AC Denial: Fried Green Tomatoes

My first year out of college, I shared a one bedroom on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. She had the only bedroom (and paid $850), while I had a portion of the living room ($700) that was split from the rest by a half wall. That extra $150 let me buy at least 2 pairs of shoes, and therefore made all the difference.

Toward the end of spring, we had an air conditioner conversation. I didn't have the extra cash, while she purchased the mac daddy of all air conditioners for $200, and put it in her bedroom (door closed to seal in the coolness). I'm not sure that the issue was money; I just liked the romantic notion of hot-child-in-the-city, nineties style.

Then I moved to San Francisco where no one has AC.

Then on my own again in Brooklyn Heights, first floor apartment (read: it stays naturally cool.) I went AC-less once again. I dated a rich man who simply refused to stay at my apartment unless I dealt, which I didn’t. But the idle rich have days to themselves and so he bought me a stand alone unit. It was impressive, took up way too much space, and kept him happy. I gave it to my cousin as a housewarming hand-me-down when she moved into her own place.

Now I’m deeper into Brooklyn, on the top floor of a four-story building. It has all the heating benefits of an uninsulated attic. I’ve purchased a small unit for the bedroom (only $109) that kind of works. The main room, the room I cook in, write in, and work in all day, goes without air management.

My dog looks at me, in her floor-length fur, with desperation. I have bandana-d an ice cube to her forehead, and she puts up with it because she’s a rescue mutt and she’ll put up with just about anything. Look, she can always go to the bedroom, but the loyal thing would just rather be around a person.

So you may be wondering, why? This woman, willing to spend a few hundred dollars to take a friend out to dinner, why won’t she spring a coupla bucks on a unit? Including electricity costs, assuming a devilishly caliente summer, the most she’ll spend is $700. What’s the problemo?

You see, I’m a fourth generation New Yorker. My great grandparents arrived in the early 1900s, Grandma in the belly. My grandparents lived blocks apart from each other, grew up, met, were married, and raised a family on 4th Street between C & D. I grew up softer, suburban. Then back to the city, and back to Brooklyn, identifying with a life that had little to do with reality, but everything to do with self-perception.

Did my grandparents have air conditioning? Nope. Did their parents? Pshaw. Were they living in the same ghettos that I now inhabit (albeit in a gentrified sort of way)? Yes indeed.

Air conditioning is more than a convenience – it is a state of mind. It’s an epidemic threatening to ruin people’s toughness. When it’s hot, my rellies rolled out to the Berkshires, or they had ices on the corner. Or they sat on their fire escapes. Air conditioning fakes your body into denying reality. My body has been known to perceive better than my mind, so tricking it of no use to me.

The AC types have hot chili in the summer. They throw open their windows in the winter (and sometimes even run the AC year round), because their heater has them thinking it’s hot. I’d rather be slightly uncomfortable some of the time than deluded any of the time.

When life gives me summer, I sweat. Lemons, c’est lemonade. And smart southerners, for years before me, have found a way to make something palatable out of underripe fruit. I’m not here to monkey with reality, I’m just trying to make the most of it.


Fried Green Tomatoes with Salsa Fresca
Serves 4; makes 1 1/2 cups salsa

1 1/2 pounds green (unripe) tomatoes (about 3 medium)
2 cups buttermilk
1 cup coarse cornmeal
1 tablespoon coarse salt, plus additional for seasoning
1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne
Neutral oil for shallow frying (enough to come 1/4-inch up the side of the skillet)

For Salsa:
1 cup grape tomatoes, quartered
2/3 cup fresh corn kernels (1 ear corn)
1 tablespoon finely chopped jalapeno (about 1/2 jalapeno)
Kosher salt
1 tablespoon lime juice (about 1/2 lime)
2 tablespoons finely chopped red onion (about 1/4 small red onion)


1. Bring a pot of water to a boil, and prepare a bowl of ice water. Cut an “x” in the bottom of each tomato. Put tomato in hot water and cook for about 15 – 30 seconds, or until skin begins to loosen. Immediately dunk in cold water; skins should easily slip off. Slice tomatoes 1/2-inch thick crosswise.

2. Place tomatoes in a bowl, cover with buttermilk. Let sit at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, prepare salsa: In a medium bowl, combine tomatoes, corn, jalapeno, lime juice and red onion. Season well with salt and don’t eat too much – it’s for serving with the tomatoes.

4. In a shallow bowl or pie plate, combine cornmeal, salt and cayenne and whisk to combine. Heat oil in a skillet over medium heat.

