Bread and a Palindrome...

When we first started eating salads in the afternoon, we noticed some remarkable metabolic benefits from day one.  Our typical salad of greens, fresh fruit, with a few cold cuts on the side immediately supplied an invigorating surge of energy that propelled us right through the day.  We were astonished that we no longer felt any kind of mid-afternoon drag that often results from eating a big sandwich.  

Don't misunderstand me, we were huge fans of "the great sandwich."  We spent a considerable amount of time thinking about combinations of ingredients that would make the perfect sandwich.  Years ago, when we ran a business in Baltimore, we hired a talented young man with a culinary flair to make us sandwiches.  As we ate his remarkable sandwiches, the most frequent and most heated topic of discussion was about bread.  When you make a sandwich, if you don't have the right bread, you've got nothing.  Moreover, the bread that you do have on-hand literally determines the sandwich that you're going to build.  There's an uncompromising tyranny to bread that really pissed us off, until we discover some really great bread, and then all would be forgiven.

A few months ago, on a whim, we bought some Tandoori Naan from the grocery, and suddenly, bread was back in our diet.  More than that, bread was back to dominating our lunch, where each salad was made to compliment the rich flavor of the naan.  I'm not sure how they did it, but every bite of this naan tasted like they had somehow infused it with a full stick of butter.  Heated in the toaster and  served warm with our salads, we came to realize that a salad without a few squares of Tandoori naan might not be worth eating.  For a couple who swore off the evils of bread at lunchtime, bread was back, and it had immediately claimed its old position as the center of the meal.

This naan was so good that we didn't care about the carbs.  If I found myself staring at the keyboard at 4:30 in the afternoon, trying to remember exactly where home row might be located, I would have to concede that the naan was more important than mental acuity and boundless energy.  If a carb crash was the price to pay, so be it.  But strangely, the crashes never happened.  There was enough balance in the salad to offset the bread.  Eating a meal that consisted mostly of greens, fruit, nuts, and the side of turkey was able to hedge the metabolic gamble of eating a few pieces of naan.  Blood-sugar levels remained stable with a salad, whereas with a sandwich, it was just a little off, just enough to cause a crash.

I will leave it to the professional nutritionists to explain the chemistry of blood-sugar balance, and how the combination of bread with a well-rounded salad is good, while cold cuts and bread with a huge dollop of mayo is bad.  But irrespective of how it all works at the chemical level, we're really grateful to have our bread and eat it too.

Honey Crisp Season

Several years ago, we were loading up the rental car with supplies, preparing for a trip to Monument Valley, Arizona.  We recently discovered that we could enjoy the national parks, yet we could stay in decent hotels (we don't camp), and we could bring plenty of liquor to accompany us on those legendary starry nights in the American west.  What could be better?  

On our way out of town, we stopped at Whole Foods to pick up some fruit and cheese for the ice chest. While shopping, we spoke to an enthusiastic produce clerk who turned to us and said, "Have you tried these?" She handed each of us a neatly carved slice from a Honey Crisp apple.  We'd never heard of Honey Crisps before.  We'd just adopted Gala apples a few years before, and we weren't necessarily looking for a replacement. But, it took only one bite of the honey crisp to realize that our produce consultant had steered us right.  We bought a few dozen honey crisps and headed west.  

Our honey crisp apple supply, which seemed vast when we left Austin, was completely depleted before we crossed the New Mexico border.  True, it's 650 miles to El Paso, but we found ourselves mainlining these apples as if we were eating popcorn at a double feature.  It didn't help that we were taking turns reading "The Botany of Desire" to each other as we drove, and in that book author, Michael Pollan, has a long essay on the apple.  His notion that Johnny Appleseed was welcomed into the frontier communities not so much because he was bringing apples, but because he was bringing apple seeds, which would grow the fruit needed to ferment into liquor, was an insight into the legendary figure that we didn't hear about in grammar school.  But we could understand it completely.  Our trunk was filled with hiking boots, camera equipment, and liquor, all the gear needed to handle the frontier.

But the interesting thing about apples that Pollan points out is that the seeds from a truly great apple, like a Honey Crisp, will not yield a tree that produces honey crisp apples.  The DNA is different, and the fruit from that seed will taste nothing like the apples we were enjoying.  On the one hand, this is the apple's way of protecting itself against ever-changing environments.  On the other hand, this caused a slight sensation of panic in us.  The supply was remarkably finite.  While in El Paso, we found a grocery store and restocked our cache of honey crisps.  These apples were natural and organically grown, yet they were also a genetic and scientific miracle that didn't seem to perpetuate itself.  Human beings had to step in and preserve this DNA, to make sure that we had more of these things. We were co-dependent.

After spending 14 days on the road, our trip home was a little sad on many levels, not the least of which was that honey crisp season was over.  Our fears had come true.  The supply was exhausted.  We had to wait until the following October for next year's crop.  

Today, honey crisp season lasts much longer than two weeks, but it is still finite.  It is one of the events we look forward to about the fall season, and adding sliced honey crisp apples to a salad gives it a transitory sweetness that is a metaphor for Autumn itself.  We suggest adding some roasted pecans to your honey-crisp salad for an added touch of fall flavor.  And as a salute to Johnny Appleseed, we also recommend a nice stiff pour of your liquor of choice.

