Against the Grain: Wheatberries

I didn’t realize what I was signing up for when I picked up some wheatberries. But something about the smugness of the grain vendor at the Temescal Farmer’s Market should have tipped me off. Maybe he was bitter because his stand wasn’t as popular as Prather Ranch or Happy Boy farms, or maybe he was bitter because he had to explain his pricing over and over to each potential customer, or maybe, just maybe he was bitter because he subsists on a diet of whole grains, wheatberries being one of them.

Nevertheless, I took a 2 lb bag to add to my fun purchases (goat feta! Donut peaches! Pluots!) and brought them back home. I put them in the pantry, half-convinced that’s where they were going to stay until I move someday.

But once Sunday dinner decision-time came along and I found myself considering pasta, I knew I’d have to face my own challenge. One new grain a week. So I got to prepping.

Sources conflicted one another on simple prep. Some said they needed a 24 hour soak, some said boil for an hour, my mom said even that was too long. So I decided to follow Alice Water’s advice, and put them in to simmer, then check on them every 20.
About 50 minutes later, the hard berries had softened into something toothy yet palatable. Nutty, earthy and brown. And bland as fuck.


So I turned to my instincts. Started sautéing some onion and garlic in olive oil. Salted, but then saw it would end up not looking too interesting. Threw in some zucchini for color and summery flavor, and then tossed it all together. Not bad looking. But still looking discouragingly like health food.

The goat feta! Genius. Something to brighten it up a bit and adding another element. And it worked. The supple give of the zucchini balanced the starchy berries, the tang of the cheese matched their earthiness. It all worked well. I even brought some the next day for work.


But still, even after using up a full 2-3 cups of cooked wheatberries, I still had a cup or two to deal with. There they were, cold and unfeeling in my fridge. Guilt fuel. They were cooked and waiting and destined to be Tuesday lunch. But what to do with them cold? My CSA had saddled me with a whole lot of green beans, so I got to steaming some of those, put together a simple dressing of lemon juice and olive oil, and crumbled some more goat cheese for flavor. Because god knows, these little guys would need flavor.

Come lunchtime, with tempting offers of walks to the deli for Tuna Melts or Chicken Sandwiches, I stood firm and mixed up my lunch. Berries and beans met dressing and cheese.

I’m no stranger to failure, and while I wouldn’t call what I threw together an out-and-out disaster, it wouldn’t be something I would make again. It tasted just like what I feared whole grains would taste like- healthy. Good-for-you. And not in a fun way. Like, I’m on a low-sodium diet, I need to eat this food or they’re going to start amputating limbs kind of way. Gary would love it.



I’m not totally giving up on wheatberries. I think the next batch might find their way into baked goods, once I’m ready to venture there. But for right now, I’m glad to move on to another grain. Next up? Quinoa.

Against the Grain

I’ll admit it. I have a prejudice against whole grains. They smack of self-righteousness, of nutritional snobbery. I feel like they belong in the pantries of the worst kind of vegans, of yogis. Those who are militant about their lifestyle to the point that anything less than a raw diet and a strict regimen of daily sun salutations are meant to be scorned or scoffed. Even pitied.

Anyone who knows my family can easily see where these issues came from, because all of us, at some point or another have had our dinner orders or food choices openly criticized by my step-father, Gary. He has his reasons, and I know he means well, but growing up, if you weren’t eating right (i.e. his diet only) you were actively killing yourself. Time and time again, my mom and I would bring in the groceries, and anything that wasn’t whole-wheat pasta, bananas or raw nuts, (aka GaryFood), he would judge. He had this habit of pulling his glasses down to the edge of his nose, so he was literally looking down his nose at your food. Once assessing the nutrition information, the good/bad fat ratio and the overall health benefit/detriments he would either shake his head in disgust and put it back on the counter or shrug in approval, open up said box/bag and take a handful of whatever was inside, then probably finish it all before you get a chance to try it.

It was easy to guess what he would approve and disapprove of. If it was cooked at A Votre Sante(the aggressively bland health food restaurant), sourced from Mrs. Gooch’s (the aggressively brown health food store) or recently written up in Nutrition Action as a ‘super food,’ it was good. If it was anything palatable by your average child/teenager, it was probably bad.

