Saturday, March 28, 2009
Save the Date
Mark your calendars for Saturday, April 18th for a Night in Belgium, NYC style! I’ll post more details in the next few days but I can tell you it will involve several delicious beers, a few mussels and a chocolate or two!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Some literature to go with your pint
Next time you are at your local bar, grab a copy of the April/May Yankee Brew News. Located on page 4 is a letter I wrote to the editors about the intrepid young individuals (i.e. young studs like myself) working within the beer industry.
This is what editor Gregg Glaser had to say:
“Justin: Many thanks for this. The publishers and I loved what you wrote. Sorry about the lack of NYC 20-somethings in the last issue’s feature story. If you or others like you had come to our attention as we researched the story, we would have definitely included New Yorkers. Keep up your beer evangelism in NYC and stay in touch with your endeavors. And thanks for the kind words about Yankee Brew News. Cheers – Gregg”
Also, keep April 25th free on your calendar. I’ll be hosting a Belgian beer event with Ale Street News. I’ll post details as soon as I can.
This is what editor Gregg Glaser had to say:
“Justin: Many thanks for this. The publishers and I loved what you wrote. Sorry about the lack of NYC 20-somethings in the last issue’s feature story. If you or others like you had come to our attention as we researched the story, we would have definitely included New Yorkers. Keep up your beer evangelism in NYC and stay in touch with your endeavors. And thanks for the kind words about Yankee Brew News. Cheers – Gregg”
Also, keep April 25th free on your calendar. I’ll be hosting a Belgian beer event with Ale Street News. I’ll post details as soon as I can.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Boston Kicks Cask
Yesterday I attended the first day of the New England Cask Ale Exhibition (NERAX) and drank my imperial body weight in British BItters. Today is the unleashing of Dogfish Head’s 75-minutes IPA in select bars in the North East. Fortunately for me, Boston knows how to get down with the cask. Cheers!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Good Beer, Better Swine
My mouth began watering while I sat on the train. As I raced passed the rundown buildings of Jamaica and dirty alleys of East New York, visions of chunky little pigs played in my mind. In my head the swine, fat and happy, sipped on local beers while skipping towards Park Slope in Brooklyn. The reason for their exodus was a Heritage Game and Beer dinner put on by the Palo Santo restaurant, a place where not long ago, I attended a dinner hosted by Garret Oliver from the Brooklyn Brewery. Palo Santo chef Jacques Gautier later told me that the Brooklyn Brewery dinner was all about the beer. The Heritage Game dinner was all for the meat. Thus my little piggies happily marched on.
As I passed through the dark curtains that serve as the restaurant’s entrance, the hostess ushered my friend and I to a table in the back room. After sitting down and calming my salivating tongue with a sip of water, our waitress Lindsey came over and poured us two tall glasses of Brooklyner Weisse Beer. So far so good, I thought to myself. The banana tartness of the weisse was the same beer the Mr. Gautier started the previous beer dinner with, and the refreshing wheat brew served as a sensory reminder of the feast that was to come.
Before the first dish graced my taste buds, a gentleman from the Heritage Foods spoke for all of three minutes. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, with an obvious love for wholesome food and distaste for public speaking. He quickly compared the natural foodists in northeastern states like Maine and the locavoires of Brooklyn to the “Republican Bush Party.” He spoke of organizing farmers and creating a Sysco like marketing efficiency for their goods. The others in the restaurant neither nodded in agreement or frowned in disapproval; Instead, they gazed on, waiting for an explanation.
Despite his off-putting analogies and awkward demeanor, the fellow from Heritage was able to get a few messages through loud and clear. “Heritage Foods is dedicated to getting wholesome food to every American,” he said. He went on to tell of our country’s elementary schools, colleges and government institutions serving only the lowest passable quality of grub—commodity foods. He spoke of Heritage Foods slaughtering 150 pigs every week and making sure that every part is eaten, not only the short ribs and choice cuts. In defense of his anti-locavoire comments, he stated that consumers must respect terroir. While it is great that communities focus on local goods, sometime it is best to purchase cheese from Wisconsin, apples from New York and spirits from Kentucky. Interesting stuff.