5. Remove tomatoes, one at a time, from the buttermilk. Let milk drip off, and coat with cornmeal. Gently place in the skillet and fry until golden brown, about 2 to 3 minutes per side. Remove to a paper-towel lined plate. Serve warm.

Taste Test! Chocolate Mousse

I'm still smarting a bit over my palate's inability to pick up the subtle "corked" notes from Shafer. The more time that goes by, the less convinced I am that it was corked.

Which is why I welcomed the opportunity to take part in a tasting last Sunday. My dear friend Tamar, a food writer par excellence, had a group of food industry types (read: those who work in food but not restaurants: food writers, teachers, editors) over to have brunch, and evaluate orange juices.

I prepared by heading straight for the Upper West Side brunch buffet: Barney Greengrass sable, smoked salmon, bagels, whitefish and cream cheese. Tamar insisted that I wait until after the tasting to eat, I insisted on palate cleansing.

From the time I was old enough to take fluids from a cup until I went to college, I was confronted with orange juice every morning. But why? When I lived in France, we didn't insist on insipid, off-tasting juices every morning. In Mexico, the juices are always freshly squeezed (watermelon being my favorite). Why here, in this country, must we have this tradition bordering on requirement? Do you know that orange juice is second only to cola as the top grocery store beverage purchase? Why?

I have never, and still do not understand the purpose of that daily cup, other than to satisfy some sort of made-in-Florida statriotism. And ever since W's first win, I'm less inclined to support anything coming from that proud Peninsula .

So I'm not a fan of the nectar.

Tamar presented each of us with nine Dixie cups of orangeness. I was to rate them 1 to 5, and determine which was concentrate and which was freshly squeezed. The first few tasted sour (and trust me, I was really helping them along with embarrassing amounts of Greengrass). After tasting #4, my body filled with some sort of an emotional deja vu: I was late for hebrew school, I was studying my multiplications tables, it was half-time at the soccer game. I was back in time, growing up suburban: it must be concentrate! I marked it on my comment sheet.

More sour, more bitter, more flavors that didn't resemble citrus. And then, the blessed cup #8. I looked at Tamar, put down my cup with Norma Desmond-style theatrics, and declared, "This is the only one worth drinking." We're both hyperbolic types, and I was shooting the moon. She smirked, confirming my conviction.

With a renewed sense of faith in my palate, I returned home to develop recipes for my students. One requested a chocolate mousse, and I had yet to make The Wooden Spoon's official recipe. And so I set to task...

But when pouring the cream, it refused to pour. Huh? I had just purchased it from the most deluxe Key Food of all times (5th Ave., Park Slope). I smelled, not bad. I tasted -- it had this bitter, almost metallic edge to the finish. Egads! It was one week past the use-by date. This is certainly not what I'm spending 50 calories per tablespoon on.

But then I rationalized: did I really need to be home alone with 6 1/2-cup portions of perfect chocolate mousse? I decided to go ahead and develop with the stuff. The structure of the mousse would be the same, and for the purposes of tasting, my palate could adjust for the funk and determine moussey goodness. I wouldn't be serving it, and in this case, I'd rather have a slightly tainted version.

Ah, the mysteries of a woman's selective palate. Happy to drink mediocre wine, only fresh orange juice, but never sub-par chocolate. And we think men are tough to understand.


Chocolate Mousse
Makes 6 (1/2-cup) servings

1 cup (6 ounces) bittersweet chocolate chips
4 large eggs, separated
Pinch salt
3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. In a microwave, or over a double boiler, melt chocolate. Stir in egg yolks, one at a time, after chocolate has cooled a bit.
2. In a standing mixer, or using beaters, beat the egg whites until foamy; add 1 tablespoon sugar and a pinch of salt and continue beating until it forms soft peaks. Reserve; in a separate bowl, beat heavy cream with vanilla and remaining sugar until medium peaks form.
3. Take about 1/4 of the cream and “lighten” the chocolate with it. Dollop it in, and squiggle your whisk around until incorporated. Fold in another quarter of the whipped cream, and another, reserving the final 1/4 for topping. Fold in beaten egg whites 1/3 at a time.
4. Chill mousse before serving, in one container or in separate ramekins. Dollop with remaining cream and serve.

Mourning Shafer: Red Wine You Can Take With You.

Through a series of unusual events which I'll simply refer to as the Internet Nineties, I came to own a single thousand-dollar bottle of wine.