And whole grains were the best. And the worst. They were the marker of a good diet vs. a suicidal one. And I wanted nothing to do with them. Brown bits with names that sounded more like a German burg than a foodstuff. Bulger. Kasha. Millet. Mix them with steamed vegetables and a squirt of lemon juice and you’ve got yourself a bowl of nutritional triumph. And sadness.

I live a pretty damn healthy lifestyle now. The CSA keeps me stocked with lots of produce, my meat intake is moderate and I don’t eat processed food. Still, every time I sit down to a bowl of pasta or opt for white rice over brown, I can see Gary shaking his head at me, mumbling “empty calories,” under his breath

So in an effort to shift my diet a little bit, I’m taking on the brown beasts. I’ve stocked up on wheatberries, added quinoa to the larder and am considering taking the bulger plunge. It’s going to be one new grain a week, and I’ll update best I can. First up: wheatberries.

The Law of Diminishing Returns

For no reason that’s ever been made clear to me, we have to do timesheets in my line of work. I’m not sure what good these loosely fact-based forms serve, as I’m not clocking in and out, I don’t know precisely which client should cover my facebook and google reader time, and though I make sure each day has at least eight hours noted, I know that I’ve put in my fair share of 12-hour days (as well as those 6-hour days).
I hadn’t done my timesheets since January, and HR was getting more than a little antsy. Hell, I was even starting to avoid making contact with her in meetings, for fear of reproach. Well, finally met with some downtime, I did my timesheets the best way I know how- by looking through my sent email to see what work I really did those days.
And in addition to meeting requests and important creative calls, there was another theme that ran rampant through my emails, “There’s something in the kitchen for you.”
Scones. Fresh bread & butter. Bacon cookies. Lemon cake. Carrot cake. Orange cake. Zucchini bread.
I enjoy bringing in the baked goods, it’s easy and fun. I like spending the Sundays or early mornings in the kitchen, incorporating the wet and dry ingredients, packing the finished goods in my bag, which, if I bring it out of the oven right before I leave the apartment, keeps me cozy warm on my ride up the Embarcadero.
There’s a trend I’ve noticed with the office foods though. I drop it off in the kitchen, slice a few modest pieces to get the whole thing started, and leave a note on the counter or via email, and then it begins.
The law of diminishing returns.

The law of diminishing returns is different than the one you might know. This is simply that every time I’ll return to the office kitchen, the baked good in question will have diminished significantly. First by modest slices, enough to with a cup of coffee.

Than with seemingly more substantial pieces, as this was taken not long after the previous.


But then the edges are sheared off, the slicing becomes more free-form, more angular. Where, instead of committing to a whole slice, the baked-good fiend wants just another taste, a snack. Depending on how many people are in the office, or if there are competing baked goods (this particular day, there were also brownie’s on the counter), this loaf-shaving can last well into the afternoon.

I’m not sure why it takes so long to polish off that final bite. To leave a crumbed plate on the counter, evidence of the zucchini bread gone by, the day coming to an end. It could be motivated by a gluttunous shame, or some modicum of politeness. But, more likely than any of that, no one wants to be the one to put the dish in the dishwasher.

Cereal Serial. Part One.

About once a year, overwhelmed with either work or life or just the pressure of having to get outside on a really nice day, I say “fuck it,” and spend the day resolutely planted on my couch with nothing to get done except stare down the shows I’ve racked up in my DVR and eat some cold cereal. I realize for most people, this is just called “Saturday morning,” but of late, I tend to spend my Saturday mornings elbowing my way for the last spinning pass at the gym or prepping a shaved fennel salad to take to the park. So succumbing to the couch, to not do a thing except change the channel and change the milk is something of a vacation.

I took last Friday off to do just that. I got up at a late hour (for me), and headed somewhere I hardly ever go for food. Safeway. It’s an interesting crowd at 8:00 in the morning. There are administrative assistants picking up their packaged lunches for the day, unabashed drunks picking up their daily dose of NightTrain, the elderly and me. My order consisted of both (both!) variety packs from the two leading breakfast cereal manufacturers and because I’m at once sustainable-forward and lactose intolerant, a carton of lactose-free, organic milk. Hello, day.

8:58 Last night’s daily show. Honey nut cheerios
Wanted to start with something hearty, but ease into the sweet. Even growing up, HNC was too much sugar to have in my house. It was one they had down the street at the Ebins place. In fact, the entire house smelled like cheerios, which always felt more dirty than comforting.