After digesting the speech, I sipped on my weisse. A few beers later Jacques himself whisked the first plate to my table. I may not be a sought after restaurateur, but I can tell you when the chef is in the dining room schlepping plates and chatting with customers, that is a chef who gives a damn. The first dish was an array of New York state beef offal tacos; four miniatures tortillas served as the eating vessel for heart, kidney, liver and tongue. Each was garnished with guacamole and a few sprigs of cilantro. “Normally,” Jacques said, “these meats are ground together for tacos or hotdogs. I want to allow people to try what each part has to offer.” The bite-sized tacos showcased the intricate and often bold flavors of various organ meats. The plate was not only tasty, but thought provoking as well.
Throughout the evening, we were lucky enough to have Jacques dropping off plates and giving us the story behind them. A dish with a slow cooked Berkshire pork and Red Wattle pork was meant to demonstrate the idiosyncratic flavors of the different breeds. A lemon aioli served not only as an interesting dipping sauce for the roasts, but also an avenue for the citrus tinged Brooklyn Local 1 to travel between the two flavors.
All of the dishes were executed with a restrained flair but it was not until the roasted pork loin that I nearly jumped onto my table and chanted praise to the chef. A roasted loin of Tamworth pork was plated with a mixture of green beans, olives, pecans and a hint of mint. The dish was accompanied by a glass of Dogfish Head Raisin D’etra, a dark brown behemoth of a beer; possessing raisiny sweetness that just begs for some salty treats to be thrown its way. The pork was succulent, hugged by a ring of rich fat and studded with a slightly crunch salt skin. The olives seemed completely out of place—like a Russian ballerina who shows up at a break-dance competition but stays to perform her routine anyway—but once they were pushed aside the toasted nuttiness of the pecans perfectly melded with the pork and the beer. Each bite brought me to hog heaven and the Dogfish Head not only lavished my taste buds with its initial malty flavors but cleansed my palate with its mellow hop bite, allowing each salty epiphany to reoccur with every forkful.
The final item on the menu was a lard cake. Although this might not sound too appealing, it turned out to be a large hunk of corn bread with rosemary ice cream and a sorrel reduction. Sorrel, Lindsey told me, is a red Carribean flower sometimes used for jams and preserves. The sorrel was reduced to syrupy goo that added much needed tartness to the cakey, rich bread and the oily herbs of the ice cream. Very much like the Brooklyn dinner several months earlier, the dessert beer was the ribbon that tied the final plate together. For this dinner Dogfish Head Palo Santo was chosen.
Funnily enough, the Palo Santo of the beer references the same wood as the restaurant. Instead of fragrant incense, however, Sam Calagione uses the wood to create giant cask in which he ages his potent concoction. Palo Santo is a dark, viscous drink with a thin, cappuccino colored head. The lacing dissipates quickly but the drink has much to taste than to look at. Palo Santo smells sweet and oily, but after a sip, the drink coats your tongue like a rich chocolate. Seconds later, the 12% beer evaporates from your tongue, leaving you feeling refreshed and lively. Although it starts like a sugary espresso, Palo Santo ends like a dry champagne, leaving your tongue begging for another helping of rosemary ice cream and lard cake.
My friend and I were quietly contemplating the last helpings of food as Jacques came over and offered us some more beers. He poured a few rounds and enlightened us to his theories on food and the beverages that accompany them. Jacques is an energetic man with a shaved head and speaks of food and the animals he serves the way others talk about church or their grandchildren; the man loves what he does. We sipped a few more Palo Santos while we paid our bill and paid thanks to Jacques. He gave us a few restaurant suggestions in the neighborhood and invited us back for a tasting menu one day. A bit tipsy and fat as the porkers in my daydreams, I shook hands with the chef and made my to home, being sure to stop at the 4th Ave Pub on the way to the train.
As I passed through the dark curtains that serve as the restaurant’s entrance, the hostess ushered my friend and I to a table in the back room. After sitting down and calming my salivating tongue with a sip of water, our waitress Lindsey came over and poured us two tall glasses of Brooklyner Weisse Beer. So far so good, I thought to myself. The banana tartness of the weisse was the same beer the Mr. Gautier started the previous beer dinner with, and the refreshing wheat brew served as a sensory reminder of the feast that was to come.