This wine competed only with my couch for "most expensive possession", as I'm not one for pricey self-indulgences. Too cheap to afford proper storage, I let him sit on my shelf. Too cheap to afford air conditioning, I exposed the boite to a range of temperatures, from the low 60's to the 100s.

A bit more on the liquid: He was a double magnum of Shafer Hillside Select '93 Cabernet, signed by the wine maker.

Though we both inhabited the same home for seven years, Shafer kept to himself. I'd look at him from across the room, pet him lovingly, and dust him occasionally; always trying to make sure he was comforable. I'd plan when I could introduce him to my friends, trying to find a time when he'd be comfortable and at his best. In these plans, I was extremely careful about who I would get to meet him -- a group who didn't appreciate his quirky beauty would be a waste of time, and of Shafe.

Last weekend, when moving to Park Slope, Shafe finally spoke to me. I was wrapping him in bubbles to ensure a safe passage, and tapped his cork keppe with my finger. It was moist, and blood red. I look down and saw that my finger was stained.

I called my neighborhood restaurant, and explained the situation to Perky the owner, who asked that I bring Shafer in immediately for a diagnosis. I walked the (very heavy) bottle to the restaurant, swaddled in side towels, and nestled in my bosom. Perky grabbed the bottle as I entered, unable to contain his disgust for my neglect.

Perk removed his prized screw from pants pocket and inserted it assertively. Shafer yielded, leaving cork crumbs on the bar. Patrons gasped. All eyes were on Shafer, and the stories came out. Of the '49 Lafites in far worse shape, tasting better than sex. Of the "far more expensive bottles" tasting like swill. One particular patron started to question me, "When did you get it?" "How much did it cost?" "How long had you had it?" "Why didn't you take better care of it?" I finally asked her to please, woman, show a bit of respect, hoping to put an end to her ill-timed banter.

Fifteen minutes after opening, Perk poured Shafe into delicate bordeaux glasses. He swirled, he sniffed, he consumed. He pronounced it dead on arrival.

I wasn't so sure. You see, the nose was wonderful...deep and rich and I'll spare you the rest of the wine talk. But once he was in my mouth, he tasted like, well, like a lot of what I'd been drinking for the last 13 years: cheap red wine.

Maybe I'd been watching too my Grey's Anatomy, but although Perk claimed corkage, I wasn't ready to write him off so fast. We could resuscitate! Or, we could educate! If my wonderful wine was ruined, I could at the very least have an education. I mean, how often does one get to drink a thousand dollars worth of disappointment? When I drank it I didn't recoil the way I do when I drink sour milk. I mean, it wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. As they say, even bad pizza is good.

Shouldn't that go for red wine too? I mean, sometimes I show up for a date, and I'm not looking great. Am I asked to go home? Refused a meal? When I show up at famiily functions after having gained a few, do they ask me to sleep on the porch? Come on. Where's the love, the inclusion? Can't we cut Shafe a break?

Perk was quickly becoming frustrated. He explained corkage to me by saying over and over, "It's corked and you're not drinking it." Since he knew I was not the relenting kind, he pulled a fine bottle of cab from the shelf, for comparisons sake.

It was wonderful. Tasted like burgundy-colored velvet. Like licking richness. I wanted to sit with it and drink and not talk to anyone. I just wanted a moment alone to explore it, get inside it and let it get inside me. This was not the feelings I had for Shafe, though I felt that his demise was of my own making. Perk left, and I was alone with my thoughts.

I walked over to a table where I was meeting friends (to celebrate). I asked the barkeep to pour us a round, and he resisted, as Perk had instructed him to NOT serve this wine, no matter what. I convinced him that a taste was not a serving, and we should at least have tastes.

My friends tried the wine, and were as puzzled as I. So it wasn't great, but it wasn't HORRIBLE. What is this whole corkage thing about? Maybe it just needed to open it a bit (it had been 13 years, after all. Who wouldn't be a little fuhklempt?) I mean, could we get sick from corked wine? Not for nothing, but I was sitting with 2 doctors, 2 NY newspaper editors, and a Fullbright scholar. Not a completely moronic bunch, and if American education is worth a damn, we should have a bit of sense among us.

We asked to be served the wine. The chef arrived and insisted we order a proper bottle. We were somewhat embarrassed by our lack of ability to pick up on the subtle corkage notes, and even more afraid of appearing gauche. So we ordered a bottle. I, however, stuck with a gin martini.

