tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35084662643283474322024-03-13T05:52:45.179-07:00The Virginia EpicureStories about Food, Place, and FamilySheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-82225721858938906832017-08-02T19:30:00.000-07:002017-08-02T19:53:07.019-07:00Raising a Glass to Virginia<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hey, it’s been a while… After a two-year hiatus, during which
much has transpired, The Vermont Epicure has been reborn under a new name: The
Virginia Epicure. I too have a new name, actually my old name which I’m now using
again—Sheila McGrory. And a new home—Alexandria, Virginia, five miles south of
DC. I lived in Virginia for a few years before moving North for a job in
Boston, never guessing I would end up living in Vermont for more than
twenty-five years. Cheers to life’s twists and turns.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">To make a long story short, I recently moved back to the
region where I was born and raised (one state over in Maryland), and am ready
to explore the area's many gastronomic delights. A lot has changed since I lived here. Restaurants are more adventurous, farmers markets and CSAs are plentiful, coffee shops abound, and the winemaking industry has exploded, to name but a few. Virginia
wineries now number around 300, and many of them can be found less than an hour
west of DC in the rolling hills of the "wine country." To me, this is also one of
the more beautiful parts of the state. It resembles Vermont—which will always
be a special place for me—except the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance are not quite as high
as the Green Mountains. And the climate is of course much more temperate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Exploring the wine country makes for an ideal day trip from
the city, especially when combined with a morning hike in Shenandoah National
Park. I’ve enjoyed this combination a few times in recent months, visiting a
sampling of vineyards, some of which are producing topnotch wines. A standout
so far is <a href="http://www.delaplanecellars.com/">Delaplane Cellars</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Not only are Delaplane’s wines excellent, possessing the
complexity and finesse of French wines, but the location is also spectacular. This
past weekend, the winery’s lush green vines unfurled against a Blue Ridge
backdrop under a clear blue sky. The humidity was unseasonably low so the doors
to the tasting room’s deck could be flung wide open. Add live music to this
scene and it had the makings of a perfect summer afternoon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Red and white wines are equally good at Delaplane Cellars,
an accomplishment that other Virginia winemakers I’ve tried have not yet
achieved. Delaplane’s reds are smooth and elegant, while the whites are crisp, luscious,
and varied. Only Virginia grapes are used in making these wines, unlike some
other vineyards where grapes are trucked in from other parts of the country. On
this particular day, my companion and I had reserved two spots at a “horizontal
tasting” of three 2016 Sauvignon Blancs. The event took place around a
farmhouse dining table set for eight in an intimate space next to the tasting
room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Delaplane Cellars is one of just a few Virginia wineries producing
Sauvignon Blanc, a grape I gravitate toward in the summer for its bright citrus
flavors. To some palates, this French grape can at times carry a hint of cat pee, which Delaplane’s Tasting Room Manager Bridgette said is politely
described as notes of boxwood or gooseberry. This off flavor, caused by the
compound pyrazine, can occur when grapes are picked too early; it’s more common
in inexpensive wines where speed and volume are primary. I think I’ve had a few
of those over the years, but there was nothing of the sort at this tasting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The three Sauvignon Blancs Bridgette poured differed in
style and terroir, with the grapes in each coming from different parts of the
vineyard. The differences in elevation, sun exposure, and soil particularities all
result in subtle variations in the wines’ aroma and flavor. Matching these
variations, three hors d’oeuvres, ranging from mild to bold, were paired with
each wine. These tasty bites were as pretty as they were delicious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The first wine, called Springlot Vineyard, was paired with fresh
peas, mint, and Parmesan in a pastry cup. The delicate flavors in this hors d'oeuvre reflected this French style wine, reminiscent of a Sancerre. It had a pleasant minerality
and light citrus aroma, and was like a leisurely float in an inner tube down
the Loire. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Moving up a notch in boldness, we next tasted a wine called
Delaplane Vineyard. Possessing a distinct lemon tartness, this wine went well
with the asparagus, Boursin, and lemon zest hors d’oeuvre it was paired with.
Bridgette explained that the increased sun exposure on these grapes caused them
to ripen more, bumping up their flavor. Refreshing and balanced, this wine resembled
a light New Zealand SB—or a brisk sail on the Chesapeake Bay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The third wine, called Notaviva Vineyard, was the boldest of
all, with a grapefruit pucker and a grassy finish. It was akin to the more
robust New Zealand SBs out there, and could stand up to the crostini topped
with balsamic marinated red peppers, basil, capers, and goat cheese. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bridgette explained
that the grapes in this wine had all been de-stemmed before pressing, unlike the
other wines (Springlot grapes were not de-stemmed at all, and Delaplane Vineyard’s
were half de-stemmed, half not.) De-stemming the grapes allows for a harder press
since whole grape clusters, sometimes with leaves still attached, insulate the
grapes. The harder press leads to a more audacious wine—like bungee jumping off
the Kawarau Bridge. Ok, not quite.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It was difficult for me to select one wine to bring home. Depending
on my mood, I would be happy with any of them. Plus they all were the same
price, $28.00 per bottle or 20% less if you’re a member of their Wine Club, as
I am. In the end, I chose the sailboat. Here’s to sailing, and to this beautiful
day in my beautiful new home state. Cheers to that!</span></div>
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</style>Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-15109102360336224102015-09-07T09:40:00.000-07:002019-04-23T15:38:16.807-07:00Pesto al GustoI can’t remember the first time I tasted
classic pesto, but I do remember it was love at first bite. That heady blend of
basil, parmesan, and garlic—with deep base notes of extra virgin olive oil and
buttery pine nuts—was intoxicating. It wasn’t long before I was making this
fragrant sauce in my own kitchen.<br />
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In fact, it’s the main reason I grow basil in my garden.
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but this can also be accomplished with some sprigs from the market. Since large
quantities of basil are needed to make pesto <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(4 packed cups to make 1½ cups of pesto,
generally the amount needed for 16 ounces of pasta), it’s most convenient and
economical to grow your own, specifically the variety Basilico Genovese. </div>
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Preferably the basil should be young and tender, without any
of the bitterness that can come as the plant matures. That being said, I always
make a batch this time of year with basil I put in back in late May, and it
tastes just fine. Because removing the leaves from the stems is labor intensive
and necessary, I like to set aside time to make a big batch all at once and
freeze it in individual containers. The sauce keeps well in the freezer and is
like a blast of summer in the middle of winter for those of us who live in
northern climates.</div>
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To harvest basil, I cut the plant way back, stems and all,
and fill up a large trash bag. I haul it into my kitchen and instantly the herb’s
fragrance fills the space, transforming it into an Italian cucina. Classic pesto
originated in northern Italy, in Genoa specifically. I had the good fortune to
eat it in its native home several years ago, not far from Genoa. </div>
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My family was <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2013/04/la-bella-italia.html">visiting Italy</a> with my mom, my sister, and her
two kids, and that simple but memorable meal was, for me, one of the highlights
of trip. We had spent the day hiking the trails of Cinque Terre, </div>
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followed by a
swim in the Ligurian Sea. </div>
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By the time we arrived at the restaurant, we were
ravenous. When our bowls of pasta were served, we devoured them, washed down with
some of the local wine. Whenever I eat pesto pasta now, the memory of that beautiful
day resurfaces. One of the best things about food, after all, is the memories
it carries.<br />
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Categorized as a pounded herb sauce, pesto gets its name
from the Italian verb <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pestare</i>, which
means to pound or to crush. Traditionally this was done in a marble mortar
using a wooden pestle, but today the modern food processor makes easy work of
the process. </div>
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According to custom, the ingredients are blended in a specific order.
First the garlic is mashed, followed by the pine nuts, which forms a
paste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the basil leaves are added,
along with a bit of coarse salt that helps to break down the leaves. Olive oil,
the base of so much of Italian cuisine, follows; finally grated Parmigiano
Reggiano imparts an incomparable tang and creaminess. Purists would add a
little pecorino as well, but it’s not necessary. </div>
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Although simple to make, when pesto is stirred into pasta,
slathered on flatbread, or smeared on a sandwich, it’s transformative. I have a
hard time thinking of foods that aren’t improved by it. It makes a delicious
condiment spooned over grilled chicken, fish, or vegetables, or served with
bruschetta or a soft cheese. It jazzes up a cream sauce or mayonnaise, and can even
stand alone as a dip. Add a dollop to a salad, tuck it into an omelet, or swirl
it into a soup just before serving, as is done with pistou, a nutless Southern
French version of pesto. Once you start incorporating pesto into your regular
meals, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.</div>
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I never tire of classic pesto, but variations on
the five main ingredients keep things interesting. You can switch out one
ingredient, like using a different nut, for a subtle change. Walnuts are a
popular replacement for pine nuts, making the pesto earthier. Almonds,
hazelnuts, and pistachios are all good options as well.</div>
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Another subtle change is to vary the oil, replacing
it completely or by half. Since there are so many excellent choices out there,
this is an easy way to play around with flavor. I especially like using part
walnut oil or a few tablespoons of argan oil for a more pronounced nuttiness.
Simply omitting the garlic is another simple, but not so subtle, change, or you
can merely dial it down by using garlic chives or scapes instead. If you’re
sticking with garlic cloves, makes sure they’re fresh, young cloves, which are
less pungent. To lighten the pesto, omit the cheese. This will make the sauce
less creamy, and the taste of the oil will be more noticeable.</div>
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You can also of course alter the recipe
completely, such as making a cilantro-cashew-sesame oil combination; I like to
serve this Asian-inspired pesto with grilled fish. Arugula pesto, another
favorite, has the benefit of being much less labor intensive than basil pesto since
you don’t have to remove the leaves from the stems. It’s also easier to find
large quantities of arugula (preferably baby arugula) in the market, and the
sauce stays bright green instead of turning dark from oxidizing like basil
pesto can. </div>
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Watercress is another alternative to basil, as are mixed herbs,
which you can vary according to the season or the dish you’re serving the pesto
with. Getting creative with different combinations is one of the beauties of
pesto. The only rule I suggest following is to use the highest quality
ingredients you can find. </div>
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Even though the official end date of summer is still
a couple weeks away, today—Labor Day—always feels like the last day. These final
few weeks with their muted colors and touch of coolness in the air are some of
my favorite weeks of the year, but they also bring with them a bit of
melancholy. It won’t be long before the remaining basil in my garden will be
nipped by frost. Knowing I have an ample supply of pesto in my freezer if I
need a taste of summer—or of Italy—in the coming months makes this transition
easier.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CLASSIC
BASIL PESTO</b></div>
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MAKES ABOUT 1½ CUPS</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2-3 cloves
garlic</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1/3 cup
pine nuts</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">4 cups
packed basil leaves—preferably Genovese</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2/3 cup
extra-virgin olive oil</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">½ cup
grated Parmigiano Reggiano </b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3
tablespoons grated pecorino</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">coarse sea
salt, to taste</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">freshly
ground black pepper</b></div>
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Using a food processor, process the garlic and
pine nuts. Add the basil, olive oil, and cheese and process until smooth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using a spatula, push down any basil on the
sides of the bowl. Season with salt and pepper and process for 15 more seconds.</div>
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*Pesto keeps for up to 3 days in the refrigerator
in an airtight container. To preserve its color, pour olive oil over the
surface, or cover it with a small piece of plastic wrap. To freeze, put 1½ cups
of pesto in individual containers. Freeze for up to 6 months. </div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-79731229300446668112015-08-08T08:49:00.001-07:002015-10-11T07:53:47.174-07:00SNAK ReunionI recently returned from a special weekend—SNAK
Reunion. SNAK as in “Sophomores Needing a Key,” not of the food variety. Let me
explain.<br />
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Sophomore year of college, four friends and I all requested to live on
the same hall but ended up getting a bad draw in the housing lottery. We were
placed in a freshman dorm again, subject to all the freshman rules including needing
to request an after-hours key if we wanted to enter the dorm past midnight (this
was, after all, Wake Forest University in the early 80s). Not to be deterred,
we dubbed ourselves SNAK (in part because we did indulge in our share of late
night munchies) and proceeded to get around the rules by surreptitiously
propping the door open, accessing the dorm through an underground
tunnel, or other creative means sometimes involving Minnie Mouse. I need only
to pay a visit to my daughter’s college dorm to be reminded of how times have
changed.<br />
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The SNAK women—Cynthia, Lisa, Sonja, Jennifer, and I— met on
our freshman hall and quickly forged a bond in our pursuit of fun, among other
things (and academic success too,<br />
of course). These are women with whom I can
say words like hard tack, sheep turd, crusty, lens cap, and shimmy, triggering
the same memories and uncontrollable laughter. These are women with whom I not
only laughed, but cried, struggled, questioned, and grew.</div>
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Although college, alas, came to an end, our friendship has
continued, despite our living in different locations spanning Florida to
Vermont. One way we have kept in touch is through SNAK gatherings at Cynthia
and her husband Tom’s cabin near the NC/VA border in a place known as Wildwood. </div>
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Tom (who also went to Wake) grew up nearby and his great grandfather built the
rustic-chic cabin in 1928 as part of a fishing club. Cynthia has added her
mark, </div>
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including the 1954 cherry red tractor she inherited from her Granny Ruth. </div>
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SNAK gatherings have happened pretty much every summer at
Wildwood over the past twenty years, although I’ve only been able to make it to
a couple of them. The last time I went was ten years ago, when the cabin was stuffed full with husbands and children numbering twenty-three people in
total.</div>
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This year, only three husbands made it, and three kids (Faye,
and Cynthia and Tom’s daughters), but a good time was had by all.</div>
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We arrived late Friday afternoon, except Lisa who rolled in
around midnight having driven up from Florida with characteristic
determination. At around 8:15, we realized we hadn’t even thought about making
dinner, so caught up we were in conversation. But we pulled it together in less
than an hour, thanks to Sonja’s CEO skills (evident in college and now a
reality), and enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner. The next morning, Sonja
commandeered a kitchen crew at the outdoor stove </div>
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and whipped up a huge Southern
breakfast of sausage, eggs, grits, gravy, and biscuits.</div>
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Then we were ready to sit for a spell. But not for long.
Lisa and I went kayaking, </div>
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some went for a run, and then later all the women made
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Craige (who also happens to have been Chris’s roommate in grad school)
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For Happy Hour that afternoon, Tom turned over two minnow
buckets and placed a board on top for a makeshift table. As tree frogs chirped
overhead and the Carolina sun reflected off the lake, I realized how much I
miss my friends. At one point Jennifer put on her playlist of heavily
funkified dance music from that era and the memories came tumbling back.</div>
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The floor plan of the cabin is somewhat like a dorm,
especially downstairs where Lisa, Sonja, Jennifer, and I were staying. As we
flowed from room to room and shared a common bathroom, I wondered where the past
30 years had gone. Time, as it has a way of doing, had collapsed them. And even though the five of us only lived together for two short years, those years--chockful of new and exciting experiences as they were--seem long and brimming with memories. This is not to discount the 30 intervening years, themselves full with marriage and family, work and living life. But those years of emerging adulthood are especially vivid because it's the time when who you are starts to solidify. Now squarely in our middle adulthood, we’re all still very much the same, just
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Dinner that night was flank steak on the grill, which like the salmon was a big step up from the fare we cooked up in the dorm kitchen.</div>
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and lots of
wine. Over the meal we made plans for a 50<sup>th</sup> birthday celebration,
just the girls, one year overdue. At this point it’s looking like Costa Rica,
and the wheels are in motion for a trip this winter. All I ask, ladies, is that the
place has a good outdoor shower where I can suds up, preferably on the beach.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-26415855660607335712015-07-02T08:12:00.000-07:002015-10-11T07:53:26.763-07:00The Whole Hog<div class="MsoNormal">
As you approach the village in which I live,
the peak of Mount Abraham rises above the Green Mountains in the near distance.
At 4,006 feet, it’s the fifth highest peak in Vermont, and my favorite one to
climb. I climb it every year, not only for the breathtaking 360 degree view at
the top, but also for the climb itself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Climbing mountains is used metaphorically in all kinds of
literature and music, and for good reason: I made it. I did it. We did this together. I’ve
reached a point in my life where I now have new perspective and clarity about
where I’ve been and where I’m going. Standing at the top of Mount Abe, as
locals call it, has brought all of these feelings to mind, and more, depending
on the year in which I’m climbing it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For someone who struggles with a fear of heights, as I do,
standing on a mountaintop also can evoke anxiety. But for some reason Mount Abe
doesn’t, even though for the last half mile or so you’re climbing up bald rock,
often on your hands and knees. </div>
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Maybe it’s because there are no cliffs at the
top I could fall off of. Or maybe it’s because I’ve climbed this particular
mountain so many times, leaving from Lincoln Gap and steadily ascending the
Long Trail for 2.6 miles until I reach the summit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The first time I climbed it was with Chris when we were
newly married. We were with our friend Steve and his former wife, and it was
cold and windy at the top so we huddled in the roofless stone shelter to avoid
getting a chill. We’ve since climbed it with babies in backpacks, and with our
daughters as young children, excited and determined to keep up. We climbed it
for our friend Pam when she was dying of cancer. Faye chose to climb it to
celebrate her tenth birthday. We often climb it for Father’s Day, or on Chris’s
birthday in August. We’ve climbed it in the fall when the foliage on the
surrounding hillsides is achingly beautiful. We’ve climbed it in light rain
that turned to a thunderstorm forcing us to turn back. We have friends who
climb it in the winter on snowshoes and in the dark to see the sunrise, but we
have yet to attempt those. This year, the day we climbed it was a picture
perfect summer day: blue skies with puffy clouds, no humidity, and a
temperature hovering in the mid-70s. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The trail passes through three natural communities. First, a
verdant spruce fir forest with ferns and wildflowers blanketing the floor. </div>
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Next, near the top, krummholz with its distinctive miniature, wind-bent trees. </div>
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And finally at the summit above the tree line, alpine meadow—low growing
shrubs, rock dappled with lichen, open to the elements.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we reached the top, we sat on the rocky ground and
talked about the last time we reached this summit—last summer with Isabel—and
about the coming year. Faye will be a senior and is thinking about colleges.
