The webcast with David Zucker on An America Carol, [link is sound-enabled!] which opens this Friday and is required viewing for everyone?

The productive conference call we had a couple of days ago on energy issues with the folks at API?

The bitchin' car show in Santa Monica on Saturday that featured some really innovative transportation options?

The article I'm working on that discusses discrimination in Hollywood against centrists/right-wingers/people who don't hate the military?

The economy? (That one is easy, though: you know what they say in the Pacific Northwest: "if you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes. It'll change." The same thing applies to the stock market.)

It's going to be a long day, isn't it? Stay tuned; I'm back on the job; I'll be alternating today between catching up here and taking care of a few RL issues that hover around me like mosquitoes in the Indiana woods in the middle of a humid summer.

Suddenly, the Topic Turns to Food and Sex

I shall begin with last night: I had dinner with Professor Purkinje, who is in town giving a lecture at UCLA about . . . neurons or some goddamned thing like that. What did this mean to me? Well, dinner at the Palamino, one of Westwood Village's best restaurants.

Prof P. was full of stories about human physiology, his next book—which touches on the nature of addiction—and whatnot, and I was full of . . . myself, as usual. (No room for anyone else in here; I'm a small person.)

So it was important to fortify ourselves with a bottle of wine. We ordered soup instead of appetizers, since it was butternut squash and it would have been irrational to order anything other than that. (The good doctor ended up finishing mine, with complaints about how I'd "defiled" it with black pepper. That's like suggesting that someone has "defiled" my checking account with money, and I wish to Gosh that they would. Where is that editing check, by the way? I'd better call to verify that it's on its way.)

Neuron-Boy ordered lamb, and I got ravioli made with Kobe beef. They serve two of these fabulous raviolis on each plate: one is covered in cream sauce, and the other is a spicy version in a fresh tomato salsa. Both made me remember that food is just as good as sex, if it's done right.

"Do you want some of my risotto?" he asked.

"No, no," I responded. "I'm having a perfectly nice monogamous relationship with this ravioli. Are those asparagus spears over there on your plate?"

He forked over two of 'em, and I continued to eat my amazing beef ravioli for another few minutes. Professor P. told me he'd figured out the cool thing about a "Palin Administration." (Isn't it cute how everyone's forgotten that she has a running mate?—that legislative dude with white hair, a shockingly decent sense of humor, and a wicked temper?)

"Mmm?" I asked. (By that I meant "this is the best ravioli I've ever had, or am ever likely to have; take your best shot, Buddy: I won't even notice.")

"I hear that she'll have the concentration camp for bisexuals right next to the one for Jews," he responded. "We'll be able to pass notes over the wall."

"Excellent," I replied. "Keep those missives entertaining, and don't discuss molecules unless it's absolutely necessary. See if you can make 'em rhyme. Speaking of Jews, I passed a gallery along Westwood Blvd. on my way here that sells Judaica. I was considering stopping by and getting one to take to the condo complex. We need someone to help around the pool area, and . . . you and the rest of the Tribe as just such good talkers. I really like that. I mean, why hang around with people who aren't good talkers? Life is so short."

I reached my spoon over and snagged some of his risotto. "Oh, my fucking God," I exclaim. "Let's trade plates for a minute. How do they do this? The creaminess of it, yet every grain of rice so discrete?"

"I don't know," he tells me as we swap the plates and he takes over ravioli duty. "I've never conquered it. I have a good friend who makes excellent risotto. He showed me how to do it, but mine still turns into a gluey mess. And, yes: I am using the right kind of rice. I'm not an idiot."

He probably isn't. People wouldn't buy his books if he were an idiot. And they certainly wouldn't fly him across the country to talk about brain functions at other institutions' medical schools.

The waiter stops by to ask if we are discussing medicine. "We touched on it," Prof P. responds, because that sounds better than "we were talking about food, architecture, our favorite writers who've killed themselves, and what constitutes a good blowjob."

So our waiter, whose father is a doctor, briefs us on his convictions about how important continuity of care is—having one doctor in charge of each patient's case, which of course we agree with— and we go on that way for a while after he leaves the table again. This respectable chatter doesn't last very long, of course.

