"pies are yummy for breakfast"

Pies have been pigeon-holed as a dessert. Sure, there are gems out there that provide savory pie enthusiasts a reason to live (Pies & Pints, in Seattle, is one of them), but for the most part, pies are something we wait patiently for as we move through course after course of the meal. As the capstone moment of meal, they often push my feeling of comfortably full to one of sweet agony.

I can't resist.

But what if we moved pies to the front of the line? One of my favorite parts of Thanksgiving is breakfast the day after, when I'm known to slice of a wedge of pie that is too large for a traditional dessert plate (I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment expressed in this post's title). With a whole night of digestion behind me, my stomach has room to spare.

The Carpenter-Winch family has taken the "day after" tradition one step further: pie for breakfast served for 80. The Boston Globe featured this pie happy family and the breakfast bonanza they bake for each year at their intentional community in Cambridge. The scope of the festivities might be novel, but happily the culinary tradition of cold pie for breakfast is not.

New England was historically full of farming families that were so engaged in clearing ancient forests and removing glacially deposited rocks that ended up as fences that they could have eaten pie morning, noon, and night--and there's documentation to support that they often did. From the vantage point of my cozy dining room and blazing wood stove, my life seems pitifully indulged.

Perhaps I'll dust off the rake and round up stray leaves in my yard today. But first, I think I'll have a slice of pie.

first nation food

Photo of Manuel Kak'wa Kurtness courtesy of
THE CANADIAN PRESS/HO-Albert Elbilia

Thanksgiving snuck up on me this year. It's been a particularly busy fall, and that combined with the fact that I clung to summer and the sunshine longer than I normally do, means that round about last week, it dawned on me that I had no plans for Thanksgiving--let alone a shopping list.

As of this evening, I not only have a plan but a happily full refrigerator, where fresh cranberries take up shop next to heavy whipping cream, sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and of course, "the bird," (which this year given the intimate size of the crowd is really, "the breasts").

But let's take a step back.

Last Thursday in class, my Sudanese students were asking about the origins of Thanksgiving, which is unknown to them. The guest lecturer took them through the now mythic retelling of the starving settlers and the altruistic Native Americans, who took pity on the woefully unprepared Pilgrims and not only shared their recipes and food, but also their cultivation techniques and crop insights. For this kindness they were repaid with near extinction, which provides a useful segue to the star of this post.

Manuel Kak'wa Kurtness, a member of the Innu tribe, is a rising star of the culinary world of our neighbors to the north. The Canadian Press recently ran a profile of Kurtness, whose cookbook entitled, "Pachamama: First Nations Cuisine," documents the original example of eating locally. From fiddlehead ferns to wild salmon, Kurtness believes in bridging the gap that often exists between Native populations and their culinary heritage.

So while this Thanksgiving I'll sit down to recipes that are so deeply familiar to me that they feel a part of my DNA (carrot souffle, cranberry sherbet, and pumpkin pie), I'm going to sign off here with the sincere hope that across the continent, Kurtness sits down to an evening meal of equally meaningful fare.

eco-halal

Halal turkeys, photo courtesy of Culinate

This past September, I hosted a welcome barbecue in honor of ten of my Sudanese colleagues who are spending this fall at the University of Washington. When I'm expecting 30 people for dinner, I have a mental check list that goes something like this:

Do I have enough napkins? Yep.
Is the bathroom clean? Affirmative.
Are the pies baked? Check.

I figure that if the night ends with homemade pie, people go home happy.

This particular dinner I added the following item to my standard list:

Is the halal meat thawed, marinated, and ready to grill? You bet.

For Muslims, my Sudanese colleagues included, the Holy Koran lays out very particular rituals and expectations regarding the preparation and consumption of meat. Halal meat has been prepared with careful adherence to these prescriptions, so in planning for the dinner I'd visited the local halal grocery store and picked up eight pounds of cubed beef. In crossing off my checklist, I made sure the meat was halal, but in terms of asking further questions about the origin of the meat--Was it local? Organic?--I stopped there.