Isabel, who’s been with us every other year we’ve climbed Mount Abe, is an
intern in DC this summer. They both have many mountains yet to climb. But so do
Chris and I.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our dog Callie came along too, as she usually does. She’s a
hardy little West Highland White Terrier and hiking is in her blood (although
she needed some assistance on the bald rock). I often imagine her ancestors exploring the Scottish Highlands as she scampers along beside us. </div>
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Her former sister Cooper, a Golden Lab mix, used to accompany us for many of
her sixteen years. Both have been guilty of breaking the rule at the top, I
have to confess, about not stepping on the delicate tundra vegetation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The way down Mount Abe, for me, is usually harder than the
uphill. Those who have knee issues will understand why. Climbing a mountain,
especially one with as much bare rock as Mount Abe has, is much more
challenging than hiking on winding dirt trails; the bare rock makes you very
aware that you're scaling the surface of a mountain. I recently bought some trekking poles, though,
and what a difference they make. I have no idea why I waited so long to acquire
some poles, but they will accompany me on every hike, big or small, from now
on. </div>
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By the time we’re nearing the bottom, our bodies feel the
sense of satisfaction and exhaustion from having pushed ourselves beyond our
norm. We’ve also worked up quite an appetite. Food always tastes better after
exertion, and a few years ago we discovered the ideal place to enjoy a meal
following Mount Abe: <a href="http://www.prohibitionpig.com/">Prohibition Pig</a> in Waterbury. It’s about a 30-minute drive
down into the Mad River Valley on the other side of the mountain range, and
what awaits at Prohibition Pig lives up to its intriguing name.<o:p></o:p><br />
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This restaurant gives the term foodgasm new meaning,
especially if you have an appreciation for Southern food like I do—Southern
food of the freshest, highest quality possible, made with local ingredients. Pork
rinds, hush puppies, and fried pimiento cheese are all on the menu, along with
Yankee-Southern mashups such as cheddar grits and maple baked beans. OOhhhh
Baby.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kale Salad is also on the menu, but this is not the place to
order that (although I’m sure it’s excellent). If I’m going to go with a salad
post-hike, it’s the Crisphead wedge that calls my name, covered as it is with
bacon, Bayley Hazen blue cheese, and Mad River Valley Ranch dressing.<br />
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Chick’n Biscuits are another favorite, but since I had those
the last time I was at Pro-Pig I decided to forego them this time for the
specialty of chopped pork barbecue, “Eastern North Carolina style,” made from
local Snug Valley whole hog. I grew up below the Mason-Dixon Line and went to
college in North Carolina, so this particular style of comfort food is dear to
my heart.<br />
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The Chopped Pork BBQ Plate features a pile of succulent pork
seasoned to perfection with hints of vinegar and spice. It comes with hushpuppies
and a choice of two sides; it was tough to choose but I went with the
traditional collard greens (to keep it healthy) and grits. Although I’ve been told
that true Southerners only eat grits for breakfast, I prefer mine with dinner,
and these made good company with the juicy pork. And I mean goooood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Faye likes a quality burger, and Prohibition Pig’s House
Burger comes topped with a fried green tomato, pimento cheese, and bacon. Add
to that shoestring fries and she was a happy girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chris forewent his usual hankering for pork barbecue (he
lived for two years of his life in North Carolina as well) and opted for the Pit
Smoked Chicken. Burnished to a golden brown and deliciously smoky, this chicken
is not your everyday chicken. Black eyed peas, hushpuppies, and shoestring
fries rounded out his plate. All washed down with some local beer (Waterbury is
thought by some to be the center of the craft beer universe), and Italian
Barbera for me.<o:p></o:p><br />
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In the end, all that was left was a stray collard green. We
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Many mountains yet to climb. And many meals to savor.<br />
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-29431267570647417132015-06-08T12:21:00.000-07:002015-10-11T07:52:41.216-07:00My Home City<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->If I had to pick a home city, it would be
Washington, DC. Although I was born in Baltimore, we moved when I was five to
Pittsburgh and then briefly to Philadelphia before my family settled in
Hagerstown, Maryland. The nation’s capital was about 90 minutes southeast, so when
I was young, my family made occasional day trips there. And visits to the museums
and memorials were also common destinations for school field trips.<br />
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But these experiences aren’t why DC feels like my home city.
As soon as my friends and I had our licenses, DC exuded a magnetic pull. We
ventured down any chance we got to shop and take in concerts at Wolf Trap and
Merriweather Post Pavilion (the Eagles, Jackson Brown, and James Taylor were some
of the highlights). Eventually, we explored the watering holes in Georgetown,
since this was back when the drinking age was 18. I discovered on a recent trip
that a few of my old favorites are still there: Sign of the Whale, Clyde’s, and
J. Paul’s. Although I didn’t venture into any of these establishments on this trip, from the exterior they appear to be exactly the same. History, of course, is an
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to the picturesque C & O Canal, whose towpath is now a
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My longtime friend from Hagerstown and fellow adventurer, Anne,
decided to go to college in DC, so when I was home on vacations I often found
myself back in the city—celebrating 4<sup>th</sup> of July with the masses on the Mall and New
Year’s Eve at the Old Post Office Pavilion (where a giant postage stamped was
dropped, if I recall correctly). The summer before my senior year in college I moved
in with Anne and three other young women, all of us squeezed in a small
apartment. I waitressed at the Old Post Office Pavilion (the same building
where my father had once worked years before), took in the culture, and
caroused—in Georgetown and also at new places on Capitol Hill that Anne had
discovered and that also are still there today: an Irish pub called The Dubliner,
and the Rathskeller, affectionately called the Rat, which a quick Google search identifies
as a dive bar. </div>
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On my recent trip, I didn’t make it back to any of these
spots, alas. I was there to drop off my daughter Isabel, herself a rising
junior in college, for her internship at the National Endowment for the
Humanities. I suspect her summer in DC will be more edifying than mine was.
Already she has lunched with members of Congress, while the closest I came to
them was waiting on their tables or perhaps rubbing elbows with them after
hours in one of the watering holes. Nothing is more gratifying than when our
children turn out to be an improvement on ourselves.</div>
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Isabel and I stayed for a few nights at the lovely Grande
Dame The Mayflower located near Dupont Circle. This historic hotel has hosted
countless presidential campaign launches and inaugural balls, and its fair
share of scandalous trysts involving powerful men (JFK, Bill Clinton, and Eliot
Spitzer, to name but a few). </div>
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For dinner, we ate at some memorable restaurants in the
neighborhood, such as Urbana, which serves creative Italian inspired dishes. We
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and each enjoyed grilled swordfish with fennel, blood orange, and
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The second night we dined at Pesce, sharing Bouillabaisse and
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family who likes to share meals, so we’re very compatible dining partners.</div>
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By day, we explored the city by foot, covering miles and
working up an appetite for these hearty meals. My goal was to give Isabel a
feel for the city’s various neighborhoods and help familiarize her with the
areas not so well known to tourists.<br />
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Once Isabel was settled in her apartment, I stayed in the
city a couple more days to catch up with my friend Anne. She appreciates good food as much as I do. So after she met me
at The Mayflower, we braved a thunderstorm and dashed through the rain to
Firefly, a restaurant that specializes in upscale Southern food, one of my
favorite genres. We shared creamy shrimp and grits as an appetizer, and then I
had a crab cake served on top of a fried green tomato, a brilliant combination if I
ever tasted one.</div>
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The next day we had planned to go
out and about, but after breakfast at her house we talked for a few hours, then
had lunch and talked some more, and before we knew it, it was time for dinner.
One of life’s great gifts is those lifelong friends whom you’ve known since you
were a child; those friends you grew up with. During fifteen important years of
our lives, Anne and I laughed and cried and struggled and bumbled and triumphed
and failed and laughed again. And now, more than twenty-five years later, we
can pick up where we left off as if no time had passed in between.<br />
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and then each had the restaurant’s signature dish, a
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-47804734823443776372015-05-07T10:48:00.001-07:002015-10-11T07:53:01.661-07:00Planet LovelyMay is the month when those of us who live in
Vermont (or much of the Northeast for that matter) are transplanted from Planet
Harsh to Planet Lovely. The world truly is transformed. For the next six months
we live in a state of green, or of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">green</i> green, as a German friend said to me yesterday, recalling a description from a
childhood story. The young grass and unfolding leaves on the trees and shrubs
are so vivid they almost glow. At this point early in the season, there are myriad shades of green, too numerous to count. But as the summer progresses, they tend to converge into a more uniform green, for which perhaps the state was named: vert mont, or green mountain from the French. My favorite patch of green though, my herb garden, remains a mosaic of different shades, from the bright shoots of Chives poking up through the ground <br />
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to the silvery gray-green Sage leaves soft as my dog's ear.</div>
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I’ve been gardening for many years and, much as I love my
vegetable garden and flower beds, it’s the herb garden that I find most
rewarding. I use herbs in virtually all aspects of my cooking—snipping them
into salads and soups, rubbing them onto meats to be roasted or grilled,
stirring them into sauces and marinades, and even baking them into breads and
cookies. They elevate a mundane meal to flavorful and unexpected heights. Of
course you can buy fresh herbs at most food markets, but growing your own is
easy and brings bountiful returns. </div>
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Herbs take the least amount of tending out of all the plants
I grow, and they produce during much of the year, even in New England—from those
first Chive shoots to the frosty Sage that I harvest in early winter for
holiday meals. I planted both of these herbs around twenty years ago and every
year they faithfully return. The same goes for my other favorite herbs: Creeping
Thyme, French Tarragon, Garlic Chives, Greek Oregano, Peppermint, and Winter Savory,
all of which are perennial in the Northeast.</div>
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In addition to perennial herbs, a few annuals I
couldn’t do without and so I add them every year: Rosemary, which I dig up and
keep in a pot inside during the winter (with mixed success); Lavender, which
sometimes overwinters; Cilantro and Dill; and three kinds of Basil—Spicy Globe, which is
small-leaved and compact, Genovese, which is the best for making pesto, and Purple
Basil for its color (the latter two I grow in my vegetable garden because I
like to have several plants of each and they need more room).</div>
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Growing herbs in pots on a windowsill or balcony is
rewarding too, but if you’ve never planted an herb garden and have a small,
sunny spot, it’s well worth the minor effort it takes to start one. First,
although herbs are quite resilient, before putting any in the ground, it’s a
good idea to consult a Plant Hardiness Zone Map to find out which herbs are
perennial in your area. Planting them in a protected spot, such as along a wall
or fence, can improve their hardiness, but be sure that they get enough sun. Most
herbs like full sun and well-drained soil. Other than that, they’re not very
picky and can thrive in a wide variety of locations and soil types.</div>
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Still, it’s important to prepare the soil by turning over the
top eight inches with a shovel, removing the sod, rocks, and weeds. Healthy
soil is friable, meaning that it feels crumbly if you pick up a handful. If
it’s sticky and dense, there’s too much clay and it won’t drain well. Adding
organic material, such as composted manure (which you can find at a nursery),
will improve the soil and enable your herbs to thrive. </div>
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Herbs vary in terms of how much space they need to grow, so
follow the planting guidelines for each herb. Some, like Globe Basil, are compact,
whereas others such as Peppermint like to sprawl. Herbs can be grown from seed,
although buying small plants will ensure that you have foliage to harvest the
first year. Water the plants when the soil becomes dry, but be careful not to
over water them. If your soil is healthy, you won’t need to fertilize very much.
I apply an organic fertilizer around every three years and my herbs couldn’t be
more robust. Once your herb garden is established, it’s very low-maintenance;
all I need to do throughout the season is some light pruning and weeding.</div>
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Now for the best stage of the process—harvesting.
You can start harvesting your herbs as soon as there’s enough foliage, and
continue as long as at least two sets of leaves remain on the plant. In
general, though, don’t remove more than one third of a stem’s length. Most
herbs grow quickly, so it won’t take long for you to have more than enough.
It’s best to cut herbs in the morning, with a pair of scissors, after the dew
has dried but when the plant’s essential oils are still abundant. To strip the
leaves from the woody stem, run your thumb and first two fingers along the stem
in the opposite direction from which the leaves are growing, et voila!—they
fall right off.</div>
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The flowers of many herbs are edible as well, and to me are sometimes
the best part. Chive and Garlic Chive blossoms, in particular, provide several
weeks’ worth of tasty and pretty blooms; just pull off the blossom and then
remove its base to separate it into florets. </div>
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Lavender buds, probably the most
well-known herbal flower, are versatile in both cooking and baking, and a sprig
is also a fun addition to a summer drink. Some herbs though, like Basil, become
slightly bitter after they flower. If you pinch off the bud as it starts to
form, that will prevent the flavor from turning.</div>
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Once you start using fresh herbs in your cooking, it’s hard
to return to dried ones (one of my least favorite aspects of living on Planet
Harsh). Fresh herbs are more subtle and pure in flavor and have a softer
texture. If you’re in the habit of cooking with dried herbs, though, and like a
strong herbal note in your food, you’ll need to use around three times the
amount of fresh herbs to achieve the same strength.</div>
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It’s easy to dry your own herbs harvested from your garden
to have on hand throughout the year. The best time to collect them is just
before they flower. Gather a few sprigs, wash and pat them dry, and then tie them
together with twine. Hang them in a warm, dark, well-ventilated room, and in
about two weeks all the moisture should have evaporated. Pull the leaves from
the stems, crumbling them if you’d like, and store them in labeled, airtight
containers in a cool, dark, dry place.</div>
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Freezing herbs also works well. I store them in labeled
baggies (press out all the air before you seal them), and then pull them out to
add to soups and stews all winter long. You don’t need to thaw the herbs before
adding them to the pot. I prefer this technique to drying my herbs
because they’re closer to the taste and texture of fresh herbs. </div>
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With so many opportunities to incorporate fresh herbs into
your cooking throughout the year, herb gardening is well worth a try. The
benefits in the kitchen are huge, not to mention the pure pleasure of sitting
outside near your herb harden on a warm afternoon and having the breeze carry its fragrances to you. Planet Lovely, indeed.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-8256702778210544032015-04-16T07:36:00.000-07:002015-06-08T12:36:41.920-07:00Printemps MacaronsIf spring were
a cookie, it would be a macaron. Pastel hued and perfectly formed, these bite-sized,
sandwich cookies are so pretty that it almost seems wrong to sink your teeth into
one. Almost.<br />
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After the brutal winter we’ve had
in the Northeast—and my Southern friends tell me it wasn’t much better down
there—I am so ready for Spring, and anything that signifies it. Flowers and green grass. Sandals and sunscreen. Bike rides and readying the garden. Even allergies and insects,
bring ‘em on (well, maybe not ticks). And bring on the macarons.<br />
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Not to be confused with macaroons—the
large, egg white confection or the heavier coconut version—macarons are made by
baking almond meringue in the shape of small, flat disks, and then sandwiching
a filling between two discs to form a single, perfect cookie. Their color,
usually pastel but sometimes more vivid, reflects or at least hints at the
flavor combinations contained within. Flavors range from classic chocolate and
vanilla to the more exotic jasmine, rose petal, or lychee. Sometimes savory flavors
are added, such as white truffle, foie gras, or olive oil, which are hit or
miss but always interesting.</div>
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A few years ago while I was
living in Paris with my family, we couldn’t resist when walking by one of the
city’s countless pâtisseries stopping in to try just one macaron. This lack of
resistance developed into an informal tasting poll to discover the Best Macaron
in Paris. Through our “research” we quickly learned that one macaron—crisp on
the outside and tender in the middle—is all that’s needed to satisfy a sweet
tooth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And refuel a couple of teenage
girls when they’re weary of doing other research around the city guided by their
homeschooling teacher/Mom.<br />
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Among the various macarons we sampled over several
months, our two top winners were Ladurée, considered by many to be the grandpère<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>of macarons, and Pierre Hermé, a
relative newcomer that has a fast following and is renowned for bold flavorings
(Pierre Hermé’s olive oil and vanilla macaron was my blue ribbon winner).<br />
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Ladurée, which claims to have
been the creator of the Parisian macaron, now has shops scattered throughout
the globe including two in Manhattan. I’ve been to both New York shops, extending
our research, and have concluded that Ladurée macarons are just as good
stateside. In classic New York spirit, lots of other competing macaron shops
have now popped up all over the city, but I have yet to sample those.</div>
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As part of our research
in Paris, Faye and I took a class at the cooking school La Cuisine Paris to try
to unlock the secrets behind making macarons. Over the course of an afternoon
we learned the finer points of making these delicacies, and in the end we
turned out some decent, if imperfect, ones ourselves.<br />
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The ingredients are pretty
common—sugar, egg whites, and almonds—and the flavorings need only be as exotic
as you would like them to be. The technique, however, can be a bit tricky, and
it may take some practice before they turn out just right: not too flat, or too
chewy, or too crispy. You’ll know you’ve succeeded when the tops are smooth and
glossy and you see the frilly “foot” at the base of the cookie, a sign that it
possesses the essential contrasting textures of crispy and chewy. At home when
I’ve made them, it’s taken me a few tries to get them right and I wish I knew the
secret. I don’t know what I’ve done differently when a batch turns out
successfully, but this mysterious quality is all part of the allure of the
elusive, perfect macaron.<br />
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Once you’ve mastered
the basic recipe for making the cookies, you can experiment with various
flavorings, such as adding a ground spice or cocoa powder to the batter, or using
a different ground nut from almonds (pistachios and hazelnuts are both popular
variations). The part of the cookie that allows for even more possibilities is
the filling, which is usually a chocolate ganache, buttercream, fruit jam, or
citrus curd. If you don’t make your own jams and curds (and I have to say I
don’t personally know anyone who does), an artisanal product will work fine and
no one will notice the difference. To make your macarons pastel, use a high
quality powdered food coloring. If that’s not available, drops will work, but
be careful not to add too many or they’ll make your batter watery.<br />
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Whole recipe books
devoted to macarons offer myriad flavor combinations, but experimenting with
your own is part of the fun. Here, I’ve included a recipe for a verdant green
macaron inspired by the arrival of Spring. It’s filled with jam (in this case
apricot), which makes for a simple filling that you can change to suit your
fancy.<br />
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Sink your teeth into a macaron and enjoy April in Paris, or wherever you
are.<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Printemps Macarons (</span></b><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">adapted from<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>La Cuisine Paris<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">)</b></span></div>
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MAKES ABOUT 24 FINISHED MACARONS</div>
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1 cup confectioners’
sugar</div>
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¾ cup almond flour</div>
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2 large egg whites (at
room temperature)</div>
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¼ cup granulated sugar</div>
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green food coloring </div>
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½ cup apricot jam</div>
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Sift the confectioners’ sugar and
almond flour into a large bowl and set aside. In another bowl, whisk the egg
whites with a mixer on medium speed until they’re foamy, about 2 minutes. Add
half the granulated sugar and continue mixing for another minute, then add the
rest of the sugar. Increase the speed to high and whisk until the egg whites
are glossy and form stiff peaks, about 6 minutes. Add the food coloring and whisk until the color is well blended, about 2 minutes.</div>
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Using a rubber spatula, fold the confectioners’
sugar mixture into the egg whites a little at a time until the batter is just smooth
and has the consistency of lava. Be careful not to over mix the batter (this seems
to be the make or break step and is where you might need to practice your
technique a few times). </div>
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Line 3 flat baking sheets with
parchment paper. Transfer the batter into a piping bag. If you have a ½ to ¾
inch tip for your piping bag, using that will give you more control. (If you
don’t have a piping bag, you can improvise by snipping off the corner of a
large freezer baggie.) Pipe the batter onto the sheets in one-inch rounds of ¼
inch thickness, spaced 1½ inches apart. Tap the bottom of the sheets to release
air bubbles and then let the batter rest 20 to 30 minutes to croûter, or form a
crust.</div>
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In an oven preheated to 325˚F,
but then turned down to 300˚F just before baking, bake the cookies in the lower
third of the oven. Bake one sheet at a time, about 12 minutes, or until the
tops are just turning golden but not browning. Watch them carefully because
they brown quickly. After each batch, increase the temperature to 325˚F for 3
minutes and then turn down to 300˚F to bake. Cool the cookies on the sheet for
3 minutes and then remove them from the parchment paper and transfer to a rack
to finish cooling.<br />
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Match the cookies up in pairs by size. Spoon 1 teaspoon of jam onto the
bottom half of one cookie. Top it with the other half and gently press the two
together so the filling reaches just to the edge. </div>
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Let the macarons stand a few
hours before serving, to blend the flavors. You can store them in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up
to 5 days. They can also be frozen for up to one month. Open the container when
you bring them to room temperature so they don’t become soggy.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-6058864489853883172015-03-31T12:20:00.000-07:002015-05-07T10:52:49.454-07:00The Bread Beast<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->Nothing goes better with <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2015/03/french-press-morning.html">French press coffee</a> in the morning than a thick slab of homemade bread. For me, anyway. Dense
and chewy whole wheat or light and airy ciabatta, I love it all—as long as it’s
made with high quality, unadulterated ingredients.<br />
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I used to bake bread back before Chris and I had kids, but then
it became one of those things that was edited out. Not to mention that we’re fortunate
to have five artisanal bakeries within about a 15 mile radius of our house. So I’ve
never lacked for good bread. But a few months ago we were over at our friends Pete
and Maggie’s house for dinner and she served us her homemade sourdough bread. With
its toothsome crust and complex, moist crumb and that distinctive sourdough
tang, we both couldn’t get enough of it. </div>
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On our way out the door, Maggie gave us a scoop of her sourdough starter in a jar. The instructions seemed pretty simple: keep it in a big,
glass bowl in a warmish place in your kitchen and feed it every day with flour
and water. Easy enough. Chris agreed to feed it every morning, and I would be
in charge of making the bread. </div>
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With 1¼ cups of flour and water added to it every day, the
starter rapidly grew. Bubbles from the fermenting wild yeast erupted on its surface,
and the bowl emitted a pungent, yeasty aroma. </div>
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Sourdough bread is, after all,
bread that is made with natural yeast drawn from the environment in which the
starter resides—bread with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">terroir</i>. No
need to add yeast to the dough, but what you do need is a little more
time and patience to get it right.</div>
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I set out to make bread once a week, a seemingly reasonable
amount of bread for our family of (now) three to consume. I love bread, and would
even go so far as to say that it’s one of my three favorite foods. I eat it every day, trying to limit myself to
having it only in the morning which, if it’s an excellent bread or bagel,
satisfies me for the rest of the day. </div>
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A few years ago, I made a failed attempt to go gluten-free.