So let me be a warning to you, fair maidens and knights. When you find yourself fantasizing about a bottle of wine, looking at it, loving it, dusting it, for the love of god, don't forget to enjoy it. If that damn bottle hadn't spoken to me, I would have shlepped it around for ages, waiting for the perfect moment. If this doesn't have you running for your wine shelves, and you're still feeling that hesitation, call me. I'll drink it with you.


RED WINE VINEGAR
And poor Shafe didn't even get a proper burial. Don't let this happen to you. If life hands you mediocre wine, make vinegar!

See the following sites for vinegar casks:
Leeners: 2 casks and books

Grape and Granary (instructions)

4 Gallon Glass Cask with Stand

French Oak Cask

What Wo(men) Want: Panzanella

I am moving out of Brooklyn Heights this week, heading west toward the Slope. Now this isn't that big of a move physically (2 miles), but it's something rather significant emotionally. I'm not moving in with a boyfriend, getting a job transfer, upgrading or downgrading. In fact, I've never made more of a lateral move; I simply prefer the neighborhood. I like the shops, the restaurants and the Park.

But I will miss one part of Brooklyn Heights more than any other, and that is my friend Melon.

Melon helped me move in 3 years ago, sweating with a violence I had never before seen. He was a new friend, someone who already lived in the neighb and was going to show me subway routes, dry cleaners, and cheap food options. He was charged with the task of helping me learn to love Brooklyn more than my fair Manhattan, from which I had long been priced out.

When NY lost it's lights, it was Melon's house to which I ran. When I was out on a particularly good date, it was Melon who had keys to my apartment and walked Special K. When I was working on a cookbook, Melon who would come, tupperware in hand, to help find homeless food a bottomless pit. In Manhattan, we had friends, not neighbors; Melon showed me how to be both.

When I first moved in, Melon could be counted on to call 2 to 3 times per week, around 6:30 as he was walking home from the subway with a, "What are we cooking tonight?" I always enjoyed his company, and I think he wins the frequency award for dining at my table.

And then Melon started dating the fair Princess Prosciutto. A friend once told me that the sign of a good partner was this: when you introduc the possibility to friends, don't ask their opinion. If they come gushing with enthusiasm on their own, you're set. If you have to ask, don't bother.

I remember meeting Princess P., getting home and being unable to sleep because I couldn't wait to call Melon the next morning and tell him how wonderful she was. I hadn't come to know her yet, but I liked the way she looked at him.

I helped them move in to their apartment, and have double dated at their house (them, me, my pup) to catch Sopranos, Apprentice, and Top Model (deny it no longer, Melon).

After they moved in, the 6:30 calls ceased; dinner became slightly more formal. Melon would shave and don a crisp shirt, Princess P. would bring a thoughtful dessert. He used to sort of roll in, eat, then TV-doze on my couch; now it was more of an event.

I gave them a set of Le Creuset for their wedding. I haven't cooked for Melon in eons, and happily so. Princess P. does sausage and peppers like nobody's business.

And as I've been learning in my Home Made Simple travels, it isn't how well you cook (though let me be clear, Princess P. can more than hold her own), what you cook, or how much you cook. When you cook with love, simply, enjoy it, and are crazy about the man you're cooking for, everybody's happy. Because it's fun to take care, and it's fun to be taken care of.

Here's a simple recipe for Panzanella (Italian Bread Salad). It's rich with basil and tomatoes, delicious olive oil, and day-old bread. It's the kind of thing I plan to make a lot in the Slope, as I'm planting my own garden, and look forward to inviting plenty of new neighbors to the table. Though there will always be room for Melon, and Princess P.



Panzanella (Tomato Bread Salad)
By Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

1/2 loaf peasant bread (get a big, round, romantic boule), cut into croutons (1-inch cubes)
4 to 5 pounds best-quality tomatoes, any kind (though recently I've been playing with incredible baby tomatoes, which I highly recommend to those without a budget), cut into wedges.
1 small bunch basil, torn
1/2 cup olive oil
1/6 cup red wine vinegar
1 clove garlic, smashed
Plenty of salt, fresh ground black pepper

1. Heat oven to 300F. Place croutons on a baking sheet and cook until firm (about 15 minutes). Or simply cut and leave croutons on the counter for a day.

2. Smash a clove of garlic and remove the skin. Rub the inside of the bowl (in which you plan to serve the salad) with garlic. Add olive oil and vinegar; let sit with garlic clove.

3. Put croutons, tomato wedges and basil in the bowl. Toss well (with your hands!), and season with salt and pepper. Remove garlic just before serving.