By now we're arguing about (1) whether the distinctive taste of the risotto—which I'm busily finishing on his behalf—has to do with a mushroom stock, as Mr. Neuron supposes, or (2) whether it's because the marrow from the lamb bones has seeped into the broth, to give it a meatier flavor, as I theorize. We conclude that both techniques were used.

We also have a spirited discussion about fellatio, and whether to-the-hilt penetration is as important as pivotal works such as Deep Throat might suggest, or whether it's the "intangibles" that make oral sex good for a man, as Dr. P thinks. I tell him that the main travesty I've seen in my admittedly limited exposure to porn is that women are so busy with the deep throating that they forget to use their hands and tongues, and it seems to me that this is a crime. After all, one's vagina doesn't have a tongue, or at least mine doesn't. One ought to take advantage.

Dr. P looks up at me then. "I have it!" he exclaims.

"What?"

"Your newest journalistic endeavor."

"Well," I respond, "I think I've got a full plate right now. Or I would, if I hadn't just scarfed up the last of your risotto."

"Restaurant reviews. But with plenty of sexual innuendo."

"Oh, no." I tell him. "I'm no good at that."

"Sexual innuendo?"

"Restaurant reviews. Sooner or later, they'll want me to review a seafood place, and you know how I am about that."

"You could just specialize in Everything But Fish. With Plenty of Sexual Metaphor."

The man could be onto something, you know. A whole new career direction for me.

So I walk him back to his hotel. "Tell me some more about brain conditioning," I demand. "But not too much."

Back at his room I collect my laptop and hug him goodbye. "You're going to be so sad when you come out to B-More next winter," he remarks in a tone of Deep Regret. "Two months into an Obama administration. The family and I will have to be really, really nice to you."

"Well," I reply. "One of us will be sad. And the other one will be very, very nice about it. I promise."

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But I need to find another source for it: for a while I could get Kern's Pineapple-Mango juice for $2.49 at our local tiny Ralph's (the most expensive Ralph's in the world, but within walking distance, so worth it if one only needs a few little things).

I knew it wasn't a great price, but orange juice was mostly that price, too, because of the frost last year. So I got what I preferred to drink.

Then the Kern's tropical juices went up to $2.99 for a half gallon, and that was just beyond the pale. I couldn't do it. There are a few other options: Paul Newman lemonade is less, so maybe that's my next juice jag. I went back to the OJ section, though, and most of them were also marked up to $2.99. Way at the bottom was store-brand citrus juice at $2 a carton.

I wonder if Costco sells mango juice. I'm sure some of the local Middle Eastern markets do, but I doubt I'll be doing better on price at any of them. Trader Joe's? Smart and Final? Bank jobs to support my mango-juice habit? Holding up people as they come out of Ralph's to demand that they hand over the mango, or the mango-pineapple, or the mango-guava, "and no one will get hurt"?

More will be revealed, I suppose.

I mean, prices weren't wonderful at the Ralph's in La Canada, but they were liveable (well, one had to double-check the grapes and cherries, of course: those could get a bit silly if they'd travelled too far, or weren't in season, or there wasn't a sale going on).

But at the itty-bitty Ralph's here on the north side of Glendale? I concluded my price check by noticing that fresh-squeezed local orange juice (the only kind my mother would buy from Fireside market in Santa Monica in the 70s/80s) was a mere seven dollars for a half gallon. Or two for $14. Or they would trade me a selection of my half-dozen favorite juices for my engagement ring, because it features a champagne diamond . . .

What I really want, though, is mango juice. And lots of it.

Someone's got to have it at a decent price. I don't want to be forced into a life of crime because of some "correction" in the tropical-juice market.

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I'm just not smart enough to keep track of all the diets out there. Just reading about it all makes my head hurt.

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The Food Police hits Los Angeles. Yipes!

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If the traditions of past years have held, two of the three or four issue of Bon Appetit you actually need to buy each year will be on sale soon:

(1) You must get the July issue, which focuses on grilling.

(2) August tends to feature "no-cook" recipes: salsas and so forth. Meals that require little or no use of the oven or range. My advice would be to get a blender, and use these recipes all year long. (Oh. You don't live in California. I'm sorry.)

(3) Whatever your favorite comfort-food issue is: October, with its winter-squash fever; November, with its turkey and sweet-potato fetish; December, with its extravagant whistling in the graveyard of high winter. (Oh. You have real winters; I'm sorry.)

