antarctic menus

This month I had the chance to hear Jason C. Anthony read from his sparkling new book, Hoosh: Roast Penguin, Scurvy Day, and Other Stories of Arctic Cuisine. Anthony has taken a land renown for its inhospitable climate (read: nonexistent "growing season") and stitched together tales of meals consumed across generations in this outpost of adventurers, scientists, and eccentrics.

I arrived to the reading under the erroneous impression that hoosh referred to the sound a vac-pac made when opened--which also illuminates my own preconceptions of what one eats in Antarctica. I was soon schooled that hoosh is something far more provocative than bland military rations: it is a staple of early Arctic explorers that consisted of dried meat, fat, and a grain of some kind or crushed biscuit.

While hoosh is not what I would choose to order for brunch, if it was keeping me alive I'd dig in. Very often, it was the only thing that prevented explorers from perishing. Many did. You can be sure those that did not had hoosh to thank in part.

As someone who has spent significant periods of time working in Antarctica, Anthony is able to bridge its history of meals up to present day. There are marvelous passages set in more contemporary times that outline menus, the value of "freshies," and the story of one enterprising man who had pizzas delivered on an airlift from New Zealand. Each pie was worth its weight in gold.

Out of the Arctic isolation comes a renewed appreciation for the variation we so often take for granted at our kitchen tables.

rome rituals

Photo by A.V. Crofts

I realized yesterday that I have been back in Seattle six weeks, which is the same amount of time I had spent a Roma. Certain moments of my time in Italy remain sharply in focus: an overnight in Tuscany with snow dusted hills, the bells chiming outside my apartment window, my love affair with a six-speed, and the verve of my students and colleagues.

I miss it all.

But I also miss the rituals around food and drink. Morning cappuccinos taken standing at a marble bar, cheek by jowl. The best pizza I have ever eaten in my life in Naples. Gelato by the gallon.

Before traveling to Rome, I was not a habitual coffee drinker. Within a week of my arrival, I was an addict. More than that, I was a discerning addict.  I hit the jackpot when my colleague introduced me to Bar del Cappuccino, where the drinks are sold by the mother, shots are pulled by the father (in a bow tie no less) and then served by the son. My regular spot became my gold standard.

My second day back in Seattle, I walked a block to my local coffeehouse, Lighthouse Roasters. These baristas know what they are doing. Trust me. I ordered a cappuccino and drank it at their seated bar, trying to replicate my Rome ritual.

Impossible.

So I gratefully returned to my morning tea habit, but with a twist: I drink it from a mug I bought myself the last day I was in Rome. Pictured above, its cityscape design acts like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk for me. I wrap my hand around the mug and dive back into Roma.

I know that when the time comes again for me to walk the streets of Rome, the city will be waiting for me, whispering:

Welcome home.

pasta nirvana

Lunchtime at Da Enzo's
Photo by A.V. Crofts

There will be no hyperlinks in this post.

This update is about a restaurant that has no website, no menus, and no sign hanging outside their entrance. You either know it exists and where to find it, or you do not.

Luckily, I now fall into the former category.

For nine years, my friend Arielle has been singing me the praises of Napoli. It's a magic city, she assured me, don't let Naples be defined for you by the stereotypes of mafia and mountains of garbage thanks to sanitation worker strikes.

So I took her advice to heart. I advocated hard that we travel there with our students. The UW Rome Center, though initially skeptical, came along. A scouting trip was in order, so this past Friday and Saturday, my colleague and I crisscrossed the city, eating our way through Naples.

Yes, we had sfogliatelle, the delicate pastry that crumbles in your mouth. Yes, we sipped un caffe of seriously high-octane goodness at Cafe Mexico with the statue of Dante looking down on us from the piazza that bears his name. Yes, we sipped falanghina white wine. Yes, we indulged in a pizza margherita from the hallowed pizza haunt "Gina Sobrillo."

But the meal we'll never forget was at Da Enzo's. Arielle's favorite pasta in Naples.

Da Enzo's is a mom and pop operation tucked away on a cobblestone side street. We had only a few instructions to go on: the neighborhood, its location relative to an ospedale and a mercatino, and the fact that you entered the restaurant via a storage room. We had no street name, no phone number, and no question in our minds we were going to find this place. I love a challenge.

And find it we did.

This place feeds the neighborhood. Tables are set with blue and white paper tablecloths and the menu, recited in person when you sit down, consists of four pasta dishes, two vegetable side dishes, water, and house wine. A basket of fresh bread is also provided. The kitchen is the size of a closet.

My spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clams) was the best I've ever tasted. Each dainty clam was the size of a locket necklace, split open as if clapping for me as I twirled the pasta on to my fork. Napoli peppers gave the dish some heat and the butter garlic sauce disappeared thanks to the chewy and wonderfully salty bread--perfect for sopping up the sauce. My colleague got the ultimate comfort dish photographed above: cannelli beans and tomatoes with macaroni noodles.

