Foodmomiac

Book Review: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Welcome to my first-ever (and possibly only) book review on this site. After three years of restaurant reviews, I would be happy to never review anything again, but this book is too phenomenal and monumental to not discuss here.

Also, though I'm discussing a book, this isn't REALLY a review. I just want to share some thoughts about it. To order a copy for yourself, click here.

As regular readers no doubt realize by now, I am a big fan of eating locally, eating responsibly and teaching my children to do the same. That said, it's not always easy. As the pretty, pretty Mir pointed out a week ago, this can be an expensive proposition. Organic meat, especially, is a lot more costly than conventional, but after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I am more resolved than ever to change the way I shop for my family.

Specifically, I am going to do everything I can to buy more local, seasonally-appropriate and organic produce, dairy and meats. I am doing this for health reasons (organically-grown meat has more Omega 3's, more vitamin D and less cholesterol, not to mention the lack of chemicals) and for environmental reasons (I am tired of buying Washington apples, in the fall, when local ones are just as readily available. It's not worth the carbon footprint. It's for that same reason that I don't eat or buy tomatoes except in late summer). I just placed my grocery orders online. I ordered my staples from Peapod, but I ordered my meats, produce and dairy from Fresh Picks.

Additionally, Michael and I are going to see what we can do about creating additional food storage opportunities in our small-ish house. I'd like to be able to buy tons of tomatoes in August/September and then can them for the off months. Reading about this in Kingsolver's book was just mind-altering for me. I also think it might be nice to buy a large portion of meat (like a share in a pig or cow), and then store it in a freezer. Since I do want to buy only locally-raised, organic meat, this is the more economical option.

In the book, Kingsolver and her family eat only locally-produced food (with some very small exceptions, such as coffee) for a year. They grow and raise much of it themselves, on their farm in Virginia. Obviously, this is not entirely reasonable for me, seeing as I live on a city lot in Chicago, but the lessons taught in the book were meaningful regardless. EVERYONE can learn something from this book, even those of us living in big cities.

I have to say that at times the book is a bit preachy, but I was probably a bit more sensitive to that than others, just because with me, she was kind of preaching to the choir. That said, though much of the information in this book wasn't news to me (it's not that I was under the impression that factory farming was a good thing), it just brought it home in a new, more personal way that truly resonated.

Mothers and Mussels

  Tong Master 
  Originally uploaded by Foodmomiac.

When I was 19 years old, my mother and I traveled to

Paris for a week. She was recently divorced and badly in need of some precious mother/daughter bonding. I was cranky, self-absorbed, obnoxious and going through severe nicotine withdrawal. My mom knew nothing of my pack-a-day habit, and seven days in close quarters provided me with little opportunity to sneak away on my own for a smoke.

The week was tough. Needy mom and cranky, jonesing teenager are not a magical combination. We had quite a few fights, and I’m sure I was less than pleasant 95 percent of the time. Luckily, one night of that tense trip became a pivotal moment in my life, and will forever be a special memory for both my mother and myself. It was the night we ate at the eponymous Bernard Chirent.

 
We were staying at a typically small and charming Paris hotel on the right bank, just two blocks off the Seine. Our last day was a tiring one, filled with museum hopping, last minute souvenir shopping and multiple arguments. By nightfall, my mother and I were too exhausted to venture far for dinner. We set off down our street to find something nearby and casual.

 
From the outside, the restaurant didn’t look like much, but the menu was interesting, and the prices were reasonable, so we ventured inside. The interior was fancier than either one of us had expected it to be. The tables were covered in white linen, and the room had an austere, almost minimalist look to it. The decor was a bit worrisome to me, as a quiet, more upscale restaurant would likely require more mother/daughter conversation than a casual place with plenty of hustle and bustle. However, it was too late to turn back.

 
As we walked to our table, I took note of a Troisgros apprenticeship certificate hanging on the wall. I vaguely recognized the name, perhaps from Gourmet, but I didn’t realize what that certificate really meant. I have always loved food, but back then I didn’t know much about it. I read the food section of The New YorkTimes, watched the Frugal Gourmet and I had an adventurous palette. At 19, that was as far as it went.

 
Had I known then what I know now, I would have been far less surprised by the meal and service that we received. A former apprentice in the Troisgros kitchen, Chirent was well versed in creating a food experience to remember. Indeed, the most remarkable part of the evening was the attention we received from Monsieur Chirent himself, and the way it smoothed out some of the tension between my mother and myself.