New Beginnings

Over the last month, there have been very few salads on our table.  No, we haven't given up on the salad, but extenuating circumstances have forced us into a different pattern of eating.  

I'd never given much thought to process before, but the act of making a salad can be labor-intensive.  Moreover, you need the proper gear to mix, to cut, to spice, to serve, and to eat even the simplest salad.  The last six weeks have been consumed by our move to Seattle.   As the kitchen items were carefully protected by tissue paper and bubble wrap, and then placed judiciously into boxes, we found ourselves without the equipment to make a salad.  And, working to complete the move under a very tight deadline, we began eating fast food, just to get through the meal and then get back to the task of packing the house.

On the road, we took all our meals in the car.  With three cats sleeping in their makeshift row houses in the back of our VW Beetle, we didn't have much time for fine dining on the 2600 mile road trip.  But, after weeks of no salads, and then eventually moving into a new apartment without any of our stuff, one realizes that a simple salad is quite a production.  Our first visit to the Metropolitan Market to replenish our salad supplies filled the entire cart.  True, we had to buy bowls and utensils to make the salad, since our stuff was still in transit (and would be for days to come), but even so, restocking everything, including all your olive oils, balsamic vinegars, spices, fruit, greens, was an eye-opening experience.  Yes, it takes a lot of ingredients and a full compliment of gear to mix a salad, put it on a plate, and eat it. 

But, after six weeks of "anything but salads," it was great to be back.  There is an uplifting energy to building and enjoying a great salad, particularly after a long and difficult layoff.  In the grand scheme of things, building that first salad in a new place is also the perfect way to say, "this is our home!"

Delightful Surprises

The other day, I came home to the most delightful aroma emanating from our kitchen.  I don't mean this in a bad way, but our daily salad isn't something that hits your senses full on as soon as you open the door.  However, on this day, I was completely swept off my feet.  The secret ingredient that made the house smell like an Italian bakery was the fresh croutons that were heating on the stove.

The twist was that the croutons were made from spelt bread.  We had been buying bread at Whole Foods made from spelt wheat at the suggestion of our acupuncturist to eliminate traditional wheat from our diet.  Spelt is an old crop with a history that extends back to the Bronze Age, and because it has been in our collective diet for generations it metabolizes differently from modern wheat.  At first, the taste was a little overwhelming, but eventually we grew to love it, and now it is the bread staple of our house.

The crouton recipe is very simple.  You start by trimming the bread crusts and cutting the remainder into cubes. Season a skillet with olive oil and butter at medium heat.  Toss in the bread cubes, letting them soak up the oil and butter.  Spice with O & Co sea salt and herbs for pasta dishes, and add some ground black pepper.  Cook the croutons until crisp on the outside, but make sure they are not hard or overly dry on the inside.  

You can add these croutons to any of your favorite salads with stunning results.  It's funny, but I was never much of a fan of croutons in salads until now.  Who knew that you have to make them yourself, and that your choice of bread makes all the difference.  Spelt has a naturally sweet and nutty flavor that result in a dazzling crouton.  I'm sure that any of your favorite breads will work, but if your feeling adventurous, try the spelt bread.  You, and any of your neighbors with a discerning sense of smell, will not be disappointed.

Zest

Here's an idea.  Suppose you're in a groove, making the same basic salad but you're looking for something a little different.  You're thinking that you've got a good thing going, but you want to make a few adjustments to get that salad up on its feet.  Well, one way to goose up a salad is to add some lemon zest.  

Zest is the oil-rich outer rind of the lemon but only the portion with color, not the white pith. It is scraped off with a paring knife or a zester, and it imparts a very intense lemon/citrus flavor to the your salad.  Interestingly, it works with many salad combinations, and you can use it as sparingly or as liberally as you want to provide that extra bit of flavor.  You can buy dried zest, but zesting a lemon is really fun, it gives you a good excuse to buy a zester, and you have a bunch of bald lemons to use for other purposes. 

Ode to the sea

The ingredients that we use for any given salad can vary widely. We can be just as happy eating a salad in which the main ingredient is cucumber, or pineapple, or mandarin oranges. We've added pears, apple slices, or peppers to these salads, and they've all turned out well. The reaon for this is that these salads have one thing in common:  Sea Salt and Herbs.

There's something about a good sea salt and herb combination that brings out the very best in every other ingredient in a salad. We've been using the Sea Salt and Herb bundles from O & Co., especially the Sea Salt Mix for Pasta and Salads, which includes dried sea salt, marjoram, tomato flakes, chives, and onions.  We often supplement the herb list with our own oregano, basil, and always an ample serving of fresh ground pepper.

We'll talk more about O & Co. in later posts on this blog, but regardless of where you get your sea salt, it is an essential ingredient in any salad. 

The big payoff...