Why? I really don’t know what possessed me. I lasted a mere few weeks and expended
enough bitch points during that time to cover a whole year of marriage.
Fortunately I have no medical need to go without gluten and have been happily scarfing
it down ever since (no offense intended to the many who successfully live
gluten-free due to medical reasons or personal choice; it just didn’t work for
me).</div>
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Now that we had some live starter and I was back to making
bread again, the house filled in the early hours of the morning with that
incomparable aroma of freshly baked bread—to me, one of the best smells in all
the world. I would pull the bread out of the oven and cut into its golden
crust, allowing the bread’s steam to further warm up my wintry kitchen.
Slathered with fresh butter or drizzled with a rustic olive oil, a slice or two
of this bread was a breakfast fit for a peasant or a queen.</div>
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Sometimes I like to mix it up by making an avocado toast, </div>
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or melting some cheese over top. <a href="http://farmsforcitykids.org/about-our-cheese/">Spring Brook Farm’s Reading Raclette</a> is a favorite for its meltability and meatiness. It stands up
especially well to a hearty whole wheat loaf.</div>
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Part of the fun of making bread is experimenting with
different flours. In addition to white and whole wheat, I tried a seven grain
mix, oat flour, and a fine Italian style flour that makes an airy
focaccia. My kitchen turned out a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i>
of bread this past winter. </div>
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But if you do the math, making bread once a week—which
entails using one cup of starter—leaves you with a lot of starter sitting on
your kitchen counter if you’re feeding it every day as you’re supposed to. Chris
was diligent about his job, so the starter grew. It grew and grew, threatening
to spill out over the edge of the bowl and creep across the kitchen counter. I
began calling it The Beast and gave it away to friends and to my daughter Faye’s
friends, spawning Baby Beasts throughout Vermont. I started baking bread twice
a week and freezing it. But eventually I threw up my hands. Too much starter!
Too much bread!</div>
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The Beast had to go. With a mixture of sorrow and relief,
Chris and I scraped the starter into the compost bin, its bubbles giving out
their last gasps. We reluctantly sucked in our muffin tops and vowed to cut
down on bread and hit the gym a few extra times each week.</div>
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Only now that we’ve finished up the last of the bread I had
frozen am I beginning to feel some regret. I’m considering asking Maggie if she
has any more starter she can spare (which I’m guessing she does, remembering
the enthusiasm with which she passed on a portion of hers to us). In the meantime,
though, Faye has decided to try going gluten-free. So as her mother I couldn’t in good
conscience bring another glutenous (or gluttonous?) Beast into our house. At
least not before next winter when I may take up the hobby again.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Maggie’s Sourdough Bread</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This recipe creates one large round loaf of
white sourdough bread. You can substitute different flour or use a combination
of flours (such as half whole wheat, half white), or shape the dough into rolls
or smaller loaves, for variety.</i></div>
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5 cups flour</div>
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2 teaspoons salt</div>
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2 cups water</div>
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1 cup starter (see below for instructions on how
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Mix ingredients together and let sit in a large
bowl covered with a cloth for 12 to 24 hours. Turn the bread out on a board and
fold it into the center (do not over-handle the dough). Let the dough rest 45
minutes. </div>
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Preheat the oven to 475˚F. Place the dough in a
cast iron Dutch oven and bake 20 minutes, covered. Uncover and bake another 10
minutes, or until the crust is golden brown. </div>
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To make sourdough starter: </div>
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¾ cup unbleached all-purpose flour</div>
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½ cup water</div>
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Combine flour and water in a large glass or
ceramic bowl. Stir with a wooden spoon until the consistency is smooth and
sticky. Cover loosely (I find that a plate placed on top of the bowl, but
slightly askew to allow air to circulate, works well). Place the bowl in a
location with a temperature of 70–75˚F and let rest 24 hours.</div>
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After 24 hours, you hopefully will start to see
bubbles starting to form, indicating that the wild yeast is active. Feed the starter
with the same amount of flour and water, stir well, and let rest another 24
hours. </div>
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By now, you should be seeing bubbles and the
starter should have a tangy, yeasty aroma. Feed the starter again, stir well,
and let rest another 24 hours. Repeat the next day, and by day five the starter
should be very bubbly and tangy, and the consistency should be thicker. It is
now ready to use. Continue feeding it every day, discarding half of it if you
can’t give it away or use it up fast enough!</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-23543977792218366842015-03-09T11:57:00.000-07:002015-04-16T07:42:04.205-07:00French Press Morning<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->Life tweaks— I recently made two to my
day, in an effort to break up the monotony of winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both happen to involve the morning. The first
is that I’ve left behind our old, plastic drip coffee maker and moved on to a shiny
100% stainless steel French press. I have no idea why I’ve waited so long to
make this change to something that gives me so much pleasure. I was stuck in a
rut, I guess. Sure, it takes a bit more time, but oh is that cup of coffee with
the froth on top and the dense mouthfeel and the bit of sludge in the bottom
ever worth it.<br />
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It tastes like real coffee. Like the coffee I had the first
time I lived in France while in college when every sip from the wide, handle-less
bowl in the kitchen of my host mother Madame Lavier was a revelation. She
served it black and I drank it at her wooden table as she sliced baguette for
our breakfast tartine while regaling me with colorful stories I struggled to
comprehend. I left her kitchen buzzing from the giant bowl of coffee and ready
to delve into the day’s adventure. </div>
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I now realize (lagging behind the many coffee aficionados
out there) that the method for making coffee is of the utmost importance. Quality
beans roasted to perfection are key also, and fortunately we have lots of
options for these here in Vermont. I seek out rich, earthy, full bodied coffee,
similar to my taste in chocolate and wine. And I tend to like medium to darker
roasts as well. Although we have many excellent local roasters, I’m going to
give a shout out to Middlebury’s <a href="http://www.vermontcoffeecompany.com/Vermont_Coffee_Company/vermont_organic_fair_trade_coffee.html">Vermont Coffee Company</a> and its organic, fair
trade beans roasted “big and bold.” Even their decaf is big and bold, a rare and
beautiful thing. I’ve known the owner Paul Ralston for years—producer of avant-garde
Shakespeare productions, former state legislator, and entrepreneur. He also roasts
some damn good coffee. </div>
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Once you’ve identified and acquired your beans, here’s my
method for making a satisfying cup: Grind the beans fresh, right before using
them. Don’t be tempted to buy pre-ground beans to save time (or worse, to join
the ranks of the nearly one in three American households that have a pod-based
coffee machine). So much flavor is lost with pre-ground, plus you miss the
intoxicating aroma the beans give off while they’re being ground. I use my
trusty grinder that was given to me back when I was in grad school (and
drinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lots</i> of coffee) by my
apartment-mate Sharon. (Yes, Sharon, it’s still grinding away!) Grinding your
own also allows you to attain the correct coarse consistency for the French
press.</div>
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My French press is a single serving size, just 12 ounces. So
I grind enough beans to yield 4 scoops of grounds and put those in the bottom
of the press. (Lest you wonder why I’m not making coffee for two, the reason is
that we have different coffee preferences in my household. Chris goes for
single origin beans and lighter roasts. He also starts his day a tad earlier
than I do.) Meanwhile, heat your water on the stove (not a microwave) and
remove the kettle just after it starts to boil. Let the water rest about 30
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After about two minutes, give it a stir. I love this part,
when the “bloom” swirls around and you can see the frothy foam forming on top.
Another hit of the coffee’s heady aroma rises from the press, and I start to
wake up.</div>
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When the timer goes off, it’s time to plunge.<br />
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I like a splash of milk, so it’s nearly black but not
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The only downside to converting to the French press is the
clean-up process. But in actuality it only takes about a minute. For one of
life’s little pleasures, a minute of clean-up is not a big deal. And the only
waste that’s generated from this whole process is coffee grinds, which go right
into my compost bin. No K-cup is added to the growing pile that threatens to
take over the world.</div>
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I’ll tell you about my second morning tweak in my next
post—making homemade bread from a sour dough starter, another kind of beast
that lives right on my kitchen counter.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-70615861920198414462015-02-17T18:22:00.000-08:002015-03-31T12:34:22.707-07:00Ottawa Calling: Canal Skating, Beavertails, and a Cold North Wind (guest post by Chris)Our first evening in Ottawa we found ourselves in front of a
goofy photo of President Obama in the Byward Market before dinner. Obama had
just purchased a maple leaf cookie and stood surrounded by employees at the
<a href="http://moulindeprovence.com/the-obama-visit">Le Moulin de Provence</a> bakery as he proclaimed, “I love this country!”<br />
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Like Obama, I too love Canada. Growing up in Williamsville, outside
of Buffalo, Canada was a constant presence—from the trips to the beaches and
amusement park at Sherkston, to the occasional forays to Niagara Falls, to the
television stations streaming in different shows and lots of hockey. And, of
course, when I became of legal age, the Canadian beers that were a mainstay of
our local bars—Labatt, Molson, O’Keefe. Since we’ve lived in Vermont, our
family has made many trips to Canada—usually the short trip to Montreal,
sometimes just Sheila and me, other times with Faye and Isabel. We enjoyed a
wonderful two week vacation to Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island, and Sheila
joined me for several days at a conference in Vancouver. But I had never been
to Ottawa—nor had Sheila or Faye. (Isabel went with her 6<sup>th</sup> grade
class from Bristol Elementary, before everyone needed passports.) </div>
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We had heard great things about Ottawa’s winter carnival
(Winterlude), and had twice planned a family trip only to have to cancel due to
illness and weather too warm to skate. But this year we made it. As we drove
into the center of Ottawa after lunch on a Friday, we were struck by the beauty
of our hotel, the <a href="http://www.fairmont.com/laurier-ottawa/">Fairmont Chateau Laurier</a>, </div>
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and the buildings of Parliament
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We checked in, got some friendly advice, and headed to the nearby <a href="http://www.ncc-ccn.gc.ca/rideau-canal-skateway/#home">Rideau Canal Skateway</a>, billed as the world’s largest skating rink. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
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We had an hour or so skate, just finding our legs,
so to speak. It was crystal clear, however—indeed as clear as the ice
sculptures we’d soon visit—that we weren’t native skaters. </div>
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Nearby Confederation
Park was home to a wide array of beautifully carved ice sculptures, some made
by professionals, and others by local citizens working away with chain saws. </div>
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The cold soon started to catch up with us, and we headed back to the hotel to
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Dinner was nearby at <a href="http://www.playfood.ca/">Play</a>, something of a northern tapas
restaurant. We each ordered two small plates—I enjoyed a mussel dish and some
gnocchi with short rib and Swiss chard. </div>
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Both Faye and Sheila started with a fig
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followed by a hanger steak for Faye and Arctic char for Sheila. </div>
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I also
eased in to the excellent <a href="http://www.ottawabeerevents.ca/">Ontario craft brewing scene</a>, with Ottawa’s own Lug
Tread Ale from Beau’s and a Muskoka Mad Tom IPA, while Sheila enjoyed some
Argentine red. Then it was back to the warm chateau as the temperature headed
for zero—excuse me, -18 C.</div>
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The next day started out with coffee and pastries at <a href="http://www.bridgehead.ca/">Bridgehead</a>,
a fine local chain. </div>
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We then strolled through a quiet downtown (it was Saturday
morning) and on past the Supreme Court building and the Parliament Hill
complex. As we changed into our skating gear, the sun came out and the blue sky
helped offset the cold. </div>
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We skated a confident 6k this day. Not quite Canadians,
but at least respectable winter people. Before finishing our skate, Faye and I
enjoyed “the” local delicacy—a beavertail (Sheila had a taste). </div>
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This glorified
fried dough came with a variety of toppings, but Faye had been advised that the
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It was a great
treat after a good skate, but I couldn’t shake the last vision of a beavertail
from my mind as I bit into the dough. It was of our late, great Golden/Lab Cooper,
in the rear view mirror, running after our car at full speed with her jaws gripping
a real beavertail, pulled from a frozen carcass she discovered on a hike. </div>
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After completing our skate, we headed over to the Byward
Market for lunch and strolling in the numerous shops. At the end of the
afternoon, we met our friend Zohra for coffee. We served as Zohra's host family
when she attended Middlebury several years ago, the first Afghan woman to do
so. She is now attending law school at the University of Ottawa, with plans to
return to Afghanistan.</div>
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A cold walk brought us to <a href="http://www.townlovesyou.ca/">Town</a>, our dinner restaurant. It
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I enjoyed another
Ottawa beer (Dominion City Two Flags IPA) with my pork loin. Faye and Sheila
enjoyed ricotta cavatelli with oyster mushrooms and kale pesto, and some
Italian red for Sheila. We all agreed that if Town were located near Bristol,
we’d be frequent visitors. We then made the walk back to the hotel, cutting
through Confederation Park to see the ice sculptures at night and take in some
of the (literal) Sub-Zero DJ.</span></span></div>
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Sunday morning brought a blizzard, more cold, and wind. It
was winter in Canada, after all. We had planned some more skating, but given
the weather and the drive back, we grabbed a quick breakfast at Moulin de
Provence and were on our way. Before our trip we had read that Ottawa was the
second coldest capital in the world, and it lived up to that reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m very much looking forward to my next
visit, but it may be in the summer. Oh, and that trip to Ulan Bator, the
world’s coldest capital—that definitely won’t be happening in the winter.<br />
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-79790004678077547552015-01-21T10:08:00.000-08:002015-03-09T15:02:53.399-07:00Crossing Cultures in Marrakech<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello, you remember me?” the
man asked, with a wide smile. “I carry your bags this morning, remember?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chris and I nodded blankly and smiled back at the man as we
walked out the front gate of La Mamounia in Marrakech. We weren’t, in truth,
staying at this renowned hotel. We had simply wanted to stroll its magnificent gardens,
usually reserved for guests. But we were dressed for dinner at a nearby
restaurant and thought we’d try to sneak in, striding past the uniformed doormen
just thirty minutes earlier like we owned the place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now as we left the grounds, this man appeared smiling. “I
look different now,” he said. “No hat.” He pointed to his head, referring to
the traditional flat-topped fez often worn by porters in upscale Moroccan
hotels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We nodded and smiled again, embarrassed to reveal we weren’t
rich Westerners, at least not rich enough to afford La Mamounia, and had just slipped
in for a glimpse of its gardens. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Where are you from?” he asked, walking along beside us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“The United States,” I replied, watching his face to discern
its reaction. It was hard to read, but appeared benign as he launched into a
story about a relative who lives in Boston. Every now and then he pulled a piece
of paper out of his pocket and consulted it for vocabulary. He explained that
he was trying to improve his English. We told him we were on our way to dinner,
and he offered to lead us to the restaurant. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chris and I glanced at each other, not sure where this
conversation was heading. Was he just being friendly, or was he like the young
men who routinely approached us in the labyrinthine medina offering to give us
directions? They were known to lead gullible tourists the wrong way and then
help them find their way back for a few coins. But this man seemed different.