Personally, I'm just waiting until my husband and I get married to the third person who is In The Mood To Cook. I shall keep her company, and give her tips. I'm not perfectly heartless, you know.

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Zucchini muffins that are as good as banana muffins? Show me.

And . . . any Real Gardeners on the north side of Glendale, California should feel free to contribute the raw material I might need for this Scientifical Project.

In all fairness, of course, anything with dried cranberries in it is unlikely to suck. But banana muffins, and banana bread, occupy a special place in Paradise. They just do. As do corn muffins with cranberries, and any quick bread that isn't overly sweet . . . and yet features blueberries . . . that is a no-problem breakfast. I'll take two.)

As soon as A the H and I find the third partner for this marriage, our gustatory lives will really take off. She just needs to handle the gardening, and go to the farmers' markets, and do all that other stuff that needs to be done before noon.

And then, my dears, I shall cook. Oh, will I cook.

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Glenn Reynolds cites a NYT news report that suggest white wine may be just as healthy as red.

Hooray! And just in time for my newfound love of pinot grigio! (This is inspired partly from the heat, which seems to suggest something out of the refrigerator, and partly from my brand-new light-colored carpeting.)

But then, alas, Reynolds passes along this bit of anti-lush bigotry: "Drinking a bottle a day will not make you five times better than a glass . . . ."

Of course not: it's only four and a half times as healthy. Let's stick to the facts, Professor.

(Yeah, yeah: I know that the health benefits of alcohol decrease after one drink a day for females, or two drinks a day for males, depending on the study. I read one article that suggested six drinks per week is the optimum for women, and that they could be "saved up" for up to 48 hours, making two or even three drinks a day permissible. But I've only seen that in one place, and I'm pretty skeptical.

This is also interesting in that my mother's doctor has asked that she refrain from drinking because of her fatty liver; she mostly complies, though I'll sometimes pour a little of my beer into a juice glass for her, or place my margarita where she can drink some of it, or hand her a quarter of a glass of wine to drink with dinner. There are, after all, quality-of-life issues to consider.)

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Via Insty. I love this sort of thing. Actually, the solution to being creative in the kitchen seems to be finding either the right cookin' music on iTunes, or hanging out with the kind of people who like to talk to you while you cook. Some people have tiny televisions in their kitchens, and watch old movies while they make soup: I'll bet that works, too.

Also, on Sunday nights I'll sometimes make a sign for the fridge door (or use a tiny whiteboard) to list what the very best leftovers are, so we'll remember to have them for lunch that week ("Beef ravioli in the round container, first shelf!" "Stroganoff, blue container, second shelf!")

I still think the better solution to rising world food shortages is to use algae and switchgrass for our biofuels, and turn the world on to democracy / free markets, but in the meantime we can refrain from hoarding food, and experiment with cheap eating (I do this every several years, and since every time I look at Ralph's it costs me $100, it might be time to re-examine it).

The cheap food thread discusses Ramen a lot. The fact is, I simply cannot buy the cheapest brands of Ramen: I get "oriental" flavored stuff in the Asian-foods section, and it costs a lot more—like 50-75 cents a package. I also add chili-garlic paste to it, and a bit of sesame oil. At that point it's ready, though I sometimes look through the refrigerator for other leftovers to put on top: it's great for stray bits of veggies.

The second bowl in that batch of Ramen gets placed in the fridge, and eaten the next day. By then the noodles are fatter and there's less liquid. So it seems to want to be spiked with another dose of sesame oil by then.

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Yes, I used to formulate menus for cookbooks when I was Associate Editor at The Foodie Monthly.

They tended to be more elaborate, though, and often . . . better-balanced than what one might come up with for a Friday night in front of a computer screen.

Appetizer
The last quarter of yesterday's ham-and-cheese sandwich, eaten rather furtively in the car on the way home

Main Course
Rice Krispies, consumed on the couch with a laptop right behind it, propped up with a pillow

Side Dish
Cheese-Danish-style Coffee Cake

Salad
Fritos, which really do contain corn, and therefore must have some nutrients; please? O sweet my reader; cast me not away!