If you read this blog regularly, you might get the idea that we eat nothing but leafy greens, exotic fruit and vegetables, and press our own garden-grown olives into world-class olive oil. This is not really the case. A salad can be the first course that represents the beginning of a great meal.  It can also be the light fare that serves as the precursor to a great dessert. At times, the salad is a means to an end; it's a fantastic journey that leads to a much-deserved reward. For us, it is often the prelude to chocolate.

A few years ago, we discovered Paul Newman's Sweet Dark chocolate. We were never huge fans of dark chocolate, but Newman's chocolate, like his acting, was smooth, wonderful, and never bitter or over-the-top. At first, Newman's sweet dark chocolate was the perfect compliment to a glass of red wine after dinner, but eventually, we found ourselves finishing every meal (except the occasional early breakfast) with a square or two of chocolate. Newman opened the door to other dark chocolates for us, although we are still a little hesitant about saying "yes" to the bitter, heavy cocoa-laden blends.  

There is such a wide range of chocolate out there that we suggest you make a project out of it, just like the pursuit of building the perfect salad. Next time you're at the grocery or your favorite chocolatier, buy several types of chocolate and have a tasting, as if you're enjoying a flight of expensive Bordeaux wines. Yes, you should savor and enjoy your salads, but it's great to finish it with something that you absolutely love to eat, that satisfies your craving for the sweet and the rich. If you haven't tried Newman's sweet dark chocolate after a good salad, we highly recommend it...

Tomatoes with flavor

Every year, around the marking of the vernal equinox, my friend Mike slathers on his SPF 110 and digs up his yard to plant tomatoes.  This is not the trivial undertaking of a casual hobbyist or the relaxing pursuit of a gentleman farmer. No sir. Raising tomatoes in Austin, Texas is all-out warfare against a relentless sun, against bleached soil that hasn't seen rain in months, and against the unwavering heat. It takes a serious man and a hearty tomato pedigree to yield edible results. 

We've had the good fortune of tending to Mike's garden when he takes his family on vacation, and the reward for weeding and irrigating is everything we can pick. This is a rare treat, given that we live in an era of tasteless tomatoes. Mike's yield lasts for a few weeks.  Then, when the days of living on garden-fresh tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil, and fresh cracked pepper give way to the desperate search for a tomato with flavor, where does one go to add the real thing to a salad. We have found that the only store-bought tomato that delivers any semblance of flavor is the cherry tomato.  While these little guys are no substitute for a fresh-picked tomato from the garden, still warm from the heat of the afternoon, it's the best we've got.

Vegas, baby...

Years ago, we found ourselves in Las Vegas, stopping there on our way to the north rim of the Grand Canyon.  Vegas has never been a travel destination for us in itself.  We've been there for conferences, or to meet people while on our way to some other place.  The interesting thing about Las Vegas is that it's a great food town.  Almost every serious meal we've had there was superb.  I never associated Las Vegas with great food because when my parents started traveling to Vegas for vacations in the 70s, they would always talk about getting a steak dinner for 99 cents, or breakfast for free.  I thought to myself: "How good can this food be if they're giving it away?"

However, we found ourselves at The Grotto restaurant in the Golden Nugget hotel, and the house salad featured one of our all-time favorite salad ingredients: Hearts of Palm.  At the time, we'd been serving hearts of palm as an appetizer with a spicy mustard vinaigrette, but never as the main ingredient in a salad. The Grotto salad included red bell peppers, scallions, and tomato, tossed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.  It was brilliant. Since that experience, we are firmly committed to adding hearts of palm to almost every salad we make, and it is the main ingredient in many of our Sunday salads.

The house salad

Across from the Vancouver Museum of Art, there is a little nondescript bistro called The Bellagio. Unlike its over-the-top cousin in Las Vegas, you could walk past this little establishment and not have any sense of the greatness that awaits you inside. On a rainy afternoon, in late December, we happened into this place and ordered lunch. Truthfully speaking, we don't remember the entrees that we ordered.  The true revelation was the house salad. It was magnificent. There wasn't very much to it -- mostly just spring mix -- but the dressing was simply unbelievable. We made such a fuss over it that our unflappable waitress asked the chef to write it down for us. The ingredients are:

• Olive oil
• Fresh-squeezed lemon juice
• Basil
• Salt
• Pepper
• A splash of balsamic vinegar

Since that day, we have been wrestling with the proportions of these ingredients with the passion of medieval alchemists, trying to recreate that salad. It was light, flavorful, and it seemed to invite you into the garden from which all good things come. We have yet to make that exact salad, but every attempt at it is a revelation in itself.

In Praise of Spring Mix

I never liked salads. In my lifetime, I've choked down countless servings of iceberg lettuce coated with Wesson oil and generic vinegar -- only to feel as if I didn't eat anything closely resembling food. Throw in a tasteless tomato slice or a wedge of cucumber, and that my friends, was the salad.

But then, stores started carrying spring mix, that lively combination of greens that inspires committed salad haters to buy the most expensive extra virgin (first cold pressed) olive oil and Italian balsamic vinegar. Is it the arugula? The fresh spinach leaves? Or is it the chopped romaine that causes an irresistable desire to add currants or walnuts to the medley of flavors? It's hard to say, but we're going to discuss it in this blog. Welcome to salad du jour.