He prattled on about his twin daughters as he stepped into the chaotic avenue
with his arms outstretched to stop traffic so we could safely cross. At some
point he told us his name, Omar*, and we told him ours. When he asked our last
name, I made one up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Omar asked if we had been to the Berber rug market held
earlier that day. We hadn’t, but had encountered numerous rug merchants in the
souk, eager to show us their selections. He had a friend, he said, who would
give us a good price, a special price for guests at La Mamounia.<br />
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“No thanks,”
we said. “We don’t want to be late for dinner.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Before we knew what was happening, we were seated in a
showroom being served mint tea as the merchant unrolled his wares. They were
beautiful rugs, and an excellent price considering the labor involved in hand-weaving. The cost was not much more than one night’s stay at La Mamounia. But
we weren’t interested in buying a rug. We just wanted to politely escape. It
would be rude not to drink the tea, though, and we weren’t quite sure where we
were.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, when it was clear we wouldn’t be making a purchase,
Omar said goodbye to his friend and led us to the door of our restaurant. He
wasn’t as friendly as he had been earlier, although he said he’d look for us at
the hotel the next day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few minutes later, a waiter served us wine at a table
strewn with rose petals. Chris and I toasted, with relief and bemusement, dodging
our disingenuous predicament. It then occurred to me that maybe Omar was
pulling one over on us too. Did he even work at La Mamounia, or did he wait
outside its gate to lead unsuspecting guests to his family’s rug shop? Were we
both misreading each other due to stereotypes and cultural assumptions? Nearly
a year since <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2014/04/mmmmmorocco.html">our visit there </a>I still couldn’t say, but I do wonder if the reason we were skeptical
of his story is because we had concocted one of our own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been thinking about this encounter a lot lately, in the
wake of the tragic events in Paris. And I’ve wondered if we can ever truly
know, or understand, another person’s motives—whether it’s someone we’ve
never met, or someone we’ve had a brief exchange with, or someone we know well. Or even ourselves. I’m sad for the people of Paris, all of them, and hope that the better side of
human nature will prevail.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Chicken Tagine with Apricots and
Almonds (adapted from La Maison Arabe)<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<i>This warming, iconic Moroccan dish
is perfect for a winter evening. The melt-in-your-mouth chicken is redolent
with spices, and the apricots add a touch of sweetness.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Serves 4<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 tablespoons olive oil<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 whole chicken (2
pounds), cut into large pieces<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 large onion, finely
chopped<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 teaspoon salt<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 teaspoon black pepper<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 cinnamon stick<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 teaspoons ground
ginger<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 teaspoons ground turmeric<o:p></o:p></div>
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¼ teaspoon saffron
threads<o:p></o:p></div>
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1½ cups water<o:p></o:p></div>
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parsley and cilantro bouquet<o:p></o:p></div>
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16 dried apricots<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 teaspoon ground
cinnamon<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 cloves<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 tablespoons honey <o:p></o:p></div>
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1 tablespoon butter<o:p></o:p></div>
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½ cup whole almonds, blanched
and lightly fried in olive oil<o:p></o:p></div>
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In a tagine or large
heavy pot, drizzle the olive oil. Add the meat, onion, salt, pepper, cinnamon
stick, ginger, turmeric, and saffron. Mix well so the meat is coated with the
spices. On medium heat, sear the chicken for about 15 minutes, covered,
turning it occasionally and adding a bit of water if necessary. Watch the
chicken closely so it doesn’t stick and so the spices don’t burn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Add the water to the
pot, along with the parsley and cilantro bouquet. Increase the heat to medium-high,
cover, and cook for about 50 minutes, or until the meat is falling from the
bone and the sauce has thickened. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While the meat is
cooking, caramelize the apricots. Rinse the apricots and put them in a small
saucepan. Add the cinnamon and cloves and mix well. Cover the apricots with
water and cook them on medium heat, covered, for 10 minutes. Lower the heat and
continue cooking for 15 more minutes. Add the honey and cook for another 10
minutes until the sauce becomes syrupy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Before serving, remove
the herb bouquet and cinnamon sticks from the tagine. Transfer the chicken from
the pot to a serving dish. Add the apricot syrup and butter to the sauce and
stir until the butter is melted. Season with salt and pepper and pour the sauce
over the meat. Arrange the caramelized apricots and fried almonds evenly over
the meat. Serve hot with crusty bread.<o:p></o:p></div>
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*name has been changed</div>
Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-5478726709637871852015-01-05T11:29:00.000-08:002015-03-09T15:02:34.708-07:00On Montreal, Music, and Memory<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->It’s a new year, not only in the larger sense but, since
Chris and I got married on December 29<sup>th</sup>, we’re also beginning a new
year of marriage. We celebrated our anniversary in Montreal this year, taking
in the Francophone culture, the art scene, and some excellent food, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bien sûr</i>.<br />
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Since the city is less than an
hour from the Vermont border, we’ve been to <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2012/04/crossing-border-day-1.html">Montreal </a>many times, but never for our
anniversary. So on this particular trip I was often reminded of moments from our
first visit back 1988. In some ways, you could call it our first date. </div>
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Let me back up. Chris and I met that year at the August
wedding of my college roommate Sonja and his grad school roommate Craige. Since
we were both in the wedding party, we spent a fair amount of time together that
weekend. I discovered he was fun to dance with, we had similar taste in books,
and he made me laugh. As the weekend came to a close, I wanted to get to know
him better but, at the same time, we were both in the process of moving—I was
relocating to the Boston area from Virginia and Chris was moving from
Minneapolis to Burlington. We talked about getting together in our new locales
and exchanged contact information, but I admit I was skeptical about whether I
would hear from him again. </div>
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A couple weeks later, as I was unpacking boxes in my new
apartment, I received a delivery of flowers. They were gorgeous lavender
roses—with no card. I assumed they were from someone I had been involved with
in Virginia, but I knew that relationship was going nowhere. Then the mail
arrived, and with it a small package containing a cassette tape (remember
those?). There was a song on each side, and one of them was Frank Sinatra’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgzaZaPf9Hc">Moonlight in Vermont</a>. This got my attention and made me rethink the roses. When we spoke on
the phone, Chris invited me up to Vermont for Labor Day weekend, a couple days
away. </div>
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It’s important to note that driving three hours to spend a
weekend with someone I barely knew was completely out of character for me. Plus
I had been in a long distance relationship before and wasn’t looking to jump
into one again. Not to mention, I was still unpacking and due to start my new
job the Tuesday after Labor Day. But I went.</div>
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When I pulled up outside Chris’s building that Friday
evening, I could hear Dire Straits’ <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdupU80HMss">Expresso Love</a> drifting out of the second
floor window. I remember that moment vividly, pausing to listen to a few bars
of that song and feeling like my life was about to change. For me, like many
people, music has a way of crystallizing a moment in time, fixing it in memory.
Years later a song can play on the radio or in a shop and instantly transport me
back to that moment. Food has a way of doing this also.</div>
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Not all of Chris’s furniture had arrived yet from Minnesota,
but he did have some of the more crucial items, including his stereo. He also
had a bottle of champagne at the ready. Eventually we went out for something to
eat, pizza at Ken’s, which is still there. Sometimes when I walk past this pizzeria/pub
now and smell the pizzas baking, I’m brought back to a moment when we sat at
one of the outdoor tables and I thought, I could drive back tomorrow morning
and start my life in Massachusetts. Or I could stay and there would be no
turning back. For some reason it felt like there was nothing in between.</div>
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I stayed, of course, and on Sunday Chris suggested we drive up
to Montreal for dinner. This sounded like a good idea, and mostly it was. A
warm summer rain fell much of the afternoon, so after we tired of wandering
around the city, exploring the Old Town and Latin Quarter, we found a restaurant.
I don’t remember what I ate, in part because I wasn’t focusing on my meal, but I
do remember sitting at that table across from Chris in the rustic coziness of
the dining room. When the time came to pay the bill, though, he realized he’d
been pickpocketed. Not a problem, I covered it. Fortunately this was prior to
the strict border controls that would now prevent him from returning to the US
without an official ID. On the way home we somehow breezed through the border, but
ended up lost in upstate New York and got home around 1 am.</div>
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To the surprise of some, 14 months later we got engaged, and
14 months after that I had moved to Vermont and we were married. </div>
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At our
wedding, our first song was the one that was on the second side of the
cassette, one we had danced to at Craige and Sonja’s wedding—<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmakK7BSRnE">Can’t Help Falling in Love</a>. Now here we are, 24 years later, with two daughters who are not far
from the age I was when Chris and I first met.</div>
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On this recent visit to Montreal, instead of warm summer
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Despite the biting wind, though,
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The
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been back. We’ve discovered other favorites over the years with excellent food.
For lunch—<a href="http://restaurantlexpress.com/en/">Restaurant l’Express</a>, a Parisian-style bistro where they make a classic
Salade de Chèvre Chaud, a salad of lightly dressed mesclun with warmed goat
cheese on toasts,</div>
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and Pot au Feu, a beef stew complete with marrowbone.</div>
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For dinner we went to <a href="http://www.aupetitextra.com/petitextra/fr/index.asp">Au Petit Extra</a>, which has one of the
best chalkboard menus I’ve ever seen.</div>
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My Rabbit Braised in Mustard Sauce was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exquis,</i></div>
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and Chris relished his Steak Frites. </div>
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We talked about that first weekend together and not
surprisingly remembered some of the moments differently. Was Expresso Love
still playing when Chris opened the door or had the song changed to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4SHr_EJGI4">Hand in Hand</a>? Did we drink the champagne before or after we went out for pizza? We’ve
now shared thousands of moments since those early ones—mostly happy, some
mundane. Some where we were lost again on a dark road, and some we breezed
through under questionable circumstances. Our taste in books has diverged a bit since the late ‘80s, but he’s
still fun to dance with and he still makes me laugh. And even after all these
years I want to know more about him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-90287125893675562112014-12-04T14:30:00.000-08:002015-01-21T11:28:33.886-08:00Essential IngredientsNow that the dust has settled in my kitchen
after the Thanksgiving frenzy, and the leftovers have dwindled to a pot of soup
in the fridge, it’s time to think about December cooking and baking. I’ve
written about <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2012/12/party-food.html">some holiday favorites before</a>, but lately I’ve been thinking
about essential ingredients—what goes into those favorites, what I cannot do
without. They break down naturally into the five sensations our tongue’s taste
receptors respond to: salty, sweet, bitter, sour, and umami. For those not familiar
with umami, a more recent addition, it’s the Japanese word for “savory
deliciousness” and is associated with foods high in glutamate, such as fish,
meat, specific vegetables, and fermented and aged foods. Although difficult to
define, it’s glaringly obvious when umami is missing. I found it challenging to
come up with a list of just ten essentials, but have narrowed it down by
limiting it to ingredients I never eat on their own.<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sea salt</i>,
preferably coarse: Salt of the earth, grain of salt, worth one’s salt—there’s a
reason so many common expressions involve salt and that “salary” is derived
from the word. It’s a necessary mineral in the human body, not just an
ingredient, and offers sensual satisfaction as well. Unfortunately it’s often
applied with an indiscriminate hand, but a judicious amount of salt enhances
the flavor of just about anything, and can even be transformative. Think of the
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freshly ground black
pepper</i>: Black peppercorns, especially Tellicherry with their deep
complexity, can be just as transformative as salt. They’re not cheap but a
little goes a long way, and they’re so far above common pre-ground black pepper
that it’s hard to believe they’re in the same spice family. It’s not surprising
they’ve long been called the King of Spices. We go through a lot of freshly
ground black pepper in our house, and I was happy that Isabel has learned to
value its virtues so much that a pepper grinder was one of the first things she
bought for her new apartment this past fall. Although I use a lot of spices in
my cooking and baking, this is the one I couldn’t do without.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Garlic</i>: Is it an
ingredient, or is it a food? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to
admit I enjoy it on its own, roasted, but I couldn’t not include it on this
list because it is so much an essential ingredient in my kitchen that the list
would simply be incomplete without it. I add it to just about everything I
cook, from a single, subtle clove to lend depth to a sauce, to an overt,
generous handful. Fortunately everyone else in my household loves, or at least
likes, it too. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shallots</i>: Similar
to garlic, shallots walk the line between ingredient and food. I have been
known to eat them caramelized by the spoonful. Also like garlic, they truly are
essential to my cooking, both raw and cooked. When they’re slowly softening on
the stove, they fill the house with an incomparably homey aroma. If you’re
still puzzling over what umami tastes like, caramelized shallots are an
excellent example, as is roasted garlic.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fresh herbs</i>: It’s
impossible to choose just one herb because I use so many of them so frequently
in my cooking, plus each one has is its own unique and pleasing flavor. Basil,
thyme, sage, savory, marjoram, cilantro, and lavender—I grow all of these right
out my back door. Stepping outside in the middle of making dinner to decide
which one to snip and throw in the pot is one of life’s simple joys. I also
have a special fondness for rosemary because I can grow it on a
windowsill all winter long. Fresh herbs are another great example of umami.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Extra virgin olive oil</i>:
Butter (the real, all natural kind) is a close second, but if truth be told I
cook with olive oil much more than with butter, and I prefer it with bread as
well. I lean towards those that are slightly bitter, full bodied, and “pique”
in the back of the throat, a description I learned in France when selecting
olive oil from a market vendor. An oil that has “pique” possesses a pleasant
sharpness on the finish. If you set a dish of full-bodied olive oil down in front of
me along with a loaf of crusty bread, it’s sure to disappear fast. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Balsamic vinegar</i>: Perhaps
because of its close association with wine, I’m a big fan of vinegar. Balsamic vinegar, in particular,
balances sourness with subtle sweetness resulting in a complex sensation that I
never tire of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the sourness of
lemons too and sometimes mix up my vinaigrettes by using citrus instead of
vinegar, but overall I prefer the more layered sourness of a quality vinegar.
Adding a splash to a hearty soup or braise creates depths of flavor that never
taste vinegary; they just taste better.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cocoa powder</i>: This
wonder ingredient is essential for making anything chocolate, of course. Enough
said. But I will add that its natural bitterness is one of its best qualities.
I like my chocolate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> dark. With
just a hint of sweetness. In general, Americans undervalue bitterness,
gravitating overwhelmingly toward sweetness. European friends have told me that
in the US everything tastes sweet. Unfortunately for the undiscerning eater,
this is true. I’m thankful I was not born with a sweet tooth and actually
prefer bitter over sweet. The idea of sweetening my coffee is repellent to me,
I’d choose bitter greens over sweetened yams, and as for milk chocolate? Non,
merci.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maple syrup</i>: Ok, I
admit sometimes recipes are enhanced by a touch of sweetness. And I do enjoy a
sweet dessert every now and then. So on
the rare occasions when sweetness is called for, like holiday baking, I turn to
maple syrup (or maple sugar) whenever I can. It’s far superior to cane sugar in
both flavor and nutrition. Honey is a close runner-up, but since my family and
I are Vermonters, maple syrup courses through our veins (thankfully <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2012/03/sugarin-season.html">our friends David and Louise Brynn</a> keep us well stocked). </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vanilla</i>: Often
associated with sweet foods, although not sweet in and of itself, vanilla is highly
aromatic and imparts a heady allure to everything it touches. No wonder it
often shows up as a base note in colognes and perfumes. It enhances the flavor
of many foods, especially baked goods, and can also stand on its own, hence its
honored position as the most popular ice cream in America. I recently made some
vanilla extract with beans one of Chris’s colleagues gave us from Madagascar where she does research (although in actuality vanilla “beans” are not beans, but
instead are the cured fruit pods of an orchid). The extract has been steeping
for four months and is now ready for use and giving as homemade vanilla also makes
an inspired DIY host/hostess gift during the holidays.</div>
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There you have it, my essentials. So too during the month of
December, there are certain fundamental ingredients for a happy holiday season.