Before the first dish graced my taste buds, a gentleman from the Heritage Foods spoke for all of three minutes. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, with an obvious love for wholesome food and distaste for public speaking. He quickly compared the natural foodists in northeastern states like Maine and the locavoires of Brooklyn to the “Republican Bush Party.” He spoke of organizing farmers and creating a Sysco like marketing efficiency for their goods. The others in the restaurant neither nodded in agreement or frowned in disapproval; Instead, they gazed on, waiting for an explanation.
Despite his off-putting analogies and awkward demeanor, the fellow from Heritage was able to get a few messages through loud and clear. “Heritage Foods is dedicated to getting wholesome food to every American,” he said. He went on to tell of our country’s elementary schools, colleges and government institutions serving only the lowest passable quality of grub—commodity foods. He spoke of Heritage Foods slaughtering 150 pigs every week and making sure that every part is eaten, not only the short ribs and choice cuts. In defense of his anti-locavoire comments, he stated that consumers must respect terroir. While it is great that communities focus on local goods, sometime it is best to purchase cheese from Wisconsin, apples from New York and spirits from Kentucky. Interesting stuff.
After digesting the speech, I sipped on my weisse. A few beers later Jacques himself whisked the first plate to my table. I may not be a sought after restaurateur, but I can tell you when the chef is in the dining room schlepping plates and chatting with customers, that is a chef who gives a damn. The first dish was an array of New York state beef offal tacos; four miniatures tortillas served as the eating vessel for heart, kidney, liver and tongue. Each was garnished with guacamole and a few sprigs of cilantro. “Normally,” Jacques said, “these meats are ground together for tacos or hotdogs. I want to allow people to try what each part has to offer.” The bite-sized tacos showcased the intricate and often bold flavors of various organ meats. The plate was not only tasty, but thought provoking as well.
Throughout the evening, we were lucky enough to have Jacques dropping off plates and giving us the story behind them. A dish with a slow cooked Berkshire pork and Red Wattle pork was meant to demonstrate the idiosyncratic flavors of the different breeds. A lemon aioli served not only as an interesting dipping sauce for the roasts, but also an avenue for the citrus tinged Brooklyn Local 1 to travel between the two flavors.
All of the dishes were executed with a restrained flair but it was not until the roasted pork loin that I nearly jumped onto my table and chanted praise to the chef. A roasted loin of Tamworth pork was plated with a mixture of green beans, olives, pecans and a hint of mint. The dish was accompanied by a glass of Dogfish Head Raisin D’etra, a dark brown behemoth of a beer; possessing raisiny sweetness that just begs for some salty treats to be thrown its way. The pork was succulent, hugged by a ring of rich fat and studded with a slightly crunch salt skin. The olives seemed completely out of place—like a Russian ballerina who shows up at a break-dance competition but stays to perform her routine anyway—but once they were pushed aside the toasted nuttiness of the pecans perfectly melded with the pork and the beer. Each bite brought me to hog heaven and the Dogfish Head not only lavished my taste buds with its initial malty flavors but cleansed my palate with its mellow hop bite, allowing each salty epiphany to reoccur with every forkful.
The final item on the menu was a lard cake. Although this might not sound too appealing, it turned out to be a large hunk of corn bread with rosemary ice cream and a sorrel reduction. Sorrel, Lindsey told me, is a red Carribean flower sometimes used for jams and preserves. The sorrel was reduced to syrupy goo that added much needed tartness to the cakey, rich bread and the oily herbs of the ice cream. Very much like the Brooklyn dinner several months earlier, the dessert beer was the ribbon that tied the final plate together. For this dinner Dogfish Head Palo Santo was chosen.
Funnily enough, the Palo Santo of the beer references the same wood as the restaurant. Instead of fragrant incense, however, Sam Calagione uses the wood to create giant cask in which he ages his potent concoction. Palo Santo is a dark, viscous drink with a thin, cappuccino colored head. The lacing dissipates quickly but the drink has much to taste than to look at. Palo Santo smells sweet and oily, but after a sip, the drink coats your tongue like a rich chocolate. Seconds later, the 12% beer evaporates from your tongue, leaving you feeling refreshed and lively. Although it starts like a sugary espresso, Palo Santo ends like a dry champagne, leaving your tongue begging for another helping of rosemary ice cream and lard cake.