It turns out that food writer and cookbook author Nadia Arumugam is asking those questions, and finding some interesting answers. Arumugam has just published an article on what she's dubbed the "eco-halal revolution" at Culinate. In this article she introduces the reader to Zaid Kurdieh, an upstate New York farmer who believes that as a Muslim farmer producing various halal meats, it is his responsibility to honor the Islamic tradition of tayibb, which can be translated in English to mean "pure." For this reason, Kurdieh is committed to organic and locally-sourced halal meat--and he is not alone.

Arumugam has done her research and it's clear that she loves to scratch the food and identity itch. To follow her posts on True/Slant you can visit her lead-in on Kurdieh here.

century restaurants

Reading the Washington Post article, "Old Favorites: Checking Out Taiwan's 'Century Restaurants," made me nostalgic for the only 30 hours I have ever spent visiting this island nation famous for everything from its street food to the 5-star banquet halls in the most glamorous high-rise hotels. Who hasn't seen "Eat Drink Man Woman" and wanted to pause the film after the opening sequence and order take out?

The year I visited Taiwan was 1993 and I was making my way home to Philadelphia from Mainland China, where I'd been living for over a year. I had a handful of friends from earlier China days who were now studying in Taibei--all of us had been tossed together as college juniors on a study abroad program in Nanjing, China in 1991--and I couldn't cross the Pacific without a pit stop to see my pengyoumen (friends).

At the time Mainland China was in a drowsy state of coming-to after years of a sealed bamboo curtain. Economic development was very much underway, but bicycles still ruled the streets, you could still catch site of bound feet on the most wizened grannies of the neighborhood, and the most exotic thing in Kunming, the city where I'd been based, was a new joint-venture with Dove chocolate that made me particularly happy.

When I landed in Taibei, Taiwan's capital, I felt as if I had entered a perfectly transitional nation for my journey from China to the USA. Taibei was both reassuringly familiar to me from the Chinese perspective (the language on the street was Mandarin, the characters, while traditional "complicated" script, were still legible), but also deeply recognizable to me from the USA perspective--there were 7-Elevens on every corner, for crying out loud! I felt delightfully suspended between two worlds.

My time was limited, and I don't remember any of us sleeping even though my memories mostly take place after dark. I know I learned how to ride a motorcycle that visit, and my first attempt at solo riding I popped a wheelie before leveling off and tearing across the city. My memories are hazy given that this was lo 16 years ago, but honestly, even at the time Taiwan had an addictive haze of incense, steam from street vendor bamboo cookers, and tropical humidity that to this day slows my senses.

I definitely ate well, which is the touchstone to the "Century Restaurants" article. As Taiwan approaches the 100th anniversary of Sun Yat-sen's founding of the Republic of China (1912), establishments that have stood the test of time over generations are particularly in vogue. From zongzi (steamed glutinous rice stuffed with meat and veggies and wrapped in a banana leaf) to danzai (a noodle and broth dish served with garlic and shrimp), many Taiwanese crow that certain culinary traditions that originated in Zhejiang (the eastern coastal province that many Mainlanders fled to Taiwan from, bringing their culinary DNA along) have been better preserved in Taiwan than in China.

"cooking from the heart"

Photo Property of University of Minnesota Press

In Seattle, the Hmong have made a name for themselves as master florists. No matter the farmers market, you'll find booths awash in flowers in fetching arrangements run by this highland South Asian tribe that spans Laos, China, and Thailand. I've had friends that have used Hmong floral arrangements on the day of their wedding ceremony, as is--they are that magnificent. It's not uncommon at Pike Place Market to see tourist and locals alike, arms wrapped around improbably large (and cheap) bouquets.

Their prowess as farmers is legendary, given the inhospitable soil conditions many of them made do with in their mountainous homelands. (To wit: Washington State Extension has programs entirely devoted to supporting local Hmong farmers.) Now and again, Hmong flower vendors will make room to hawk some onions or basil bunches at their colorful stalls, but the key attraction are the blooms.