In addition to good food and drink mine include: family, friends, music, light,
spirit, warmth, generosity, and traditions old and new. </div>
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Happy Holidays to you and yours!</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Homemade Vanilla Extract</b></div>
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3 vanilla beans</div>
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1 750 ml bottle of quality vodka (or bourbon)</div>
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With a sharp knife, split the vanilla beans lengthwise.
Place the beans in the bottle of vodka, seal it, and let it steep in a cool, dark
cabinet for at least 4 months. Occasionally shake the bottle gently to mix.
When it has finished steeping, discard the beans and pour the extract into
sterilized containers.</div>
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<br />Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-36790872817203804592014-11-06T09:10:00.001-08:002015-01-21T11:28:20.463-08:00What I'm Thankful ForEvery year at Thanksgiving we begin
the meal by going around the table and saying what we’re all thankful for.
We’ve been doing this since our girls were little and were first starting to
talk (a popular contribution at that age was “Pie!”). Our guests are always
invited to join in, and they always do, bringing their personalities and
varying levels of comfort to this family tradition. What I’m thankful for each
year hasn’t really changed over time, although in an effort to not allow the
food on our plates to grow cold, I usually compress it into a sentence or two.
But here on my blog, I have ample room to elaborate. So elaborate I shall, in
the spirit of the upcoming holiday. Here goes.
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I’m thankful for my family. That’s always first. For Chris—and
nearly 25 years of marriage to my best friend. Who, notwithstanding some
challenges along the way, loves and accepts me—weaknesses, flaws, and all. He’s
still my dreamboat, and life is rarely dull. </div>
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For our daughters Isabel and Faye who, despite more
complicated pressures than I faced growing up, are more well-adjusted than I ever
was at their age. I’m thankful for their interesting, strong, beautiful, loving
selves, and how they each manifest those qualities in their own unique ways. </div>
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And for the rest of my family, especially my mom and sister
Lynne. I don’t get to see them very often, but in some way they’re always with
me.</div>
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I’m thankful for good health. I make healthy living a
priority in my life, but sometimes things are out of our control. As I traverse
middle age, I’m all the more aware of being grateful for good health.</div>
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I’m thankful for meaningful, fulfilling work. It won’t make
me rich, but it’s challenging and satisfying and just the right amount so I can
maintain balance, another priority. Plus I get to be my own boss. I’m really
thankful for that.</div>
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I’m thankful for good friends near and far. It’s not a big
circle, but I’m more into quality than quantity when it comes to friends, and
just about everything else. You know who you are.</div>
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I’m thankful for our pets, Callie and Chocolat. In my next
life I wouldn't mind being one of them.</div>
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I’m thankful for the ability to travel, not only as a
tourist, but for the extended travel I’ve had the opportunity to do. It’s when
I’m settling in and discovering a place gradually, like I’ve had the
opportunity to do a few different times, that I feel like I learn the most
about the world.<br />
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I’m thankful for a home I love in a quirky, little village
in a quirky, little state. It’s one of the most diverse places I’ve ever
lived—not racially or ethnically perhaps, but in most other ways. And it’s
gorgeous ten and a half months of the year.<br />
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Finally, I’m thankful for good food, much of it produced
right here in Vermont. I’m thankful I have access to quality food grown and
raised in a thoughtful way by people who care about their impact on the planet.
Most of what is on our Thanksgiving table will have been produced on
small-scale farms within about 50 miles of our home, whether it’s turkey,
vegetables, or the makings of a pie. Yeah, I’m thankful for pie too. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To help support those
in need, I hope you’ll join me in donating to your local food shelf this
holiday season, and throughout the year.</i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Classic Apple Pie with Buttermilk Spice Ice Cream</b></div>
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Makes one 9-inch double crust pie with ample ice cream</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To make the
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2 cups real buttermilk </div>
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½ cup sugar</div>
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pinch of salt</div>
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1 cup heavy cream</div>
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1 tablespoon vanilla extract </div>
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1 teaspoon cinnamon</div>
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½ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg</div>
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½ teaspoon allspice</div>
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pinch of cloves</div>
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pinch of cardamom<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div>
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In a medium bowl, whisk together the buttermilk,
sugar, and salt until the sugar is dissolved. Stir in the cream, vanilla, and
spices. Cover and refrigerate 2 hours or overnight, stirring occasionally to
distribute the spices. Follow the instructions on your ice cream maker to make
into ice cream.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To make the pie</i>: </div>
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crust</i>:</div>
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2½ cups all-purpose flour</div>
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1 teaspoon kosher salt</div>
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½ pound cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch
pieces</div>
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You can make the crust the old-fashioned way with
a pastry blender, but I find that a food processor works just as well and is a
heck of a lot easier. Put the flour, salt, and butter in the processor and
process about 10 seconds, until the mixture is grainy. Add the ice water a
little at a time, while the machine is going, and process up to 30 seconds. Be
careful not to over process. The dough should just hold together when you pinch
it. If it doesn’t add a little more water.</div>
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Remove the dough onto waxed paper (or your preferred
surface) and shape it into two flat disks (do not over handle it). Wrap each
disk in waxed paper and chill for an hour.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prepare the
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9 apples (I like McIntosh), peeled, cored and cut
into eighths</div>
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Juice of 1 lemon</div>
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½ cup sugar</div>
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1 teaspoon cinnamon</div>
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½ teaspoon allspice</div>
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pinch of cloves</div>
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3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small
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Preheat the oven to 400˚F. In a large bowl,
combine the apples and lemon juice. Sprinkle with the sugar and spices and stir
gently until the apples are well coated.</div>
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On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough disks
out with a rolling pin until they’re even and about ¼-inch thick. Transfer one
disk to a pie plate. Put the apples on top of the crust, mounding them toward
the center. Add the butter pieces, distributing them evenly over the apples.
Cover with the second crust and trim off any extra. Seal the rim (I like to
pinch it together in a crimped pattern, but a fork works well too), and vent
the top with a fork or knife. </div>
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Put the pie in the oven and lower it to 375˚F.
Bake about 40 minutes, until the crust is golden brown (be careful not to over bake
and burn your crust). Serve warm, topped with ice cream.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-20556030047151808452014-10-07T07:57:00.000-07:002014-12-04T16:31:12.769-08:00The Vermont Hard Cider Tasting ProjectThe sweet-tart crunch of an apple
straight off the tree is hard to beat,<br />
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but it’s also one of those rare fruits
that tastes just as good—and sometimes even better—baked, </div>
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fried, </div>
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and pressed
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Cider’s cousin, hard cider, is all the rage in Vermont right
now, although it’s really a resurgence of a once thriving colonial industry. I
have to confess I’m a little late to the party. Doubtful that I would like it,
I only tried my first hard cider this past summer. I was intrigued, and it
inspired me to embark on a Vermont Hard Cider Tasting Project, similar to the <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2012/05/vermont-beer-tasting-project.html">Beer Tasting Project</a> I undertook back in 2012. Chris enthusiastically agreed to join
in. </div>
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We started out at <a href="http://www.citizencider.com/">Citizen Cider</a> in Burlington, venturing
into their industrial-meets-cozy tasting room on a drizzly afternoon. The
garage door windows open onto an elevated deck overlooking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>artsy Pine Street, infusing the space with a comfortable,
cool vibe—a “Cider for the People, Made by the People” vibe, as their logo
states. We settled in at one of the communal wooden tables and ordered. Chris
had done some advance research and zeroed in on a glass of The Full Nelson. I decided
to go in without preconceptions and ordered the $6.00 tasting flight of five
ciders on tap. </div>
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Beginning with Unified Press, their popular flagship cider, I
quickly determined it’s too sweet for me, even though it’s categorized as
off-dry. It might be just right for many other palates, but it’s the kind of
cider that made me previously think I wasn’t a cider person. Not giving up yet,
I moved on to the Wit’s Up. Made with a Belgian beer yeast, it’s pleasantly
dry, perhaps Citizen’s driest. It tastes more like a beer than a cider to me,
but not as heavy. On a warm day, it would be especially quaffable. This was
promising.</div>
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The Stan Up was next, a lively, bright cider, on the tart side.
It’s made from an heirloom apple blend by Stan, the owner of Happy Valley
Orchard in Middlebury. We’ve been picking apples there for years, since our
girls were little, so that connection endeared it to me. I also sampled the
B-Cider, a blend of cider and honey from Happy Valley’s own bees, described on
Citizen’s menu as “a taste of the full circle of life on the orchard.” That’s a
beautiful thing. B-Cider has a wonderfully floral perfume, and although sweet
at first, it has a dry finish, almost like a wine, and a slight fizz. I was
coming around.</div>
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My favorite one, though, is The Full Nelson, a rare new
taste sensation for me. I have to admit I was skeptical when the menu described
it as a cross between an IPA, a champagne, and a hard cider, but I’ll be damned
if that isn’t accurate. Aged and finished with Nelson Sauvin hops, it’s yeasty and
complex and left me wanting more from Chris’s glass. It’s the cider that won me
over.</div>
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We’ve made it back to Citizen twice since then, bringing
some friends along, enjoying more of The Full Nelson and some tasty pub fare,
and once catching an excellent band in town from Philadelphia. Overall, it’s a
welcome addition to the food and drink scene in Burlington, and I’m glad we can
pick up a bottle of The Full Nelson right in Bristol when we want to enjoy it
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The next stop on our Tasting Project tour was <a href="http://www.woodchuck.com/">Woodchuck Hard Cider</a> in Middlebury, one of the largest cider makers in the US. This wildly
successful company just opened up an impressive new facility that can fill 600
bottles a minute, or 3 million a year, according to the friendly server in
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They give you four samples on the house and after
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I started off with the Local Nectar, made with 100% Vermont
apples. Unlike Citizen who sources all their fruit from within 150 miles, Woodchuck, given the volume they produce, has to look elsewhere for many of their apples. This homegrown cider, though, has a subtle mustiness and goes down easy.
Next up was the Ciderbration, a very apple-y cider but perhaps a bit too much
like juice. The Hopsation, a “hop forward cider,” is their original small batch
cider infused with Cascade hops, a winning combination in general, I’ve
discovered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very clear and light, it’s
their driest, but not quite dry enough for me. I prefer a more hoppy contrast
to the apple’s sweetness, although I think my palate is drier than most. But for
those who like a mildly sweet beverage that’s lighter than a craft beer (and
gluten free; ciders are riding that wave) and much better for you than a soda
or sugar-sweetened juice cocktail, this cider would be worth checking out (we tried some at home too). </div>
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The server added a fifth cider for us to sample, the Amber,
saying it was the original and everyone should try it. Crisp and balanced, it
has a classic cider taste. My favorite of the batch, though, was the Smoked
Apple. Infused with deliciously smoky applewood, it has just the right amount
of smoke. For those who like flavored ciders, Woodchuck has a wide array, from
Chocolate Raspberry to Pumpkin, to Coconut Pineapple. That’s not really my
thing, aside from the Smoked Apple, which I will seek out again. Besides, I
like Woodchuck’s motto: “Give a ‘chuck.”</div>
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The next two tastings Chris and I conducted at home with ciders
produced by smaller cider makers. <a href="http://www.shacksbury.com/">Shacksbury Cider</a>’s The Basque, is actually produced
in Spain and then bottled in Shoreham. The owners also import cider from
England, but have recently released in limited amounts a cider made from local
“lost apples”—apples they’ve foraged from trees homesteaders planted
specifically for homemade hard cider over a century ago.</div>
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The Basque is unfiltered and fermented with wild yeast,
rendering it cloudy and golden, similar to an unfiltered pale ale, but without
the carbonation. Its label describes it as extra dry, which is accurate; I’d
say it’s a bit too dry even for my palate. It has a bold, citrusy tang with a
musty finish, and is a whole different animal from the previous ciders we tried.
A t$14.99 a bottle, it’s the most expensive cider for sale at the <a href="http://middleburycoop.com/coop/index.php">Middlebury Co-op</a>.
Shacksbury is getting a lot of media attention, so some people must love it,
but for us it’s a yet to be acquired taste. We're interested though in giving
their local lost apple vintage, called 1840, a try.</div>
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Finally, we picked up a bottle of <a href="http://www.flaghillfarm.com/">Flag Hill Farm</a>’s Vermont
Cyder, “with a y,” that is. </div>
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Perusing the shelf of local, artisanal ciders at
the Co-op, I was swayed to buy this one by the sign underneath it citing a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i> description: “cider with
the soul of wine.” The packaging does resemble wine more than anything else,
from the shape of the bottle to the cork that seals it (the same goes for The
Basque). And the cider itself is indeed more similar to wine than to the sweeter
ciders at Citizen and Woodchuck (except for The Full Nelson which really does,
amazingly, resemble champagne). It’s definitely dry, but not as dry as The
Basque, and I tasted sour apple and earth. As for the bouquet, the best way I
can describe it is that it smells like fall. </div>
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Made with wild, organic apples and no additives or
artificial ingredients, Flag Hill Cyder is fermented with wild yeast and aged
at least one winter. At 8.5% alcohol, it’s the most potent of the ones we sampled
(the others hover around 6.9% or lower); again, like wine, a cider meant for
sipping. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sells for $9.99 at the
Middlebury Co-op but, alas, is available only in Vermont, in limited release. I
usually lean toward red wine and Chris toward craft IPAs, but I can see the
appeal of mixing it up and sharing a bottle of this cyder along with a hearty braise or stew
on a chilly fall evening. </div>
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So I guess I could say I’m a cider convert. Vermont was dubbed
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locals. Either way, I’m glad that hard cider is back, and is here to stay.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-73076274925904336332014-09-22T14:49:00.000-07:002014-11-06T10:38:25.709-08:00Inconstant Gardener (or Life Lessons I’ve Learned from Gardening)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->First official day of fall today, although we had our first hard frost a few nights
ago, always a more definitive marker for the end of summer than a date on the
calendar. It’s felt like fall for a few weeks now, though, with Isabel back at
college and Faye absorbed in her busy high school life. Chris is back to
teaching, and I’m trying to buckle down to a more productive work schedule
myself. At the same time, September weather is usually the best of the year,
with clear skies, crisp air, and a gentle sun. It drifts through the skylight
above my desk, pulling me away from my computer and outside for a hike, bike, kayak
or, so I can reassure myself I’m still being productive, to the garden.<br />
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It’s harvest time—time to collect the fruits of spring and
summer labors—so being in the garden doesn’t feel like a chore in the way it
can when battling weeds in mid-July. In actuality though, I’ve been harvesting
since late spring when the first of the baby lettuces came in. But September
is what most people consider to be The Harvest, and it carries metaphorical
weight. As I gather tomatoes,<br />
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tomatillos, kale, and the last of the
basil (which turns black if touched by frost), my mind wanders as it usually
does when I’m in the garden. That’s probably one of the reasons I’m drawn to
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Maybe because everyone is back to school, I find myself
thinking about what I’ve learned from gardening. Life Lessons, of a sort. Here
are four to start: </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You get out of the
garden what you put into it</i>. Except when you don’t. This applies to most
things in life, of course—relationships, parenting, friendships, work. In
general with the garden, I find that the more I nourish the soil organically, and weed, and
water, the more bountiful the produce is. </div>
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But some years I put in a lot of
effort and the returns are disappointing for reasons beyond my control, like
the tainted compost that wrecked our soil two years ago, or too much rain, or
an invasion of beetles. Sometimes, however, the opposite is true. I put in
hardly any effort at all and the returns keep on coming. Raspberries are like
this. We planted a row back when we bought the house over twenty years ago and
have done nothing but sporadic pruning ever since. Yet every year we get a
month-long supply of exquisite, plump berries. Go figure.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s nice to share. </i>Not
that I hadn’t learned that already, like most of us did back in kindergarten.
But we have a way of forgetting that one, don’t we? My garden is small, only
about 30 square feet, but it produces more than enough for my family. Giving away
extra produce to my neighbors feels good. Inviting them to come over and help
themselves while we’re away on vacation is so much better than coming home and
finding fruit and vegetables rotting on the vine. I also welcome the wildlife
that help themselves, like the bunny I regularly catch hopping stealthily out
of the Swiss chard as I approach. I find partially chewed chard leaves strewn in
the overgrown paths, but there’s plenty of chard for us both. </div>
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The same goes for
the birds who devour our blueberries<br />
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and the squirrels who stand brazenly in
the middle of the yard holding an apple in their delicate hands.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perfectionism has no
place in a garden</i>. Except when it occurs naturally, that is, like a single,
perfect Sun Gold tomato warm off the vine, </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0DkH6SZ_Nbc/VCA_3N9OpKI/AAAAAAAADaI/ZLvGBjsn1rY/s1600/garden%2B2014%2B006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0DkH6SZ_Nbc/VCA_3N9OpKI/AAAAAAAADaI/ZLvGBjsn1rY/s1600/garden%2B2014%2B006.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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or a gorgeous head of radicchio just waiting to be plucked. </div>
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I get a certain satisfaction out of weedless, straight
rows of seedlings in late May, I have to admit. But within a few weeks, it’s a
losing battle with the weeds and somehow those straight rows have gone all
crooked. That used to bother me and drive me out there to yank up the weeds
until I’d give myself <a href="http://www.thevermontepicure.com/2012/08/how-does-your-garden-grow.html">tendonitis in my elbow (twice)</a>. But over time I’ve
learned that there are a lot of weedy, crooked things in life that you sometimes
just have to accept. Instead of fighting it, I try to nurture the beneficial plants
as best I can and strive to find the beauty in the whole plot.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cNsSy0H-J9o/VCBs5ttjj3I/AAAAAAAADbg/UHVk7L1QcXw/s1600/more%2Bgarden%2B041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cNsSy0H-J9o/VCBs5ttjj3I/AAAAAAAADbg/UHVk7L1QcXw/s1600/more%2Bgarden%2B041.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savor every season</i>.