Beverage
Red table wine

Dessert
An extra glass of that red table wine, which contains Valuable Antioxidants

One could argue that my standards have fallen just a little over the past six years; I believe I've merely learned to think outside the culinary box.

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When one is matching a dinner of three blueberry mini-muffins with an appropriate wine, one should look at reasonably full-bodied cabernets, such as the 2005 Fish-Eye California Cabernet—reasonably price at $5.99 and available in a handy screw-top, corkless, high-tech bottle.

I happen to have one sitting on the table by the couch.

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WTF is a "breakfast cookie"?

I mean, I know what a "breakfast bar" is. I know about protein bars, and energy bars, and snack bars, and granola bars.

And I understand that there is no material difference between a bar, and that round thing that you call a "cookie."

But why emphasize the ugly truth we all know?—that the best breakfasts include not just protein, but also plenty of fat, carbs, and sugar? Do we have to be so vulgar as to call it a "cookie" in front of God and everyone?

I'm really upset about this, and I'm not going to be jollied out of it.

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Now that's a great idea for winter.

Any other greens we should try? I've always thought baby mustard greens were lovely in salads, but I'm not sure I could eat as much of them in one sitting as I could arugula. Cilantro might present the same problem—plus, it's as much of a summer herb as basil itself is.

As I recall, Molly Katzen had a great desperation-time "winter pesto" that was made with a small amount of dried basil. I believe it was in The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. I must admit that during my vegetarian years I kept one basil plant growing indoors at all times, for after the outdoor one went to seed.

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Mmmm.

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. . . is not a vegetarian.

Unlike, say, Alicia Silverstone.

I was fine as a vegetarian, although I was ovo-lacto, so I didn't have to worry about B12. And I did periodically have to take iron supplements, but I do that these days, too, when I get too busy to eat regular meals.

The lasting legacy of vegetarianism in my diet is a certain distaste for desserts that don't contain any food value whatsoever: chocolate mousse, for instance, leaves me cold. I'd rather get a bit more protein via flan, or some bits of apple from a slice of pie.

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(Yeah; only one!)

Okay, so she buys these banana-nut mini-muffins for breakfast. But sometimes a few of these (three or four) disappear overnight. The obvious conclusion is that there is some kind of conversion process going on wherein foods procured for breakfast turn into midnight snacks.

I'm hoping that she doesn't either (1) go to hell, or—worse—(2) get fat.

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that grilling was so important to the Great Old Ones?

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I don't know if I can endorse that.

But let me think it through.

The fact is—as some of you know—I'm a bit of a ham and cheese fanatic, and I've tried a number of approaches to this highly unkosher art form. Favorites include the slightly grilled version featured at my local chef academy's cafe that features good cheddar, and a panino with ham, jack, and mushroom served at my favorite coffee house on olive bread.

When I worked at the Foodie Magazine and we had a presentation in the conference room, I tended to order pancetta and gruyere on the company dime.

But blue cheese . . . hm. I suppose it would work, if the ham were low-key enough. Most of the time I see the cheese as providing the yin, and the ham as going yang. If the reverse were to work, it would make me very happy indeed. The challenge, always, is to create a sandwich that doesn't taste like a salt lick: in a mediocre restaurant, that's the first thing that hits you with your bad ham and cheese: salt. Ick.

I imagine if I found the right ham to go with Roaring 40s Blue, I could die right then, content. Prosciutto, maybe.

Suddenly, I'm hungry.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:58 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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. . . from Jeff Goldstein.

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Bitchin' lunchboxes.

I got a few for A the H and me when the back-to-school sales started in September. One has to have a few around, and they only last a few years before the vinyl edges start to rip or milk spills into the folds and smells nasty.

But next time I have a steady dayjob, I'll get a set of this stuff. I might even poke around here, though 30 minutes for making lunch is out of the question. As are mango bunnies and hard-boiled eggs shaped like flowers. Just—no.

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Why is it that each decade has one particularly fashionable type of vin ordinaire?

In the 1970s, it was burgundy (and liebfraumilch, as a white wine). In the early 80s, it seemed to be sangria. In the late 80s, everyone was drinking zinfandel—and then white zinfandel. In the 90s it seemed people went back to chianti as a red table wine. Now it's merlot and shiraz, or pinot grigio in the white realm.

All along, my father has stuck largely to his cabernet. Commendable.

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