 
Sadly, I don’t recall many of the details of the meal. I didn’t journal my food experiences then as diligently as I do now. The only dish I remember is the moules marinieres. While they were delicious, it is not the flavor of these mussels that I recall so intensely. What still resonates with me is the experience of eating them. It is an experience that I’m lucky enough to revisit every time I eat one, even to this day.

 
After watching me and my mother attempt, unsuccessfully, to elegantly eat our mussels with a fork, the suave and handsome Chirent came over to our table and offered to show us the proper way to eat a mussel; the French way to eat a mussel. Even now, nearly 12 years later, I can still feel how hot and red my cheeks became during the intimate demonstration that followed. Chirent asked me to pick up an empty shell from my plate and, much as a man might help a woman learn to shoot pool, or swing a golf club, he stood slightly behind me and helped me use the shell as tongs to gently procure a new mussel out of its shiny black shell. He then leaned forward and smiled, telling us that we would now be able to forever eat mussels as the French do.

 
As he left the table, my mom and I looked at each other and smiled widely. The tension was gone. In its place was a shared giddiness at the attention we had just received from this sexy chef, an excitement about the rest of the meal to come and an understanding that, despite our fights and squabbles, we were going to be just fine.
 

I think about that night in Paris every time I eat mussels, but it was brought back to me in even greater relief when I went out to dinner two years ago with the then two-and-a-half-year-old Dylan.
We were at a casual restaurant in the Little Italy section of Windsor,Ontario, just across the river from Detroit. Dylan had always been an adventurous eater, but had recently entered a finicky phase, suddenly declaring that she no longer liked spinach, and insisting that I serve her macaroni and cheese after I had slaved for hours over something decidedly more gourmet. It was discouraging, to be sure, but I tried not to let it get me down. I had faith that she’d grow out of this little phase and become the voracious and bold eater that her dad and I had set out to raise.

 
When we ordered mussels for our appetizer that night, we did so for the adults only, figuring that the newly picky Dylan would just grab some cucumbers from the salad. She’s a curious little kid though, and when something looks interesting, you can bet that she’ll want to be a part of the action. In this instance, novelty trumped pickiness. The tong method of mussel eating must have intrigued Dylan, as she asked to try it for herself. I showed her what to do, and let her pick out a set of tongs for herself.

 
What followed was a glorious display of a little gourmet in training. Dylan dug into those mussels like nobody’s business, expertly using her shell tongs and pausing only to dip some bread in the garlicky broth.

 
I was literally brought to tears, and was suddenly transported back to that night at Bernard Chirent. This time, though, in a prime example of life going full circle, I was able to see the night through my mother’s eyes as well as my own.

 

"Would you like a little nosherai?"

We came up with the bet in the car on our way home from the mall. We were visiting my grandparents for winter break and had escaped for some afternoon shopping. I’m sure it was my Dad who suggested it. “Let’s take bets on how long it takes Grandma Lilly to offer us food.” We all jumped at the chance.

We walked into the apartment, and Grandma Lilly was upon us like a vulture within nanoseconds. “How was the mall?” Ah, she was skirting the topic. “Did you buy anything?” Getting closer. “Did you eat anything?” We all smiled knowingly at each other. “Would you like a little nosherai?” Bingo! My brother David won. 30 seconds.

It is impossible to spend any time with my Grandma Lilly without eating or being harassed about eating. She is obsessive and overbearing on the subject, and we all learned years ago that the best way to deal with her is to take a deep breath and just pile it in. The nagging, if you don’t, is almost too much to bear.

It’s easier for the grandkids. My brother and I didn’t grow up with my Grandma Lilly, so her extreme nourishing is more amusing than anything else. My dad and Aunt Susan did grow up with my grandmother, and they are psychologically scarred for life.
 
They both resist large piles of food on their plate. My dad says it brings back memories of being force-fed throughout their entire childhood, and they start to hyperventilate when they are presented with a plate that has no white space.
 
Grandma Lilly has good reason behind her food mania. She had a traumatized childhood. Her mother committed suicide when my grandmother was just a little girl. She subsequently developed a coping mechanism to deal with her daily heartache; she took care of others. Grandma Lilly spends her time providing and nourishing those around her. This allows her to avoid talking about the sadness of her past – my dad is 63 and he only found out a few years ago that his real grandmother killed herself. Yes, Grandma Lilly is often overbearing to the point of being obnoxious, but how can you fault her for that?
 