We have a short growing season here in Vermont, and for that I’ve learned to be
thankful. Even though every year I wish it would start about six weeks earlier,
by the end of the season it feels like just the right amount of time. I’m the
main gardener in the family, so it’s a lot of work. Chris helps out a bit with
the heavy lifting, and when the girls were little they sometimes joined me to
pick peas or dig for potatoes,<br />
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but<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>now it’s usually just me out there (well, me and Callie) from seed planting to putting
the garden to bed in early November.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-moj_FDiD804/VCBuuDnFfmI/AAAAAAAADb0/mL-i8AqsBDo/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-moj_FDiD804/VCBuuDnFfmI/AAAAAAAADb0/mL-i8AqsBDo/s1600/043.JPG" height="291" width="400" /></a></div>
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This past summer, though, Isabel needed to earn some extra
money to bring back with her to New York, so I hired her as my assistant. What
a brilliant idea this turned out to be. She’s a diligent worker—between the two
of us we got an enormous amount accomplished and even dug up and replanted two
flower beds that have been on my list of things to do for several years now.
Plus I got to spend a lot of low-key time with her when we had nothing else to
focus on but thinning radishes or picking green beans.<br />
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More than once I had flashbacks to her dancing around in her
bathing suit tossing dirt in the air while “helping” me prep the soil for
planting, or Faye delighting in finding earthworms and carrying them around by
the fistful. I smiled in recalling those times, and I smiled this summer while
Isabel worked beside me. </div>
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There are many recipes I could share that celebrate the
bounty of the garden, but I’ve chosen a simple one: Raspberry Vinegar. The
fruit is a family favorite, and whenever I taste its incomparable flavor I
think of the girls when they were babies in front packs. With each of them, I
used to stand in front of the raspberries, pulling off a berry and holding it for
them to take. They’d stuff the berries in their mouths, little legs kicking with glee.
Soon enough, they were reaching for their own. Raspberry season is short, but
so very sweet. Preserving the berries’ vivid color and flavor in a mild vinegar
that you can keep through the winter and drizzle on salads and other dishes is
one way to make them last. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll1Afpueul0/VCA9yCK8UfI/AAAAAAAADZw/BqRQtbBlnok/s1600/vinegars%2C%2Bpergola%2Bdinner%2B004%2B(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll1Afpueul0/VCA9yCK8UfI/AAAAAAAADZw/BqRQtbBlnok/s1600/vinegars%2C%2Bpergola%2Bdinner%2B004%2B(2).jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Raspberry Vinegar</b></div>
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Makes 2 cups</div>
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2 cups mild vinegar (preferably white wine or
champagne)</div>
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½ cup fresh raspberries, washed (you could use fresh herbs
or herb blossoms instead)</div>
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Sterilize a 16 ounce glass container and its lid (canning
jars work well with two-piece lids). Insert the raspberries into the jar and
pour the vinegar over them so they’re completely covered. Seal the jar and
store in a cool, dark place for 2 to 3 weeks. </div>
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Using cheesecloth (or a paper coffee filter) strain the
vinegar and discard the berries. Pour the strained vinegar into a clean glass
container. If stored in a cool, dark place, the vinegar should keep its flavor and
color for 3 months. To double the length of time, store it in the refrigerator.</div>
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*Avoid using any metal utensils or containers while making
or storing the vinegar.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12728425/?claim=bxtbrgpbf9t">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a> </div>
Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-42040276013379798202014-08-20T11:26:00.001-07:002014-11-06T10:38:48.235-08:00Island Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->When most people
think of Vermont, one of the first things that comes to mind is the Green
Mountains, thanks to their popular ski slopes and hiking trails. But an equally
notable natural resource, and a highlight of the state for me, is Lake
Champlain. Friends from out of state are often surprised to hear that it’s the
sixth largest freshwater lake in the country, after the five Great Lakes. Spanning
120 miles along Vermont’s western side, it’s flanked by New York’s Adirondack
Mountains and also offers spectacular views of the Greens.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0cbbmuCJoM/U_Tb6bQzFBI/AAAAAAAADXo/n9EZzCUmYWQ/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0cbbmuCJoM/U_Tb6bQzFBI/AAAAAAAADXo/n9EZzCUmYWQ/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B003.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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We live about 20 minutes due east of Lake Champlain, so in the
summer it’s a big draw for swimming, kayaking, and sunset viewing. Learning to
sail on the lake is at the top of my bucket list. It’s home to 70 islands, the largest of
which are ideal for biking, so last weekend Chris and I decided to explore the
southern part of Grand Isle, an area known as South Hero. To get there, we
biked across the <a href="http://www.localmotion.org/programs/islandline/trail">Island Line Trail</a>, a narrow causeway that crosses the lake,
joining a suburb of Burlington with South Hero. The ride across is a
spectacular four-mile trek over the water, with sweeping views in all directions.</div>
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The Island Line Trail used to be a railroad line with a
swing bridge that allowed boats to pass through. Since the swing bridge is no
longer there, a 20-passenger bike ferry now transports cyclists and pedestrians across the
200-foot gap. </div>
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The ferry’s affable captain told me that he makes the crossing
around 50 times on a typical day. Chris and I hopped aboard with a handful of
other people--locals, Québécois, and out-of-staters--and were on the other side
in less than 10 minutes.</div>
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Grand Isle County lays claim to the state’s longest growing
season, which makes for a thriving agricultural region and good food and drink
to be had. We pedaled along dirt and two-lane roads, past orchards, </div>
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cows, </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BqPG5CJY4aI/U_TdDQ-UAkI/AAAAAAAADYI/5dA7Ypox_OU/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BqPG5CJY4aI/U_TdDQ-UAkI/AAAAAAAADYI/5dA7Ypox_OU/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B017.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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and small-scale farms,</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0kV8sqA15xU/U_TdOPsYKvI/AAAAAAAADYQ/6CkC4q2YcUM/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0kV8sqA15xU/U_TdOPsYKvI/AAAAAAAADYQ/6CkC4q2YcUM/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B020.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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never far from a glimpse of the lake. For lunch, we stopped at the <a href="http://about.me/accidentalfarm">Accidental Farmer Cafe</a>, a modest
roadside stand tucked in between an orchard and a farm.</div>
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The Accidental Farmer himself, Mike, hand rolled some local,
grass-fed burgers for us as he talked about life on the island.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j8vpWMiUllg/U_TdyFGr6-I/AAAAAAAADYg/Cjf4BJgFbYw/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j8vpWMiUllg/U_TdyFGr6-I/AAAAAAAADYg/Cjf4BJgFbYw/s1600/Bike%2Bpath%2B030.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Although he’s not an actual farmer, he says he “cultivates the
farmers” by using as much of their produce, meat, cheese, and other products as
he can in the tasty fare he serves up. We couldn’t resist ordering one of his juicy cheeseburgers, but his other more
creative, global offerings—such as nachos served not on chips but on local
fingerling potatoes—were very tempting.</div>
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After lunch, we walked next door to <a href="http://www.allenholm.com/">Allenholm Farm</a> for a classic
Vermont dessert—a maple creemee.</div>
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Back on our bikes, we looped around to the western side of
the island to take West Shore Road hugging the coast. The wind picked up and it
started to drizzle just as we were approaching <a href="http://www.snowfarm.com/">Snow Farm Vineyard</a>. Perfect
timing!</div>
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The first commercial vineyard in the state, Snow Farm was
established by its forward-thinking owners in an effort to retain agricultural
land in the face of pressures to develop. The island’s more temperate climate
allows Snow Farm to grow French hybrids, along with Pinot Noir and Riesling,
under the direction of a winemaker who studied with the best at the University
of Dijon in Bourgogne, France. (I also studied there while in college—not
winemaking, although I did my share of extracurricular sampling.)</div>
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Chris and I shared a tasting, which they nicely let us split
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also the Gewürztraminer, whose minerality is balanced by lush peach.</div>
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Back outside the drizzle had stopped, but we still had to
ride against the wind back to the ferry. We pedaled hard up a couple hills, and then
we rounded a bend and came upon a field edged by trees. On practically
every tree, someone had placed a colorful birdhouse. Hundreds of them.</div>
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In this technological consumer age when we’re constantly bombarded
by corporate efforts to “surprise and delight” us, this simple display made us
literally stop in our tracks, genuinely surprised and delighted. And it was
just one of several instances that afternoon, during the course of our twenty-mile
bike ride, that had this effect on us.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-33097216291265289352014-07-29T10:45:00.000-07:002014-09-25T08:11:00.370-07:00Southern Exposure<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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the Southeast, specifically Virginia and North Carolina. We packed up the car
and drove down, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line near the town in Maryland where I
spent most of my childhood. Growing up, I didn’t think of myself as a Southerner.
Maryland, despite being below the Line, was technically a border state during
the Civil War. The Battle of Antietam, which resulted in Lincoln’s Emancipation
Proclamation, was just down the road, but at the same time one of my high
school acquaintances was a direct descendent of Robert E. Lee. And the street I
grew up on has a former slave auction block, now partially obscured by some
shrubbery, on one of its corners.<br />
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When I headed to North Carolina for college, I was taken
aback when some of my new Southern friends referred to me as a Yankee. This
wasn’t a term I associated with myself either. I hadn’t really heard it used
outside of the baseball team prior to that, but it was just one of many
cultural particulars I would learn during my time in North Carolina—shagging,
gatoring, Hey y’alling and Yes ma’aming, and dressing up for Demon Deacon football
games being some of the others. After college, I lived in Richmond for a year—just
a couple blocks away from the famed (or infamous) Monument Avenue—and then
stayed in Virginia for graduate school. I moved north to Boston after that for
a job, and it was then that I met Chris, a New Yorker who had spent some time
at a rival college in Durham. Moving even farther north to Vermont, we settled
in and made our home.</div>
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Every now and then, though, the South calls me back. My mom and
sister live there, as do extended family and many very dear friends. Not
disregarding its history, there’s a lot to love about this part of the
country—the enchanting, gradual unfolding of spring, the softly melodic accent,
the scent of boxwood and magnolias in the moist air, and the warm embrace of
Southern hospitality, to name but a few. Chris and I even named one of our
daughters Caroline in part after our fondness for the place. </div>
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And then there’s the food. Tomato pie and fried okra. Shrimp
and grits.</div>
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Sweet potato biscuits with thinly sliced ham. She-crab soup.</div>
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Chopped barbecue and a basket of hush puppies. Crab cakes
with remoulade and Old Bay.</div>
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Even the names of the foods roll off the tongue like poetry.</div>
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Of course I can’t forget pimiento cheese. Also called the pâté
of the South, this creamy spread is ubiquitous in the region. It dresses up a
sandwich, or is the sole delectable ingredient between two slices of bread,
grilled or otherwise. Served with crudités or crackers, it’s the ultimate
picnic, or tailgate, food.</div>
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Pimiento cheese is not something I ever see up in the North,
but once I’ve crossed the border into Virginia I can’t get enough of it. The
ingredients are pretty simple: grated cheddar, mayonnaise, and chopped pimientos,
but house variations are endless, with each chef or home cook adding his or her
secret addition. </div>
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Back home, I like to make it with a Northern twist, using
<a href="http://www.vermontcreamery.com/">Vermont Creamery</a>’s Fresh Goat Cheese as a base instead of mayo, combined with <a href="http://www.graftonvillagecheese.com/">Grafton Village</a>’s Three Year Aged Cheddar. It’s hard to find pimientos in the Northeast, but jarred roasted red peppers work just fine. A splash of apple
cider vinegar, a pinch of ground chipotle, and some snipped garlic chives from
my herb garden round it out. </div>
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It’s a true North-South mashup and, when slathered on my
breakfast bagel, it tastes like home.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pimiento Cheese
(Vermont Style)</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Makes about 2 cups</i></div>
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2 cups grated Vermont cheddar, loosely packed</div>
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4 ounces Vermont fresh goat cheese </div>
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¾ cup roasted red peppers (jarred), drained and finely
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½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar</div>
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pinch of ground chipotle </div>
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freshly ground black pepper</div>
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1 teaspoon snipped garlic chives</div>
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In a medium bowl, combine the cheddar, goat
cheese, and red peppers, mashing with a fork until the mixture is blended. Add
the vinegar, chipotle, and black pepper and stir until the spread is relatively
smooth. Fold in the garlic chives. Cover and chill for at least 2 hours before
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-72848118192687168602014-07-02T10:36:00.000-07:002014-08-20T11:30:49.199-07:00Eggslut, LA<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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And maybe the name accounts just a bit for the long line of
people who are willing to wait at this modest downtown LA spot located in the Grand
Central Market. But the name is not what keeps bringing them back, us included. </div>
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On a recent trip to LA, we ate breakfast at <a href="http://www.eggslut.com/#about">Eggslut </a>three
times, and probably would have even more if we had discovered it sooner.</div>
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Grand Central Market is an historic food emporium that's been
around since 1917, but a recent renovation has attracted what’s been described in
the <i>New York Times</i> as “30 of the best food vendors in the city.” It’s smack dab
in the middle of downtown, which itself is shedding some of its grubbiness and undergoing
a massive food revival.</div>
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The Market is an eclectic mix of old-time vendors and new purveyors, with most displaying uber-cool vintage neon signs. </div>
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Eggslut jumped into this mix last November, and lines have
been forming ever since. The times we were there the line moved fairly quickly,
but we occupied ourselves by sharing a breakfast appetizer (twice) of a salted
caramel croissant from Valerie, a bakery a few stalls away. </div>
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I’ve eaten my share of croissants and I have to say that
this genius combination vies for the best I’ve had outside of France. The
light, flaky pastry cradles perfectly gooey, dark caramel, with a just-right sprinkling
of fleur de sel on top. Our appetites were piqued. And it was a good thing they
were. Eggslut specializes in egg sandwiches, but these are not your average egg
sandwich. </div>
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The Bacon, Egg, and Cheese is an ideal rendition of this
classic combination. Most mornings, this was Chris’s choice and alas, from here
on out, it’s what every run-of-the-mill egg sandwich will fall short of. Hardwood
smoked bacon, a perfectly fried over medium egg, and warm cheddar all snug
within a soft Portuguese bun (a purist, he forewent the chipotle ketchup). </div>
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My favorite was the Fairfax, with a few modifications:
scrambled eggs with snipped chives, cheddar, and caramelized onions. I omitted
the sriracha mayo, added a house-made turkey sausage patty, and also for a
slight upcharge opted for a freshly baked buttermilk biscuit instead of a bun. </div>
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Having gone to college in North Carolina, I consider myself something
of a biscuit aficionado and these Eggslut biscuits are the real deal. Good
thing these sandwiches are served in a paper wrapper because this one was a
mouthful of pure bliss. It was practically falling out of its wrapper. I’m not
usually one to skip lunch, but this sammie kept me feeling satiated until late
afternoon.</div>
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If Eggslut had a motto, it would have to be: Tastes so good
but you feel so guilty afterwards. So one of the mornings, I decided to go
light and just had a biscuit with a sausage patty and caramelized onions. Even
minus the egg and cheese, it was still an oh-so–satisfying way to start the
day. We washed it all down with coffee and fresh, raw OJ from Press Brothers Juicery, one stall over.</div>
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Being the traditionalists that we are, none of us tried the
“Slut”: a coddled egg on top of smooth potato purée, poached in a glass jar and
served with toasty crostini. We saw them coddling away in their warm water bath
and were tempted, but stuck with sandwiches.</div>
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A young woman working behind the counter told us about
Eggslut’s history and how it started out as a popular Food Truck. We asked
about the line, and she said that it’s pretty steady all day, but starts to let
up around 3 pm.<br />
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Once we were lucky to snag a spot at the counter,
overlooking the small, busy kitchen. We watched one of the owners attentively baste
a steak, demonstrating care and technique in his handling of the meat as he
prepared it for the lunch hour.<br />
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Regrettably we never went for lunch. That will have to wait
until our next visit to the West Coast. We ate at many fine establishments
during our stay in LA, but Eggslut was, hands down, the most memorable, and the
most satisfying.<br />
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-61258191040824337262014-06-09T11:59:00.002-07:002014-07-29T10:47:35.306-07:00The Big Boy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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grill, that is, to a 6-footer, gas/charcoal combo grill that I’m affectionately calling
The Big Boy. It’s an impressive piece of equipment, with cast iron grates and a
warming center in both sections, and a side burner that I haven’t even tried
out yet.<br />
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Now that Chris and I have entered the world of gas grills,
we don’t have to wait for a block of time on the weekend when the weather
cooperates to cook out. We can fire up The Big Boy spontaneously on a cloudy
weeknight if we want to. I have the utmost respect and admiration for my purist
friends who only grill over wood, but if we’d like to attain that smoky wood flavor,
we can always throw in some wood chips.</div>
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As an INFJ (Myers-Briggs) and proud of it, I usually have
some kind of project going. So for my summer project this year, I’m becoming a
grill master. Up until this point, Chris has mainly manned the grill while I
prepped everything and organized the rest of the meal in the kitchen. But now
that we have The Big Boy, I plan to learn the finer points of cooking over fire, experimenting beyond our usual fare. It'll be a team effort, but I'm hoping we'll whip up as many dinners as we can outside, extending
Vermont’s relatively short grilling season for as long as possible. All manner of vegetables taste better on the grill,</div>
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as does fish, especially salmon.</div>
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And charred bread that’s been lightly brushed with olive oil
is irresistible. </div>
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But it’s the meat that really appeals to our primitive
selves. Whether it’s poultry </div>
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or beef,</div>
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pork tenderloin, </div>
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or sausage,</div>
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when the fire hits that animal protein and the scent wafts
over the patio, we evolve backwards and start salivating. </div>
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One of the beauties of the grill is that you can easily
create a meal that appeals to everyone’s desires—vegetarians, pescatarians,
carnivores, and the GF crowd can all have their fill. This makes life simpler
both within our own family</div>
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and also when friends come to visit. Aside from around the holidays,
we tend to do most of our entertaining, both with local friends and out-of-towners,
during the summer. The Big Boy will get lots of action over the next few
months.</div>
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We fired him up last weekend when our friend Steve came
to visit. Steve and I met years ago when we were both first-year teachers at
Andover. We bonded in the early weeks over something irreverent, although I can’t
recall exactly what, and have been friends ever since (I actually was given the honor
of officiating at his wedding—a once in a lifetime, at least so far, experience for
me). Chris and I were not yet married when I was teaching at Andover, but he came
down from Vermont regularly on the weekends to visit and he and Steve soon
became fast friends. Over the past several years they’ve been hiking the length
of the nearly 300 mile Long Trail together, one piece at a time. As a pre-hike dinner, grilled Shrimp
Scampi with polenta provided sustenance before they took on a 15-mile
stretch that included climbing three mountains the following day, their own version of the Tough Mudder. </div>
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I had never made Scampi with grilled shrimp before, nor
grilled polenta, and the combination makes the regular stove-top version seem dull
in comparison. Instead of marinating the shrimp in the sauce before grilling
them, like most recipes call for, I just lightly dressed them with olive oil and lemon
juice. </div>
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I made the sauce separately on the stove (I could have used the grill’s
side burner, now that I think about it, or prepared it over the fire), and then poured the sauce over the shrimp
after they were cooked. This way, you don’t lose tasty pieces of garlic and herb. I grilled the polenta too until it was lightly charred, so the flavors of the fire permeated the whole dish.</div>
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This new way of making Scampi is sure to become a summer favorite. Another longtime favorite is clams steamed over the fire in white wine and herbs and
then combined with chourico to make a Portuguese feast. </div>
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The clams and sausage are especially delicious when served with
a tomato, basil, and garlic salad over grilled bread.</div>
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It's only the beginning of June so we have a whole summer with The Big Boy ahead of us. Trying out some new
cooking methods on the grill is a large component of this summer project. I’m thinking
pizza, tortillas, slow-cooked leg of lamb….Oh, what delights await. Plus, I have to admit, there's nothing more attractive than a Tough Mudder in a floral oven mitt.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GRILLED SHRIMP SCAMPI
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<i>No local shrimp in Vermont that I’m aware of, but I used
local garlic and butter in the sauce, and High Meadow Yellow Organic Cornmeal
from <a href="http://nittygrittygrain.com/">Nitty Gritty Grain Co.</a> And instead of the customary parsley, I used
oregano from my herb garden.</i> </div>
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SERVES 4</div>
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6 cups water</div>
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3/4 teaspoon sea salt (divided use)<br />
2 cups coarse cornmeal </div>
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1/2 cup olive oil (divided use)<br />
1/2 cup Parmesan</div>
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1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice</div>
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1 pound peeled and deveined large shrimp</div>
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freshly ground pepper</div>
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5 minced garlic cloves</div>
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1 dried hot red pepper pod</div>
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1/2 cup dry white wine</div>
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4 tablespoons unsalted butter cut into 1-inch
pieces</div>
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1 teaspoon minced oregano (or 1 tablespoon flat leaf
parsley)</div>
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Prepare the polenta: Bring the water to boil in a
large, heavy saucepan. Add ½ teaspoon of the salt and then the cornmeal, stirring
immediately with a whisk. Decrease the heat to low and cook for 30 minutes, whisking
frequently to prevent lumps from forming. Remove the pan from the burner and
add ¼ cup of olive oil and the Parmesan. Whisk it well and season with more
salt if desired. </div>
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Spoon the polenta into a buttered loaf pan and
refrigerate for 3 hours. When the polenta is chilled and firm, turn the pan
over onto a plate to remove the polenta (it should slide out in one piece).