The space was filled with regulars. Orders were shouted in lively and congenial fashion as patrons entered the dining room. An enormous octopus sat on the kitchen counter, as if taking a nap.

I slurped my last spaghetti noodle, patted my chin with a paper napkin, and marveled at the wonder of it all.

the rules of romance

Photo by A.V. Crofts

Twenty-two years ago this month, I landed in China as a wide-eyed college junior. The country fed me full in ways I'd never experienced before. Today, I get to watch my students be fed by la bella Italia. 

A few things I have learned since arriving a Roma:

1. It is possible to balance a cone of gelato in one hand, while using the other hand to unzip your wallet and fish out money to pay.
2. Size matters, but it's not bigger is better. Good things come in small packages: espresso, torte, and twizy cars. 
3. Turn the wine pairing over to the house. You will not be disappointed.
4. If you see a bakery, it's a perfect time to stop. Perche no?
5. Paprika flavored Pringles are addictive.
6. If you get an impromptu invitation by a donna into her kitchen to watch her make pasta, by all means do.
7. Every dinner should start with Prosecco.
8. A single soft boiled Italian egg can make the perfect meal. 

I'm a modern day Marco Polo, bridging Asia to Europe and always ready for my next meal.

a good risotto

Photo by A.V. Crofts

It's not often that I have one-way conversations with the Sunday New York Times. But on October 28th, I couldn't help it.

I was provoked--in the best way--by op-ed contributor and essayist William Deresiewicz, who published a piece skewering the foodie culture that likely suffocates him in his adopted hometown of Portland, OR.

Like Deresiewicz, I'm no fan of foodies. I may live to eat, but the more modern trappings of elitism that surround everything from the locavore movement to pop-up restaurants don't thrill me. And while I agree with Deresiewicz that food alone is not art, when he wrote that food is not "narrative or representational" I had to respectfully disagree. He continued:

"A good risotto is a fine thing, but it isn't going to give you insight into other people, allow you to see the world in a new way, or force you to take an inventory of your soul."

Well no, not if you eat it in a vacuum. But what if you eat it in Rome, at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, your first time away from home?

I leave in two days for seven weeks in Italy, traveling with 21 students and a colleague to the University of Washington Rome Center. Most of us have never set foot in Rome. It promises to be life-changing, if we let it be.

While a bowl of risotto is not a story on its own, add a chef to the mix, and it can become one. In the same way that a violin on its own is not music until a musician lifts a bow across its strings, nor is a canvas in isolation, art.

super PIEs instead of super PACs

Photo by A.V. Crofts

One month ago, a friend and I threw two political fundraisers for hundreds of people. We called them "Super PIEs not Super PACs" and showcased the exquisite pie talents of poet and pie maker Kate Lebo, of Pie School fame.

We raised FIFTY-EIGHT times what the fundraiser cost us to produce. We raised tens of thousands of dollars. As I've written in earlier posts, pie is currency.

And if you have the equivalent of Kate's pies in your bank account, you've got the strongest currency out there.

One week ago, I wrote this on my Facebook timeline:

I have never had an abortion.
But I voted to protect my right to have that choice.

I have never been married in the eyes of either state I call home: Washington and Maine.
But I voted to gain that right.

I have never felt pressure to hide my religious beliefs.
But I voted to preserve the separation of church and state.

I have never known what it feels like to be a man.

But I voted to make sure I earn as much as one.

I have never chosen to have children.

But I voted for a world in which I would want to raise one.

Pie for all and all for pie.

chocoween

Photo by A.V. Crofts

I couldn't wait to bike home tonight.

I look forward to Halloween for weeks. I love throwing open my front door when I hear a knock to a chorus of "Trick or treat!" Kids of all sizes on a mission.  Eyes dancing.

Chocolate. 
Gimme chocolate.

Who can blame them? As I type, a piece of a single-source Madagascar bar from San Francisco's Dandelion Chocolate is melting on my tongue.

Much as I love a dark chocolate bar, I'm not handing them out to the vampires, mad scientists, and ballerinas. I present these costumed creatures an enormous bowl of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, Nestle Crunches, and Kit Kats.

Some of their hands hover over the bounty, carefully considering.
Some know exactly which one they want and pounce.

A month ago, I was at the Northwest Chocolate Festival, surrounded by some of the finest chocolate and chocolatiers in the land.  Many of the bars on offer are small batch, poured and wrapped by hand. I took notes and then visited Seattle's Chocolopolis to stock up. Along with the bar I'm enjoying tonight, I picked up an Ecuadorian raw bar by Pacari that leaves me speechless.


But Halloween calls for the tastes and brands of my childhood. We'd walk for miles, our candy bags getting heavier by the house.

Snickers were my favorite. Here's hoping I have a few left over.

Another knock at the door!