My friend and I were quietly contemplating the last helpings of food as Jacques came over and offered us some more beers. He poured a few rounds and enlightened us to his theories on food and the beverages that accompany them. Jacques is an energetic man with a shaved head and speaks of food and the animals he serves the way others talk about church or their grandchildren; the man loves what he does. We sipped a few more Palo Santos while we paid our bill and paid thanks to Jacques. He gave us a few restaurant suggestions in the neighborhood and invited us back for a tasting menu one day. A bit tipsy and fat as the porkers in my daydreams, I shook hands with the chef and made my to home, being sure to stop at the 4th Ave Pub on the way to the train.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Fishy Cash Slips Away From These Geniuses
I was leafing through the New York Post during my lunch break and opened up to a page featuring Mario Batali’s rotund, red face. Apparently, two masked gunmen broke into Esca, his Italian seafood place on West 43rd known for its way with raw fish. All they stole was an envelope full of paper receipts, despite going to the coat closet where over fifteen-grand in cash was stashed a day before.
The break-in happened at 2:30 in the morning and the only employee left in the restaurant was unharmed. Now this two shotgun-welding geniuses have a ton of worthless paper and the police investigating an inside job. If I were a theif, I would have just run into the place at 8pm and five-finger discounted a few plates of crudo. At least then the venture would have been worth it.
The break-in happened at 2:30 in the morning and the only employee left in the restaurant was unharmed. Now this two shotgun-welding geniuses have a ton of worthless paper and the police investigating an inside job. If I were a theif, I would have just run into the place at 8pm and five-finger discounted a few plates of crudo. At least then the venture would have been worth it.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Brady is a dickhead
While wandering through downtown Boston last week I stumbled into an old used bookstore. I made my way between the dangerously leaning stacks to aisle 3A, the food and cooking section. After a few painful minutes crouched down near the floor, I came upon the book Beer by Michael Jackson for only ten bucks! Jackpot!
(I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s not the King of Pop. This is Michael Jackson from the world of beer. The King of Hops if you will.)
Picture one of those skinny, hardcover books you read as a child to learn about dinosaurs or outer space and you have Beer in a nutshell. The book is stuffed with large, easy to read font, step-by-step descriptions of the beer making process and pictures of just about everything. It is idiot proof. Instead of discovering the life cycles of a black hole, little children could easily learn how to brew a barely wine with this book. I, however, will pour over it with more fervor than a law student and keep it as a handy reference book, conveniently having it on my person at all times.
Content with my find, I went to pay for my treasure. After leaving the cash register, I flipped to the front cover and found this inscription:
Brady, I don’t know who you are, but your father seems like an awesome fellow and I can’t believe you sold this book! Next time I’m I Boston I hope to find you in a lame sports bar chugging Bud Light so I can kick your ass.
(I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s not the King of Pop. This is Michael Jackson from the world of beer. The King of Hops if you will.)
Picture one of those skinny, hardcover books you read as a child to learn about dinosaurs or outer space and you have Beer in a nutshell. The book is stuffed with large, easy to read font, step-by-step descriptions of the beer making process and pictures of just about everything. It is idiot proof. Instead of discovering the life cycles of a black hole, little children could easily learn how to brew a barely wine with this book. I, however, will pour over it with more fervor than a law student and keep it as a handy reference book, conveniently having it on my person at all times.
Content with my find, I went to pay for my treasure. After leaving the cash register, I flipped to the front cover and found this inscription:
Brady, I don’t know who you are, but your father seems like an awesome fellow and I can’t believe you sold this book! Next time I’m I Boston I hope to find you in a lame sports bar chugging Bud Light so I can kick your ass.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
My afternoon with Sam Adams
When I walked into the brewery there was a small television crew filming a red-cheeked woman making coffee.
“What is going on?” I inquired of the gentleman handing out tickets for the Sam Adams brewery beer tour.
“Some woman brews her own coffee. A local station is doing some piece on local beverages, I don't really know. Want to go on a brewery tour?”
And so my afternoon began at the Samuel Adams brewery in Jamaica Plains, Massachusetts. I wandered around the lobby reading Prohibition time lines and perusing a collection of antique beer bottles until a girl in tight jeans and a pair of Uggs called the crowd to assembly.
