, I sat up straight and knew I had to make them.

The big red figurative warning sign came at the part that explicitly instructed me to add eggs, along with sugar and vanilla, into butter that has been melting in a saucepan over low heat. But then, since baking often leaves so little room to improvise, I figured this was a deliberate decision based on the kind of knowledge you don’t acquire until culinary school. I added the eggs and brandished my whisk, beating them vigorously so as not to scramble the eggs.

I soon found myself with a rich, fragrant yellow custard-like concoction, studded with delicate fragments of scrambled egg. And that’s how I landed myself a gig as the scribe for whatever cookbooks lie in Chris’ future; with his culinary ingenue and my meticulous attention to precision and detail, every recipe will be a winner. We’ll start with this one, whose technical errors I have rectified. But the pint of butter and the 8 eggs? That’s all Chris. Don’t blame me for a second. And yes, this WILL make enough brownies for you to distribute throughout the Superdome at the Saints’ first playoff game on the 16th. Or you can make them next time you have a bunch of people over, since the yield is basically endless. OR you can do what I did and just hoard them and experiment with different sauces and toppings, such as…

Dark chocolate toffee. I got super-lazy and just melted a square of Ghirardelli’s Toffee Interlude [EDIT: dumbest name for a candy bar ever?] over a brownie, but you can go wild. Toffee anything is sure to please.

Raspberry coulis. In a saucepan, bring two cups of raspberries (frozen is great and cheap for this) to a mellow boil with two tablespoons of lemon juice and sugar to taste. Stir until it’s smooth and thick – my first batch was a bit thin, probably a result of my haste in getting it off the stovetop and into my mouth. Just stay the course and brave those extra minutes (not that a thin coulis is a huge problem; you still get a nice wallop of raspberry flavor, it’s just not quite as pretty or tame when you get around to plating). Strain in a fine-mesh sieve. You’ll wind up with a glorious, tart concoction that perfectly balances the density of the brownies. This is such an easy thing to make (I’ve heard you can even make a heatless rendition by tossing everything into a food processor, but I’m a bit old-fashioned for that), and next time, I might try it with blackberries or blueberries instead.

Nutella whipped cream. I can’t figure out why, but this doesn’t look as frothy as it was – maybe harsh lighting? In any case, this is HEAVEN not just for brownies, but for anything: what isn’t made better by Nutella? what isn’t made better by whipped cream? The offspring of the two is STELLAR. In a cold metal bowl, whip a pint of heavy whipping cream on high. When it’s just started to thicken, add a heaping spoonful of Nutella. Mix and taste. I really have no method to this, so it’s best to wing it – which in this case means just mixing and tasting, mixing and tasting, until you’ve found that perfect balance. What I love about this is that the airiness of the whipped cream keeps the Nutella from being as sticky-sweet as it is on its own. I found that the nuttiness stood out more than the chocolatiness, which made the taste of the whipped cream unbelievable, especially spooned over the piping-hot mess-of-a-brownie pictured at the top of this post.

In the spirit of the holidays, you could also spoon on a bit of homemade peppermint ice cream (a post on that coming soon) or just dust them with finely crushed peppermints. If you crave saltiness alongside sweetness, go with salted caramel or crushed pretzels. The possibilities go as far as your tastes (and your appetite).

Please make these brownies! They have none of the tacky consistency that comes from boxed brownies, and thanks to an ungodly amount of chocolate (and of basically every other ingredient) are in fact almost like a flourless chocolate cake on the richness scale – though the flour gives them a delicacy and texture that keeps them from sliding into fudge territory.

CHRIS’ RIDICULOUS BROWNIES
2 cups butter
3.5 cups sugar
3 teaspoons vanilla
8 eggs, slightly beaten
2 cups all-purpose or unbleached flour
1 cup unsweetened cocoa
1 teaspoon salt
8 ounces semi-sweet baking chocolate squares, coarsely chopped
8 ounces unsweetened baking chocolate squares, coarsely chopped

1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
2. Go easy on yourself and melt the butter in the microwave.
3. In a large bowl, mix the melted butter with sugar, vanilla, and eggs; blend well.
4. Sift and stir in flour, cocoa, and salt; mix until just combined.
5. In 25-second intervals, melt chocolate in a microwave, stirring each time until completely smooth.
6. Mix this in with the rest of the batter until fully incorporated.
7. Liberally grease a 15×10-inch pan (yes, you heard me) with nonstick cooking spray.
8. Pour batter into pan and bake until set (about 35 minutes).

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