Slice the loaf into ½-inch wide pieces and lightly brush them with olive oil. Grill
the polenta slices over a hot fire, turning once, until they’re lightly browned. Transfer them
to a serving dish and keep them warm. </div>
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Prepare the shrimp: In a large bowl, stir together
1 tablespoon of olive oil and the lemon juice. Add the shrimp and stir gently
to coat them. Season with salt and pepper. Grill the shrimp
on a fine rack over a hot fire, about 2 minutes per side, being careful not to
overcook them. Transfer the shrimp to a serving dish. </div>
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In a saucepan over the grill or on a stove,
combine the rest of the olive oil, the garlic, pepper pod, and white wine and
cook over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, about 2 minutes. Lower the
heat to medium and add the butter, stirring until it has melted. Remove the pan
from the heat and discard the pepper pod. Stir in the oregano and season with
salt. Pour the sauce over the shrimp and serve with the grilled
polenta.</div>
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<![endif]-->Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-83262373287766747092014-05-22T14:01:00.000-07:002014-07-03T07:32:20.162-07:00Route 100 (Partial) Food TourFood tours are all the rage
these days, but much as I love food I have yet to sign up for one. I prefer to
explore an area on my own and discover its food personality based on my own and
my companions’ tastes. In Vermont, legendary Route 100, described as one of the
most beautiful roads in the world, lends itself well to a self-guided food
tour. Extending the length of the state from Canada to Massachusetts, this
scenic route skirts the Green Mountain National Forest and runs parallel to the
273 mile Long Trail, a precursor to and inspiration for the Appalachian Trail. Known
as the Skiers’ Highway, this two-lane byway connects many of Vermont’s major ski
resorts as it meanders across farmland and alongside rivers, past covered
bridges<br />
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and through tiny villages punctuated by white steepled
churches. </div>
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Since it’s a long road, I’m going to concentrate in this
post on a small stretch that’s located just over the mountain from where I live
in Bristol. This segment, in what’s known as the Mad River Valley, also happens
to have a lot of foodie appeal. The
Valley is home to about 6,000 local residents, but is visited each year by more
than a half a million tourists who come to ski, hike, and enjoy what the area has to
offer. Good food is part of its appeal, bolstered by its agricultural roots and
a thriving local food movement. </div>
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The Valley’s main town of Waitsfield, with a population of
just over 1700, was voted the Best Ski Town in the East by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outside Magazine</i>. It’s also the site of one of my favorite farmers
markets in the state. Opening day was this past Saturday, so Chris and I drove
over to hear some music and get breakfast. But first, at the top of the
mountain pass, we paused to take in the view. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spring is just unfolding high up in the Green
Mountains, and we were treated to a stunning vista painted in countless shades
of green. </div>
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Once we saw a moose standing placidly in that pond. We
waited a bit on this morning, but no wildlife appeared. So<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we rolled down the back side of the mountain into
the Valley, past Mad River Glen “Ski it if you can” and Sugarbush, whose lifts
are now silent although we could still see some remnants of snow on the highest
trails.</div>
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The market was just gearing up as we strolled through it, stopping
to say hello to some of our neighbors from Bristol, <a href="http://www.newleaforganics.org/">New Leaf Organics</a> and
Martin Studios, who sell their produce and pottery here, and to try a cheese
sample or two. </div>
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After we bought a few items to bring home, we mulled over
what to get for breakfast. Well, I mulled it over since Chris didn’t hesitate once
he spotted <a href="http://www.openhearthpizza.com/">Open Hearth Pizza</a>’s Wood-Fired Oven. </div>
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The thin, perfectly charred crust and quality toppings were
tempting, and I am not at all averse to pizza for breakfast, but this morning I
wanted something different. I decided to try a yummy bacon and caramelized
onion scone from a new bakery in Waitsfield called <a href="http://www.sweetsimones.com/">Sweet Simone’s</a>.</div>
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This bakery recently opened up in an historic building
located on Bridge Street, which was flooded by the Mad River during Hurricane
Irene. The destruction devastated the town and surrounding area, but today,
thanks to the hard work and dedication of many Vermonters, it’s been
revitalized. Miraculously, the Great Eddy Covered Bridge, which dates back to
1833 and is a stone’s throw from the bakery, survived.</div>
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Like many Vermonters, I have a fondness for our covered
bridges and for this one in particular since my daughters used to love to run
across it when they were little. We often ventured over to Waitsfield when they
were younger to hike or ski, or to have dinner at <a href="http://americanflatbread.com/">American Flatbread</a> at Lareau
Farm—what <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I consider to be ground zero for the
local food movement in Vermont. </div>
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Back in the mid-80s, founder and visionary George Schenk
began creating his philosophically-driven flatbreads over wood in an outdoor
oven; today it has expanded to three other locales in Vermont, one in Manhattan,
and countless spin-offs. You can even buy frozen American Flatbreads in grocery
stores throughout the country, and they’re pretty good for frozen food
(although not as good as they used to be since that part of the business moved
out of state). Nothing beats the real thing, though, fresh from the wood-fired oven and
brimming with local toppings, like house-made maple-fennel sausage, roasted beets,
wild ramps, and fresh mozzarella. </div>
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We’ve enjoyed many a meal at the Waitsfield, Middlebury, and
Burlington restaurants (and savored the leftovers for breakfast, as in the
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Warren, the next village over, is a similar size but feels
much smaller. It has less commercial activity in its “downtown,” which is
dominated by two main businesses: <a href="http://www.warrenstore.com/">The Warren Store</a> and <a href="http://www.pitcherinn.com/experience/food-wine/">The Pitcher Inn</a>. The
Warren Store<br />
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is one those extravagant (as opposed to utilitarian) Vermont
country stores whose shelves are lined with artisanal products and
whose deli/bakery turns out excellent fare. Lunch on the deck overlooking the
creek is one of the best kept secrets in the area. </div>
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Across the street sits The Pitcher Inn, a Relais & Chateaux
property. A meal here will cost you quite a bit more than a deli lunch, but the
dining experience is right up there with the best I’ve had in Vermont. Their
elegant menu features local ingredients prepared sumptuously and with great
care. </div>
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This pristine village is (in)famous for its annual<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4<sup>th</sup> of July parade, a rollicking,
century-old event with highly politicized floats and characters abounding. It
is quintessentially Vermont and its motto, “Celebrating
independence, Vermont-style,” captures the spirit of the day.
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We almost took the back way home, a dirt road that snakes
over the mountain from Warren, but it could still be considered “mud season” up
at the Lincoln Gap and we didn’t want to risk getting stuck. Besides, it was
almost lunchtime and we had a hankering for a Mad Taco back in Waitsfield. </div>
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Although this taqueria is housed in a nondescript shopping center, <a href="http://themadtaco.com/">The Mad Taco</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null"> </a>itself is far from nondescript. The makeshift smoker out in front is a
good indicator of the innovation at the heart of this operation. </div>
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Their smoked meats couldn’t be tastier, especially when
topped with interesting ingredients like their house-made kimchi and one of
their dozen or so homemade hot sauces (ranked on a scale of 1 to 10 for heat).<br />
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As the heavily tattooed server gushed about their kimchi, I was reminded of one
of the things I love most about Vermont—our passion for good food runs deep and
broad.</div>
Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-53609686538420796412014-04-23T11:04:00.000-07:002014-06-09T12:06:20.760-07:00Bizarro McDonald's<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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within their limits, but Burlington, Vermont, is one of them. A while back a Golden
Arches did exist downtown, but in an unusual turn of events, it quietly closed
its doors. After an inspired renovation, The Farmhouse Tap & Grill opened
up four years ago in its place to fanfare that hasn’t stopped since.<br />
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Instead of dubious “special sauce,” there’s housemade
kimchi; instead of precut, frozen hamburger patties, there are burgers made
from a custom blend of local grassfed beef that the chefs grind themselves. The
Farmhouse, as it’s affectionately known by locals, is in every way a Bizarro
McDonald’s experience.</div>
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If you look closely at the restaurant’s boxy architecture,
you can still see evidence of its fast food history. But aside from the main
structure, not much remains from the original building. “It was basically a gut
job,” says Executive Chef Phillip Clayton. He points out the uniform orange
bricks under our feet. They’re unmistakably McDonald’s-esque, but practically
everything else was handcrafted by locals—from the reclaimed barn board on the
walls, to the Vermont ash tables, to the copper light fixtures, to the granite
bar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We used as many repurposed
elements as we could,” Clayton explains, “done by people who live and work
around here.” In the kitchen, two walk-in coolers are original, but a freezer
in the basement was converted into another cooler. Unlike Mickey-D’s, the
Farmhouse has no need for a freezer.</div>
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Calling itself a farm-to-table gastropub, the Farmhouse
celebrates local food and craft brewed beer. A chalkboard hanging in the dining
room lists the farms being featured that day in the creative comfort food issued
forth from the kitchen— dry aged LaPlatte River Angus Farm Beef Shoulder slow cooked
for 20 hours and served with Nitty Gritty polenta, local arugula, and salsa
verde, or Chicken & Biscuits made with Adams Farm free range chicken, local
roasted veggies, and homemade buttermilk biscuits. It’s food that tastes like
the best possible version of itself, thanks to the freshest ingredients and the
care that goes into making these meals. Housemade charcuterie, interesting salads,
and artisanal cheeses are all on offer as well, and every meal begins with an amuse-bouche showcasing a seasonal ingredient.</div>
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“Up to 75% of our food is sourced locally,” says Clayton, “which
for us means that it was produced in Vermont. Some restaurants include local
purveyors in that percentage, but we don’t. The majority of the food we serve
comes directly from Vermont farms and producers as a raw product.” Working with
a large number of suppliers presents some challenges, such as “making sure you
have what you need when you need it,” says Clayton, “and it doesn’t come in
tidy packages.” It’s also more expensive. But, he emphasizes, “We’re not
looking for the cheapest possible food; we’re looking for the best food. They’re
not really challenges; it’s just a part of what we do.”<br />
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And they do it very well. True to the restaurant’s illustrious
origins, burgers are its biggest draw. These archetypal burgers, however, are
the inverse of fast food— a LaPlatte River Angus Farm Beef Burger topped with
Landaff Creamery cheddar, local bacon and arugula, and house pickled onions on
a homemade bun. Or a Vermont Heritage Grazers Pork Burger covered with Cabot
cheddar, a sunny side up farm egg, and housemade coleslaw. There’s a turkey burger
for those who eschew red meat and a black bean burger for vegetarians. Not to
mention the special burgers, such as perfectly spiced lamb complemented by
herbed feta and preserved lemon aioli. Add hand cut fries or an appetizer like
Heady Nuggets (white meat chicken coated in a Heady Topper beer batter) and
it’s a true Bizarro McDonald’s experience. No pink slime to be concerned about
here.</div>
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In fact, their ground beef is a custom blend of brisket,
short ribs, chuck, sirloin, and part of the neck that they process in their
5000 square foot commissary kitchen where whole animals are butchered. “We started
grinding our own beef last July and we noticed an immediate improvement in the
quality of the burger,” Clayton explains. “But Farmhouse isn’t the reason the
hamburger tastes good. If you have respect for the product, then that food is
going to shine.”<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-22N8JevHEik/U1vV-0ZsUdI/AAAAAAAADNg/3sikTXrcA7Q/s1600/phillip_clayton+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-22N8JevHEik/U1vV-0ZsUdI/AAAAAAAADNg/3sikTXrcA7Q/s1600/phillip_clayton+(2).jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Executive Chef Phillip Clayton (photo credit: The Farmhouse Tap & Grill)</td></tr>
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Clayton, who grew up in North Carolina but moved to Vermont
to attend the New England Culinary Institute, is one of four partners in The
Farmhouse Group. The rest of the partnership consists of Rob Downey, Paul
Saylor, and Jed Davis, who’s originally from Vermont but did stints with Daniel
Boulud and Danny Meyer in New York. Recently awarded Restaurateurs of the Year by
the Vermont Chamber of Commerce, the foursome has expanded their reach to include
four other establishments. El Cortijo serves up locally inspired tacos in a
former diner. </div>
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Guild Fine Meats is a butcher shop and deli featuring housemade
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Their newest restaurant, Guild & Company, is a
steakhouse showcasing dry aged, locally sourced beef in a repurposed Ground
Round. </div>
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And in May they debut their latest venture, Pascolo Ristorante, an
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Despite the witty allusions on their menus, it’s clear that
Clayton and his partners take their work seriously. “We’re committed to the
local food economy, and to the local economy at large. If your only goal is
ease and profit, then you might choose another way, but we’re taking a
long-term, sustainable approach. I can’t imagine doing business any other way.”