“Free beer,” she shouted, hoping to elicit a response from the twenty or so people gathered in the annals of the Boston Beer Company building. She didn’t look like much, but after the tour and tasting, this little lady convinced me that the Boston Beer Company is the work place of my dreams.
After an exhaustive history of the company, a run down of the raw ingredients and brewing process and a few samples of fresh beer, my tour guide stood around with me for a half hour or so and answered every inane and geeky question I had. She started working at the brewery during her third year in college and knew nothing about beer. Now, she has a vast knowledge of the beverage and is beginning to brew at home, a habit encouraged by her employers. My afternoon at the brewery brought about a couple of revelations for me:
1) When fresh, Sam Adams lager is one of the crispest, most thirst quenching brews I’ve ever tasted. It tastes like freedom.
2) I need to find a job in a brewery.
“What is going on?” I inquired of the gentleman handing out tickets for the Sam Adams brewery beer tour.
“Some woman brews her own coffee. A local station is doing some piece on local beverages, I don't really know. Want to go on a brewery tour?”
And so my afternoon began at the Samuel Adams brewery in Jamaica Plains, Massachusetts. I wandered around the lobby reading Prohibition time lines and perusing a collection of antique beer bottles until a girl in tight jeans and a pair of Uggs called the crowd to assembly.
“Free beer,” she shouted, hoping to elicit a response from the twenty or so people gathered in the annals of the Boston Beer Company building. She didn’t look like much, but after the tour and tasting, this little lady convinced me that the Boston Beer Company is the work place of my dreams.
After an exhaustive history of the company, a run down of the raw ingredients and brewing process and a few samples of fresh beer, my tour guide stood around with me for a half hour or so and answered every inane and geeky question I had. She started working at the brewery during her third year in college and knew nothing about beer. Now, she has a vast knowledge of the beverage and is beginning to brew at home, a habit encouraged by her employers. My afternoon at the brewery brought about a couple of revelations for me:
1) When fresh, Sam Adams lager is one of the crispest, most thirst quenching brews I’ve ever tasted. It tastes like freedom.
2) I need to find a job in a brewery.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Local 2
Just in case you had something important to do, you may have not noticed the release of Brooklyn Breweries Local 2 last Friday. Although the beer has been available sporadically for about two weeks, Friday marked the official release date and coincided with a launch party at the brewery in Williamsburg.
The fiesta was rife with an eclectic mix of casual drinkers, local beer aficionados and a six-year-old child or two (Brooklyn Brewery is a family establishment after all). President Steve Hindy and brew master Garret Oliver were even present to speak although I got out of work late and wasn’t able to hear them. Despite my misfortune, I tasted the ambrosia and got to speak to Garret a bit about the long journey Local 2 took from idea to brew.
Local 2 is a much darker beverage than Local 1. It is brewed with dark sugars, local NY honey and a secret array of spices. It pours opaque with a tan, caramel colored head with a hint of spiciness in the aroma. It’s much heavier than Local 1, and has a pronounced chewy, almost bread like feel. Bubbling forth from my classy Brooklyn Brewery goblet, Local 2 is a sight to behold. Congrats to the brewery for another great beer! Definitely pick up a bottle when you can, there aren’t many American made 100% bottle fermented beers out there.
The fiesta was rife with an eclectic mix of casual drinkers, local beer aficionados and a six-year-old child or two (Brooklyn Brewery is a family establishment after all). President Steve Hindy and brew master Garret Oliver were even present to speak although I got out of work late and wasn’t able to hear them. Despite my misfortune, I tasted the ambrosia and got to speak to Garret a bit about the long journey Local 2 took from idea to brew.
Local 2 is a much darker beverage than Local 1. It is brewed with dark sugars, local NY honey and a secret array of spices. It pours opaque with a tan, caramel colored head with a hint of spiciness in the aroma. It’s much heavier than Local 1, and has a pronounced chewy, almost bread like feel. Bubbling forth from my classy Brooklyn Brewery goblet, Local 2 is a sight to behold. Congrats to the brewery for another great beer! Definitely pick up a bottle when you can, there aren’t many American made 100% bottle fermented beers out there.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Taste of Success
Last week I was a fly on the wall.