As a more recent immigrant population to the United States, the Hmong contribution to the culinary landscape in the USA is still emerging. It'll be helped along by the book "Cooking from the Heart: The Hmong Kitchen in America," a joint labor of love by Sheng Yang and Sami Scripter. They've got a blog going so you can track their activities and travels.

The Hmong Lunar New Year is just around the corner on November 7, so traditional dishes like this Beef and String Bean Stir Fry might start making an appearance around Hmong dining room tables. Now if only we can get someone here in Seattle to open the first Hmong restaurant. I've got a great name at the ready: "Hmong Friends." (Cue snare and symbol here.)

the multicultural culinary club

Photo by Casey Gahagan

For years now I've been buying Simple Lifestyle Calendars from the nonprofit ASPI (Appalachia-Science in the Public Interest), located in Mt. Vernon, Kentucky. Like my Mom who turned me on to the calendars, I tend to purchase in double digits and use them as holiday gifts for friends and colleagues. The calendars are a huge source of revenue for this scrappy organization that advocates for sustainable resource management and intentional personal decision-making in a region of the USA that many people dismiss as the home of hillbillies and barefoot pregnant teenagers. There is no question Appalachia has had to fight an image problem.

The calendars live up to their name in terms of of both design and message. Simple black and white photography and layout. Wonderful multicultural recognition of holidays. One friend of mine, years ago, dubbed them "happy noncompetitive calendars," in part because each day of the year they provide some pithy query or recommendation that is always geared toward a more harmonious relationship with the earth ("Consider your buying habits." "Is it time to upgrade your windows?" "Behold the sun!") There's no question--the calendar definitely has a crunch factor, and when the bulk mailer arrives with my stash I expect the bundle to smell faintly of patchouli.

All this is to say, I have been rooting for Appalachia for a long time to shed its mythological image. Therefore, I was delighted to stumble across an article out of Appalachia State on the Multicultural Culinary Club, where students meet regularly to cook international dishes as a group and share meals. It costs a whopping $25 a semester and, according to the article, Russian, Ethiopian, and Latin American cuisines are upcoming featured cuisines. This is not your mother's cooking club.

These App State (Apple should really partner with them, no?) students are nestled in Boone, North Carolina, a small town of 15,000. I'm guessing that take-out Ethiopian isn't an option. In Seattle, I take for granted that, like last night, I can indulge in Sichuanese home style for dinner and then wash it down with an espresso milkshake and European pastries across town. They're bringing the world into their kitchen, and better yet, cooking together. Sign me up.

culinary delights

Photo: "Fish Head and Pumpkins" (2007) by David Halliday

I can't remember exactly when I got hooked on photography, but I took my first official class in high school. It was the classic black and white intro course, taught by a somewhat eccentric teacher who has since gone on to great success as the Process Historian for the Center for Legacy of Photography at the George Eastman House. A far cry from hand-holding a bunch of punks through the joys of 35 mm film! That being said, I feel fortunate to have had him as an early guide.

The days of unrolling black and white film and getting it snugly settled into canisters seems almost quaint to me now, though it doesn't take much to summon up the sinus-clearing smell of chemicals and the calm that I loved about the womb-like darkroom. All that being said, after a short period of skepticism, I'm a digital enthusiast now--even if I cling to my original Sony Cybershot beyond what is reasonable, given that my cell phone now has more megapixels than my first digital camera.

The artist David Halliday takes photos that just boggle my mind. There is no question that his current digital work of food still life compositions plucks at my heart strings and also gets my stomach rumbling. The San Antonia Museum of Art has just launched an exhibit of this work titled, "Culinary Delights."

The pieces in this exhibit challenge you at first glance to place them on a time line--they could be Dutch masters in eggshell tempera. The first photograph of his I saw from the exhibit, "Bread House," appeared in and an article from the San Antonio Express-News. As a former chef, Halliday brings a special appreciation to these compositions. I find the scatter shot nature of the piece above to be both a representation of the chaos that can be a chef's kitchen, but also the inherent beauty of everyday things. (Fish heads?! Who knew.)