As the infamous jingle goes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m lovin’
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-42456532236302403022014-04-07T09:47:00.000-07:002014-05-30T07:09:22.434-07:00Mmmmmorocco<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->In celebration of my fiftieth birthday, Chris and I
recently went on a long-awaited trip to Morocco. Morocco is a country that’s
intrigued me ever since I read the novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Sheltering Sky</i>, one of my Top Ten, over twenty years ago. I had never been
to Africa before, nor to an Islamic country, and it proved to be no less
fascinating and enchanting and bewildering than I had anticipated.<br />
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We started out in Marrakech, a city of contrasts: old world and
new,<br />
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wealth<br />
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and poverty,<br />
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chaos<br />
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and serenity.<br />
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Based on what I had read and heard, I was expecting the streets to be lively, but the pandemonium we sometimes encountered took me by surprise. Cars,
motorcycles with four people hanging on, donkey carts, wheelchairs, and
pedestrians all vied for their own space on both major thoroughfares and small
passageways. We quickly learned how to navigate the streets and find our way
through the labyrinthine medina.<br />
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The medina, or old city, is the heart of Marrakech, and Jemaa-el-Fna
square is the heart of the medina.<br />
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Every night this square transforms into a carnival,
complete with assorted food vendors competing for customers,<br />
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fortune tellers,
henna artists, story tellers, acrobats, snake charmers, and locals of all ages
who come out to socialize.<br />
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At the end of the day, we would retreat back to our riad, a
tranquil oasis in the middle of all this energy.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mezouar.com/">Riyad el Mezouar</a>, a former
sultan’s palace, is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever stayed. It has
only five guestrooms and at one point we had it all to ourselves. Entering off
of a narrow dead end,<br />
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guests are immediately transported to another world,
breath-taking in its pure elegance.<br />
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This contrast between nondescript exterior
and stunning interior is reflective of the Islamic belief that what’s visible
to the outside world is not important; it’s the interior, known only to a
select few, that really matters.<br />
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Breakfast poolside in the central courtyard was sublime,<br />
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and hearing the early evening Call to Prayer from the rooftop
terrace is something I will never forget.<br />
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Other especially memorable moments include learning to
bargain in the souk (marketplace),</div>
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touring an historic madrassa while “Another Brick in the
Wall” wafted in from next door,<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IkovOoR94tI/U0K7lKoZgkI/AAAAAAAADIU/lD46nkYj6f4/s1600/Morocco+286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IkovOoR94tI/U0K7lKoZgkI/AAAAAAAADIU/lD46nkYj6f4/s1600/Morocco+286.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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getting an impromptu private tour of a fabric dyer's workshop,<br />
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complete with a visit to the rooftop where the yarn is dried in the sun, <br />
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and, although we weren’t in the market for a rug, more than
once finding ourselves sitting in a rug showroom being served mint tea while
men rolled out their offerings and we wondered to ourselves, How did we get here?
(We did, in the end, purchase one small rug.)</div>
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And of course, there is the food. Ferran Adrià recently
called Morocco one of the most exciting places in the world to eat. He should
know, and I will not dispute him. We ate (almost) everything, from street food kebabs </div>
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to a six course meal served on a table strewn with rose
petals.<br />
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And a lot that fell somewhere in between.<br />
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Everything was tantalizing—fresh and vibrant and aromatic
with the complex spices that are the essence of Moroccan cuisine.<br />
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We also enjoyed the Moroccan wines, especially the rosé,
which reminded us of Provençal rosé and was a surprise in both its quality and
its accessibility (Morocco is very hospitable to non-Muslims). Domaine de Sahari was a favorite.<br />
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One day we did a cooking class at <a href="http://www.lamaisonarabe.com/en/ateliers-cuisine.html">La Maison Arabe</a> and
learned the secrets behind making a tagine. If you’re not familiar with this
classic Moroccan dish, it’s a stew that’s slow-cooked in a uniquely shaped clay
vessel.<br />
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I love tagines but had never tried making one before. The classic
combination we prepared, with chicken, olives, and preserved lemons, is
something I’ll be recreating at home for sure.<br />
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When I travel somewhere new, especially to a place where the
food is distinctive, I often try to take a cooking class there. I find that it
provides an understanding of the culture I wouldn’t get by simply eating
in a restaurant. This time, as part of my birthday present, Chris participated
in the class too, a first for him. He did well and kept his sense of humor.<br />
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We also paid a visit to a hammam, a traditional Moroccan
bath that has evolved from Roman origins. <a href="http://www.lesbainsdemarrakech.com/fr/accueil">Les Bains de Marrakech</a> is really more
like a spa than a typical bathhouse, but the treatments are done in the
traditional way.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4biU-LKPeVA/U0LAMO6sSbI/AAAAAAAADJc/pnGrRqPiYsM/s1600/Morocco+246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4biU-LKPeVA/U0LAMO6sSbI/AAAAAAAADJc/pnGrRqPiYsM/s1600/Morocco+246.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We started out by relaxing in our own private steam room (in a
traditional hammam men and women are separated). We were then scrubbed down vigorously
with black soap and a coarse “kessa”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>glove by a strong-armed female attendant. Afterwards she tossed buckets
of warm water over us for a rinse-off. Chris’s participation in the hammam
experience was also part of my present, but he opted to stop after the buckets
and went outside to relax by the pool. I proceeded to have a ghassoul body mask
treatment, followed by more buckets of water, and finally a full body massage
with argan oil. Heaven.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3U4wB9iHIPk/U0LGXtQZz5I/AAAAAAAADKk/HZ2DJuyTvOk/s1600/Morocco+249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3U4wB9iHIPk/U0LGXtQZz5I/AAAAAAAADKk/HZ2DJuyTvOk/s1600/Morocco+249.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although we were in Marrackech for most of the trip, we did
venture to the coast for an overnight in Essaouira. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iLOiv9TfHb8/U0LBI9cPriI/AAAAAAAADJs/HxFHUuTFZNA/s1600/Morocco+448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iLOiv9TfHb8/U0LBI9cPriI/AAAAAAAADJs/HxFHUuTFZNA/s1600/Morocco+448.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A fishing village/arts and crafts colony, it’s become a popular
getaway for Europeans and consequently has a Continental vibe. We dined on
fish,<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZolxheVs9s/U0LAjyoGMKI/AAAAAAAADJk/8V61F6rbG6M/s1600/Morocco+358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZolxheVs9s/U0LAjyoGMKI/AAAAAAAADJk/8V61F6rbG6M/s1600/Morocco+358.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
explored the arts and crafts scene,<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uJRAjX0Z1k4/U0Kx43Z5pRI/AAAAAAAADGI/QOY5hOXHglU/s1600/P3270017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uJRAjX0Z1k4/U0Kx43Z5pRI/AAAAAAAADGI/QOY5hOXHglU/s1600/P3270017.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u-aVgGZcW5s/U0Kyt6edQTI/AAAAAAAADGY/F2JScTjgzzo/s1600/Morocco+2+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u-aVgGZcW5s/U0Kyt6edQTI/AAAAAAAADGY/F2JScTjgzzo/s1600/Morocco+2+002.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I rode a camel on the beach.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u9Lu5W2GBqA/U0KztlbflsI/AAAAAAAADGo/ZsmH1JbUn9I/s1600/IMG_2321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u9Lu5W2GBqA/U0KztlbflsI/AAAAAAAADGo/ZsmH1JbUn9I/s1600/IMG_2321.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ambling along on the back of the camel, with the wind
whipping my hair around, I couldn’t have chosen a better place to celebrate not
so much the end of a half-century, but the beginning of the next one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But more than the new experiences, or the food, or the street
scenes, or the art and architecture, it’s the people I’ll remember most. Like Zou Zou, the proud keeper of
a spice shop who gave us an education on the many varieties of spices and herbs
used in Moroccan cuisine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rr9sbjIShOA/U0K1b0TUJ4I/AAAAAAAADG0/YZ0UWx1-tao/s1600/Morocco+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rr9sbjIShOA/U0K1b0TUJ4I/AAAAAAAADG0/YZ0UWx1-tao/s1600/Morocco+007.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or Fatiha, the cooking instructor who sang as she
demonstrated the best way to peel a tomato.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UZI8HJiXvaE/U0K9WXUzDSI/AAAAAAAADI0/5CytL_8Oq88/s1600/Morocco+141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UZI8HJiXvaE/U0K9WXUzDSI/AAAAAAAADI0/5CytL_8Oq88/s1600/Morocco+141.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or Ahmed, a young man working on his graduate degree in
economics while he tends his family’s pottery store. He hopes to finish his Ph.D. and come to work in America. I bought some intricately painted plates from
him and, as I was paying, he handed me a small bowl and said it was a gift. He
asked me to think of him when I use it. I will.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c6mjBalqmj4/U0K3DXoptpI/AAAAAAAADHM/zQu0ek-bws4/s1600/Morocco+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c6mjBalqmj4/U0K3DXoptpI/AAAAAAAADHM/zQu0ek-bws4/s1600/Morocco+025.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Zalouk Salad (adapted from La Maison Arabe)</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This cooked eggplant salad is redolent with
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Serves 4</div>
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2 medium eggplants</div>
2 cloves of garlic<br />
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½ t sea salt</div>
2 T olive oil <br />
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2 large tomatoes</div>
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2 t sweet paprika </div>
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2 t cumin</div>
½ t black pepper<br />
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chile to taste</div>
1 t white wine vinegar <br />
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2 T finely chopped parsley</div>
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Peel the eggplant, leaving thin stripes of skin spaced
an inch apart. Dice the eggplant and put it in a frying pan. Peel and finely
chop the garlic and mash it with the side of a knife with the salt and olive
oil. Add this mixture to the pan and cook on low heat, covered, for 5 minutes.
Turn and mash the mixture with a wooden spoon while it continues to cook, until
it softens and browns. Peel and dice the tomatoes and add them to the eggplant.
Stir to combine. Add the paprika, cumin, black pepper, and chile and continue mashing
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-5092335497350500762014-03-13T08:13:00.000-07:002014-04-07T10:03:03.163-07:00Miming in French<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’m publishing a novel!<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miming in French</i>
is a middle grade novel, meaning that its main audience is children ages 9 to
12, but I’m hoping that readers of every age will find it interesting and
engaging. JK Rowling more than pulled that off, didn’t she? The novel is about an
eleven-year-old girl named Livvie who’s forced to move to France with her mom
after her parents’ divorce. At first, she feels like she’ll never fit in, in
large part because everybody in her new school speaks a different language. But
soon she makes friends with another girl in class named Malika, who’s an
outsider too. Malika is French, but she’s also a Muslim. Together, with the
help of a mysterious street mime, the two girls learn the meaning of true
friendship—and also how the people you meet in life can often turn out to be
very different from what you first expect.</div>
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A little backstory: As you know if you’ve read my other
posts, several years ago I lived in Aix-en-Provence, France, with my husband
Chris and two daughters Isabel and Faye while we were on a six month sabbatical. Isabel and Faye
attended a local public elementary school in Aix. </div>
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They didn't speak any French
at first, which was challenging, but overall the experience was really
rewarding for both of them, even life-changing. </div>
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The population of Aix is an interesting mix of Mediterranean
people, with a significant percentage of North African descent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mix of people living there, in the context of France's complicated history and our current global challenges, got me
thinking about and imagining what might happen if an American girl befriended a
French Muslim girl. I'm an avid Francophile and have loved the times I've lived
in France, but the country struggles with social issues just like anywhere else
and I wanted to explore some of those themes in this novel. At the end of our stay
in Aix, I asked Isabel and Faye if the children they had met there were any
different from their friends back in Vermont and they both responded “no” without
any hesitation. If they had learned nothing else from their experience of going
to school in France, this would have been enough.</div>
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If truth be told, another reason I wrote this novel was
because I wanted to stay in Aix vicariously after we had returned to the US. Aix is a beautiful, fascinating place, layered with Mediterranean vivacity and complexities that I find exhilarating. Writing about it from my desk in Vermont in and around my other work kept it alive for me. </div>
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The book took me about 18 months to complete. Then I spent some time revising it and
vetting it with various friends, family members, fellow writers, and even a
group of students in my daughter’s 6<sup>th</sup> grade class (a big thanks to
those of you who read early versions of it!). </div>
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When the manuscript was finally ready to send out, I was thrilled
to land an agent in New York. He’s a reputable agent and he was enthusiastic
about the book, but this
was around the time that the economy tanked and the publishing industry was
contracting. My book got lost in the shuffle. Publishing is in a state of enormous transition, and new opportunities for a global readership have opened up online. After learning about e-publishing
from other writers, I decided to jump in myself as an indie author. I'm hopeful that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miming
in French</i> will be of interest to a broad readership around the world who
otherwise would have remained out of reach had I published the novel
traditionally.</div>
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So what does all of this have to do with a Vermont-based
food blog? Quite a bit, actually. I’m the creator of both, of course, so if you
like my writing in my blog, you’ll probably like my novel. If you’re interested in getting a glimpse into
what it’s like for an American to live in Aix-en-Provence, the novel will give you that. For
you food-lovers out there, there’s a goodly amount of food and French culture
woven in; I couldn’t help myself. </div>
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A significant difference, though, is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miming in French</i> is fiction, so all the
characters and the plot are fictional, created from my imagination. In case
you’re wondering, the character that I most identify with is Livvie, the
eleven-year-old protagonist. As for the mime, I was inspired by the fascinating
performers found on the streets of Aix.</div>
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The ebook will be released on April 1<sup>st</sup>, but it’s
available for pre-order now at <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id830725612">Apple iBooks</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/miming-in-french-sheila-mcgrory-klyza/1118861346?ean=2940045726528&itm=1&usri=2940045726528">Barnes & Noble</a>. You can sample the first 40 pages of the book on these retailer websites and on the website of my distributor <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/412991">Smashwords</a>. After its release date, the ebook <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>will be available at all major global
retailers, including Amazon, Google, Sony, Kobo, Diesel, Fnac, Flipkart, Baker & Taylor,
WH Smith, Inktera, Versent, Livraria Cultura, Bookworld, Angus & Robertson,
Indigo, Collins, Feltrinelli, Libris, Paper Plus, Play, Rakuten, Whitcoulis,
and others. It’s a whole new world out there in book
publishing and I’m excited to become a part of it. </div>
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I’ve recently joined Twitter and tweet about all things
related to The Vermont Epicure and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miming
in French</i> (and other miscellany), so follow me at <a href="https://twitter.com/smcgroryklyza">https://twitter.com/smcgroryklyza</a>
if you’re interested in getting updates. If facebook is more your speed, I also
have a page for both: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheVermontEpicure?ref=hl">https://www.facebook.com/TheVermontEpicure?ref=hl</a>
and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MiminginFrench?ref=hl">https://www.facebook.com/MiminginFrench?ref=hl</a>. </div>
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After you’ve read my book, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. And please pass it along to any young people, or otherwise, whom you think would be interested. Merci!</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508466264328347432.post-65237391119839999072014-02-11T06:46:00.000-08:002014-03-13T08:19:13.153-07:00SweetheartsI’ve been busy working on an exciting project
(more on this soon!), so this post is going to be shorter than normal. But of
course it’s important to take the time to pause and celebrate Valentine’s
Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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I’m a tulip girl more than a rose girl,</div>
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and Chris knows he can never go wrong with an assortment of chocolates from my favorite local chocolatier <a href="http://www.dailychocolate.net/">Daily Chocolate</a>. <br />
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We're also looking forward to going to the French
restaurant <a href="http://www.cafeshelburne.com/">Café Shelburne</a> this Friday night. Café Shelburne has been around since
1969, but it recently has come under new ownership and local foods are now front
and center. The new chefs both previously worked at the venerable <a href="http://www.shelburnefarms.org/staydine/inn-restaurant">Shelburne Farms</a>, so I have high hopes. But since a Valentine’s Day post post-Valentine’s
Day is no fun, I’m offering up for those of you who are celebrating the holiday
at home a special dessert to try out: Cœur à la Crème. </div>
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This classic French dessert is just what its name “heart of
cream” suggests:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>creamy , luscious, and heart-shaped.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may look complicated to make, but
it’s really not, and if you’re cooking and baking averse, it involves neither
of those activities. The process reminds me of making cheese and the results taste kind of like fresh cheesecake, so if you like
cheesecake, you’ll love Cœur à la Crème. </div>
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Typically, a red sauce made from macerated strawberries or
raspberries accompanies it, but since creativity is a necessary ingredient to a
favorable Valentine’s Day, feel free to mix it up with something different like passion fruit or drizzled dark chocolate.
Or you can make the whole thing chocolate with the addition of cocoa powder. I made
this one in a traditional heart-shaped French basket so ridges are visible, but
I like its rustic charm.</div>
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As with anything, the better the ingredients the better the
flavor, so my Cœurs à la Crème are à la Vermont. I use <a href="http://www.cvcream.com/cheese_new.htm">Champlain Valley Creamery</a> organic cream cheese and <a href="http://www.cabotcheese.coop/pages/our_products/product.php">Cabot</a> sour cream, resulting in rich, fresh
flavor and a smooth, not gummy, consistency. And in the sauce I use Vermont-made Cassis (I like <a href="http://lincolnpeakvineyard.com/wine/cassis/">Lincoln Peak</a>, but alas they're all sold out). The only complicated thing about making
Cœur à la Crème is that you need to have on hand the heart-shaped molds, either
the footed porcelain kind or the basket kind (harder to find) . They can be
purchased at kitchen stores or online, so you just need to plan ahead. Save the
spontaneity for other aspects of the celebration.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cœurs à la Crème </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">(à la Vermont)</b></div>
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Serves 2 (3 to 4 inch heart molds)</div>
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for the cœurs:</div>
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2 10x10-inch squares
cheesecloth—dampened</div>
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4 ounces Champlain
Valley Creamery organic cream cheese at room temperature</div>
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4 ounces Cabot sour
cream </div>
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1½ tablespoons powdered
sugar</div>
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¼ teaspoon vanilla </div>
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pinch of salt</div>
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for the sauce:</div>
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8 ounces strawberries
(hulled and quartered)</div>
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1 teaspoon granulated
sugar</div>
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1 teaspoon of Vermont-made Cassis </div>
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To make the cœurs, line each mold with 1 piece of
cheesecloth. In a medium bowl, beat together the remaining ingredients with an
electric mixer until smooth and well combined. Spoon the mixture into the
molds. Fold the cheesecloth over top and gently press down to distribute the
mixture evenly. Place the molds in a baking dish and cover with plastic wrap.
Chill for at least 4 hours or overnight. </div>
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To make the sauce, stir together the strawberries, sugar, and
Cassis in a small bowl. Let the berries macerate for 20 minutes, stirring
occasionally. </div>
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Carefully lift the cœurs out of the molds and unwrap them.
Invert the cœurs onto plates (they should be fairly firm). Smooth out any rough
edges with your finger. Spoon the strawberry sauce over top and around the cœurs before serving.</div>
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Sheila McGrory-Klyzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09560852473437218744noreply@blogger.com0