9:15 Lucky Charms. Mythbusters Demolition Derby Special.
This is a cereal I always ate dry, because the marshmallows were like candy. Because they are candy. I had a little trepidation going in, not sure if I could handle it. I literally said “fuck it” out loud in my kitchen. If a 7 year-old can eat it, so could I.

Not a good idea. It turned the milk blue and gave me a jittery sugar rush so severe, I was almost put off the rest of the boxes. I think I might turn to the healthy side of the Kellogs Variety Pack next.


10:09 Raisin Bran. The Price is Right
After my insulin levels had returned to normal, I decided to go to the far other end of the spectrum. Raisin Bran always comes with a sense of urgency: consume the flakes before they disintegrate into a fibrous glop reminiscent of Portland’s gutters after the first fall rain (I used to call it street cereal). On top of that, you’ve got to get to the raisins before they lose their only redeeming element, the sugar coating, to the milk. It’s a lot of stress for a little box of cereal.

(Possibly still under the mania-inducing influence of the Lucky Charms or simply inspired, I began to consider The Price is Right on a much deeper analytical level than I ever have. My study on the literal vs. ironic experience of the show will follow soon.)

10:55 Crispex. More Price is Right
Can’t handle any more milk for awhile. I’m going dry on this, snacky style. I like breaking apart the corn part and the rice part and eating them in two sections. The rice part is more fun, kinda like a rice crispy matrix. I don’t think this lady is going to win this brand new Honda Accord. Nope. She didn’t.

Damn it, they’re giving away a nice range.

11:30. Gym break.
1:00 Real food break. You know. Protein and vegetables.

1:43. Cocoa Puffs. Conclusion of Mythbusters premiere
After gym and real food, it was back to the couch. Was ready to go back to sweet, and something chocolately. Not chocolate, mind you. Chocolate with a very caveating suffix. Chocolateish. It smells weird, but it tastes good. It’s loud as fuck, but good thing Mythbusters is more show than tell. Big explosions + leftover chocolate milk = good times.

2:30 Cinnamon Toast Crunch. GhostHunters
Uh-oh. This day is catching up with me. I’m not feeling so great. Maybe it was lunch, maybe it was the strong coffee I’ve been making, maybe it’s the fact that I can’t help checking my work email, but I think I might have to take a break from the couch and the cereal. The thing is, I knew going into it I’d have many more little boxes of sugared joy than I’d be able to get through in one day. Good thing they’re impossibly shelf-stable, and now I have a supply for my next TV/cold cereal indulgences. I’mna go outside.

ok, ok

I know. It's been about 20 years since I've had the chance to write anything, but rest assured, I haven't been giving in to the take-out menus or trader joe's frozen pizza inclinations. Much.

Actually, I've been on something of a self-imposed Pantry Challenge. Really trying to dig deep into the dry goods and see what comes out. Fresh produce still makes its way to me via the CSA and impulsive Prather Ranch buys have kept the freezer stocked with protein. That, and cured meats that go a long way.

Take a new favorite, with only three ingredients. Penne, leeks and prosciutto. Insanely simple and light and just feels all kinds of springy.


Beyond leeks, I've fallen for fennel. One night I broke out the mandoline in hopes an artfully shaved fennel salad, but the bulb was reduced to a hash. I had a small sirloin tip searing (and setting off the fire alarm), and sauteed the hash in a simple pan sauce.

Once I figured out the secret of the mandoline (multiple blades!), the second bulb got a close shave, was paired with some asiago and dressed with lemon and olive oil.

I really like this fennel two ways, and it's become something of a staple.

The pantry is just about clear, save for some udon I've had since Portland, a bag of odd-shaped artichoke pasta that might become a salad and a few tins of fish that will probably be opened in case of the Big One. For me, it seems, earthquake preparedness means smoked oysters. Not too bad.

A eulogy for bacon

Tomorrow, BaconCamp comes to San Francisco. It's a celebration of all things delectably porcine. In addition to making the bacon cookies, I'll be reading the following essay. Enjoy.

--

My mother writes eulogies. Not as a profession, not for a newspaper, but instead, she writes them to relax. I think she’s summarized the lives of her mother, my step-father, a handful of best friends, close colleagues but not my brother and I, you know, because that would be weird.

It’s a nice exercise though. To try and sum up what someone means to you, what effect they’ve had on your life. To take a look at how your life wouldn’t be the way it is without them.