A friend of mine is a photographer and was working an event at the City Winery in downtown Manhattan. The event, called Taste of Success, was a fundraiser put on by StreetWise Partners, an organization aimed at coupling large corporations and low-income individuals. I didn’t know any of this information when my buddy invited me to attend, but once he said there would be free food and drink, I agreed hands down.
After entering the City Winery, I was instantly thrown off by the power ties and high heels circling the crowd. Clad with my finest shirt tucked into my Levi’s, I questioned how the young lady in the three-inch pumps made her through the snow mounds on Varick Street. She did know there was a blizzard outside, didn’t she? I was gazing at my ice-crusted boots as my friend pulled me to a table to help him with his camera.
“Do you know what this thing is all about?” I asked.
“Not a clue. I’m kind of doing this as a favor to my friend.”
“Well,” I began as a woman sauntered across the floor in a strapless number, snow capped cars visible through the windows “can at least I taste some of this stuff?”
“Sure. I’m going to take a bunch of shots. Just help yourself.”
With that I was off. I heaped my tiny plastic plate with prosciutto spring rolls, crepe lasagna and an assortment of other goodies. After several laps, I saw a young man pouring drinks with an ornate water fountain. I made my way past a few clean-cut bankers to investigate his mysterious drinks.
“Absinthe,” he replied after my inquiries. Immediately, thousands of little flash bulbs went off in my head: green fairies, hallucinations, that sketchy bar in Canada when I was 18. I sheepishly asked for drink and began to bombard him with questions.
A couple of glasses and some time later I learned a few things about the beverage. Absinthe is composed of three main ingredients: anise, fennel and wormwood. The wormwood is what people attribute to the hallucinations, but like most storied beverages, it is just a myth. The fabled Green Fairy can be written off as a writer’s muse or attributed to a French nurse who gained the moniker after administering the herbal alcohol to patients with stomach maladies. I inquired about lighting the stuff on fire before drinking—careful not to admit I happily did just that in a Canadian bar—only to be assured it was a bartender’s trick, suitable more for entertainment than drinking.
Having my fill of information I made more rounds. I sampled Creole Paella, colored black by a Caribbean mushroom called jon-jon; I ate hotdog looking concoction that turned out to be smoked codfish on a brioche; I even had Port and Champagne sorbet, a delicious mix of alcohol and science created by Wine Cellar Sorbets. When I asked the woman pushing the boozy dessert if they were looking to make a beer sorbet in the future, she told me that it was possible. They are currently working on cocktail sorbets like gin and tonic so beer probably wasn’t too far behind. I pondered the thought of an all-natural, Guinness Stout sorbet and made my way to the bar.
Standing behind several bottles in a quiet corner of the event was gentleman from the Brandy Library. He poured a few scotches throughout the night for various business types but I noticed no on really took any time to inquire about what they were drinking, focusing instead on the leggy power brokers sampling the Rosé wines. I walked through the crowd and started to ask him about Scotch. Immediately, he pulled up glasses and started pouring. I told him I was in journalism—beer journalism to be exact—and we began chatting in terms of casks, malted barley, nutrient rich water and such. A few suits came up and requested single-malts in gruff voices, flashing smiles to the ladies patiently waiting for them. After they stumbled off with another free drink, I continued my alcoholic education.
I was always curious about scotch and other whiskeys, and this guy really blew my mind. He covered geography, laws and other minutia. We chatted for over a half hour and after learning about the pairing potential of a highly smoked scotch and fudge brownies, I shook his hand and parted ways. He agreed to chat with me in the future about the prized beverage and even hook me up with more folks in the industry. Satisfied and smelling of peat smoke and booze, and pushed through some overly absinthed future CEO’s shouting about the stock markets and one night stands and searched out my pal.
Peanut Butter and Salmonella Sandwiches anyone?
The recent peanut scare has put a spotlight on the safety of organic produce. A recent article has shed some light on aspects of the industry I’ve been skeptical of for a long time.
Throughout college I had to defend my badmouthing of certified organic foods and produce:
“But isn’t healthier for you?”
“It tastes better, doesn’t it?”
“They are more expensive but it’s worth it…right?”
My answer was always the same: it depends. While I have no problem with organics—I prefer my food as natural as possible—I’d repeatedly explained that it was the certification process, not the food I was against. My penchant for farmer’s markets and scrounging around my landlord’s garden was proof of my natural food obsession. However, when my friends would see my peppers and onions without that little green and white organic seal, the avalanche of accusations came.