So, I thought I’d take a cue from my mom and write a eulogy for bacon.

I can’t exactly recall the first time I met bacon, but I’m pretty sure it was at my dad’s house, where the bacon press was displayed, without irony, next to the Seder plate I’d made in pre-school. Bacon was always there on special Sunday mornings, alongside cheese omelets and bagels. I’d put together my breakfast, my dad would go work on his crossword puzzles and I, inexplicably, would go and watch Golden Girls reruns. I’d sit there, watching the inspired antics of four geriatrics in Miami, not sure which I savored more: the savory bites of still-warm bacon or the salty snap of Bea Arthur’s bon mots.

Those mornings with bacon, and the girls, were a regular source of comfort, of sustenance. But as time passed, as I grew up, I turned to bacon for more than just a standard breakfast meat.

Through my life, I’ve found bacon has been there for me in times of need, like last year, when I was confounded with a bunch of collard greens from my CSA. Without being acutely aware of what I was doing, I started by laying a few pieces of bacon in a cold pan, and by the time the bacon was crisped, the shallots cooked in the rendered fat and the greens slow-wilted over all of it, I had created something even greater than the sum of its parts. A friend of mine accused me of not trying hard enough, that starting a dish with bacon is cheating. Well, if that’s the case, I’m not inclined to play fair.

It’s been so central to me, both as an ingredient and an inspiration, that now, asking for a “side” of bacon seems trivializing. After all bacon has done, from making any dish delectable to making serious inroads to conquer the tyranny of vegetarianism, putting bacon “on the side” is practically insulting. This is a humble meat that crumbled the "bacon is for breakfast” stereotype as it slowly made itself perfectly acceptable with any meal of the day. What will become of the BLT, the carbonara, the bacon-wrapped passed appetizer?

We can still learn from bacon, how it started from ordinary beginnings and ended up being a veritable icon. To do it all without being showy or ostentatious. Because bacon, in all its delectability, never required an excuse. Unlike other indulgences where you might justify your consumption with, “I’ve been good,” or “I’ll start my diet tomorrow, “ bacon never asked to be defended because bacon, in and of itself, was the excuse, was the reason. Why am I going to eat that? Because it’s bacon.

Wednesday Sweets

A moderately slow day at work compounded by total boredom with the pithy sugar offerings around the office meant just one thing: let’s see what’s in the Walgreen’s candy aisle!

There’s always something new in the candy aisle. That’s what makes it so fun. Well, that and all the candy! I love checking out the newest incarnation of a snicker’s bar, or the latest take on Take 5. It’s new, it’s old, it’s all going to give me diabetes.

I found something both old and new. Behold the Necco Old-Fashioned Cream Drop. There was a lot appealing here. Necco is the oldest candy company in America, with its “only nostalgia could keep me alive” Necco wafer. The multi-colored throwback disc that supposedly boasts flavors from orange to clove to wintergreen, but really only tastes like stale. But wafers aside, I appreciate things old-timey, and this bag had Old-Fashioned actually written on the package (which makes me wonder, has the candy been called “Old-fashioned” since their inception? During what era were they the
result of some confectionary epiphany? I bet Marc Summers could tell me).

Right, so, Old-Fashioned Cream Drop. No clue as to what this was going to taste like. I assumed there might be some orange essence, as I’m inclined to judge a candy by its package, but nothing in the ingredients could confirm that. Just sugar on sugar. Noted.

They’re about the size of a small walnut. Here’s a pic with a miniature penguin, you know, for scale.


Taking the bisected view, it’s a little Haystack Rock-reminiscent, The contemplative frog agrees.


And how does it taste? I can’t really tell you. I took one bite, and though it seemed reminiscent of something, I was hesitant to investigate further because I was getting word from my pancreas that there wasn’t enough insulin in the greater San Francisco area to counteract another bite. Holy Sugar.

I’ve now left the bag for my co-workers to enjoy. I hope HR doesn’t come track me down for sending everyone off the rails.

(edit: after some reflective time, I remember what the damn things remind me of. Easter candy. Not peeps or jelly beans, but the other candy that was opaque and molded into soft shapes of bunnies and chicks and tulips. The assumedly cheap stuff that was there to fill up the basket. The stuff you wouldn’t actually eat unless you were a candy-deprived child who relished each morsel of sugar-centric holidays in the hopes that the candy could actually be there year-round. Um, thank god that wasn’t me?)