After letting them in that the vegetables grown in my backyard were as organic as it got, I would describe how companies producing organic products had to pay for that holier-than-thou seal. In turn, the farms producing the ingredients for those products also had to pay. Despite the Department of Agriculture determining the standards for organic products, they had nothing to do with declaring the wares organic. This was left to various companies and officials who were paid by the producers looking to gain organic status.
“Wait a second,” they’d say, “the people who want the organic certification have to pay for it themselves?”
Exactly. Doesn’t that seem a little strange? Doesn’t that jeopardize the integrity of the system?
Another example was the Pennsylvanian farmers I dealt with on a weekly basis. These tiny operations didn’t have much money for anything, let alone organic seals. While I can’t be sure that every single one of them would adhere to the “no pesticides, no addictives, no hormones, no bull-shit” signs they would post over their stands, chatting with these people put my mind at ease about their agricultural practices. I’d much rather buy my produce from a local farmer without the seal thirty miles away than from a large, organic certified farm in California.
This isn’t to say that I go organic all the time. I’ve been known to eat an orange in the middle of March, but I do the best when I can. Buying organic isn’t all or nothing, but unless you do your part to be educated about you’re eating, you’re missing the point entirely.
Throughout college I had to defend my badmouthing of certified organic foods and produce:
“But isn’t healthier for you?”
“It tastes better, doesn’t it?”
“They are more expensive but it’s worth it…right?”
My answer was always the same: it depends. While I have no problem with organics—I prefer my food as natural as possible—I’d repeatedly explained that it was the certification process, not the food I was against. My penchant for farmer’s markets and scrounging around my landlord’s garden was proof of my natural food obsession. However, when my friends would see my peppers and onions without that little green and white organic seal, the avalanche of accusations came.
After letting them in that the vegetables grown in my backyard were as organic as it got, I would describe how companies producing organic products had to pay for that holier-than-thou seal. In turn, the farms producing the ingredients for those products also had to pay. Despite the Department of Agriculture determining the standards for organic products, they had nothing to do with declaring the wares organic. This was left to various companies and officials who were paid by the producers looking to gain organic status.
“Wait a second,” they’d say, “the people who want the organic certification have to pay for it themselves?”
Exactly. Doesn’t that seem a little strange? Doesn’t that jeopardize the integrity of the system?
Another example was the Pennsylvanian farmers I dealt with on a weekly basis. These tiny operations didn’t have much money for anything, let alone organic seals. While I can’t be sure that every single one of them would adhere to the “no pesticides, no addictives, no hormones, no bull-shit” signs they would post over their stands, chatting with these people put my mind at ease about their agricultural practices. I’d much rather buy my produce from a local farmer without the seal thirty miles away than from a large, organic certified farm in California.
This isn’t to say that I go organic all the time. I’ve been known to eat an orange in the middle of March, but I do the best when I can. Buying organic isn’t all or nothing, but unless you do your part to be educated about you’re eating, you’re missing the point entirely.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Let's Get Savory
Enough of the sweet stuff! Some brown rice seasoned with onion and chili, sun-dried tomatoes and chopped almonds. Toss a lovely little fried egg on top and cover with Parmesan just to keep it interesting.
Nothing says morning breath like spicy, runny yolks.
Nothing says morning breath like spicy, runny yolks.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Warm It Up
With more than a foot of snow on the ground the last thing I wanted to do was whip up some breakfast before rushing off to the restaurant. My groggy morning mind was trying to persuade me to whip together some of the same old for breakfast, but sheer will power—not to mention lack of bread and peanut butter, my morning staples—prevented me from doing so. Thus, in honor of the winter wonderland outside, I attempted to conjure up a toasty, SE Asian archipelago in my kitchen with some sweet coconut and ginger oatmeal.
P.S. It was delicious, but I still stepped into 12-inch mound of snow once I walked out of the door this morning.
P.S. It was delicious, but I still stepped into 12-inch mound of snow once I walked out of the door this morning.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Breakfast of Champions
Japanese Sencha.
Sometimes you just aren't that hungry in the morning.
Sometimes you just aren't that hungry in the morning....or sometimes you are still hurting from yesterday's hangover. Go figure.
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