My brother and I never lacked for food or love in our home, but we certainly never ate as much as when we visited my grandparents every winter break. Sure, we looked forward to the sunshine and lazy days by the pool. But, we also looked forward to dessert after every meal, a closet filled with snacks and Grandma Lilly’s special fruit salad every night before bed. I’ve had fruit salads made with tropical fruit in Singapore, and fruit salads made with ripe Michigan cherries and blueberries, but there will always be something special about Grandma’s concoction; a combination of fresh Florida citrus (with not one iota of zest or pith) and canned fruit cocktail.
 
Even rainy vacation days in Florida were better for us than they probably were for other kids visiting the sunshine state. When the skies opened up, we either went to the movies (with our bags and pockets stuffed full of contraband butterscotch candies and M&M’s) or stayed inside and watched “The Price is Right” while eating chicken noodle soup. Grandma Lilly’s chicken noodle soup is different from what the typical “from scratch” masterpiece that you might expect from a Jewish grandmother. Grandma opens a can of Rokeach chicken soup and heats it up. In another pot, she boils very thin egg noodles and overloads the soup with them. On those rare rainy days, I’d end up with a bowl filled with soup-dampened noodles, happily watching Bob Barker and his beauties in a living room darkened by hurricane shutters.
 
Lunches on sunny days were great as well. My brother and I would run from the condominium’s community pool and sit, soaking wet, on towel-covered chairs while my Grandma served us a veritable feast. The table would contain a basket of sliced, soft, pumpernickel bread; a plate of sliced tomatoes and onions; margarine; butter; farmer’s cheese; bialys and a giant bowl of her famous chopped egg salad. I can still taste and smell the chopped egg on the dense, moist bread at any point, and I’ve grown fond of making it on my own, though it’s never quite the same as Grandma Lilly’s. I could eat chopped egg salad every day, and when we visited Grandma Lilly, I did. For both breakfast and lunch.

 

Grandma Lilly's Chopped Egg Salad Sandwiches

3 to 4 servings

These are ideal for a casual brunch, and they are best when prepared to order just before eating.

1-1/2 teaspoons canola oil
1 tablespoon dehydrated minced onion
6 hard boiled eggs, finely diced
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon mayonnaise
6-8 slices pumpernickel bread
1 tomato, sliced thinly
1 sweet onion, sliced thinly

Heat a nonstick pan and add the oil. Add the minced onion. As soon as it starts to sizzle, count to 15 and turn the heat off. The minced onion burns very easily, so care must be taken that it doesn't cook too long. Let the onion cool for five minutes. Add it to the egg along with the mayonnaise. This makes a very dry egg salad. More mayonnaise can be added to taste. Serve with a basket of pumpernickel bread and a plate of sliced tomato and onion, allowing guests to make their own sandwiches.

Acai - a bowlful of sexy antioxidants

The seller of the Açaí energy bowls wasn’t hurting his sales any. Thin and muscular with a tanned Brazilian complexion, long-ish (but not too long) curly dark hair, and a mischievous smile, he lured women to his booth left and right. The camera that was perpetually in his hand was an added attraction. After purchasing an energy bowl, he’d smile and ask if he could take your picture. What woman wouldn’t melt from the entire experience?

 
I’m happy to report that the energy bowls have appeal beyond this beachside Brazilian stud muffin. The primary ingredient of the bowl is Açaí sorbet. Açaí (pronounced ah-sigh-EE), also known as the Palm Berry, is a Brazilian tree fruit that is noted for its significant health benefits. With more antioxidants than any other fruit, this is a valid claim. Long popular among surfers in Brazil, Açaí was brought to the states by two enterprising men who saw the potential in the US surfing market. These men now market Açaí under the brand name, Sambazon.

The Sambazon brand of Açaí combines the berry with guarana syrup. In addition to adding sweetness, guarana claims health benefits of its own, including the ability to increase endurance and heighten mental awareness. Health benefits aside, in my mind, the best part about this snack is its luscious and rich taste. Açaí has the flavor of a chocolate covered berry. And, while it is delicious on its own, as a sorbet or a smoothie, Açaí reaches its full flavor potential when combined with the ingredients that make up the aforementioned Brazilian energy bowl.

It was during a two-week summer visit to the Pacific Beach area of San Diego that I discovered Brazilian energy bowls. Just off the boardwalk, less than a quarter mile from my hotel was the little cart that sold the bowls. A few other juice joints in town were selling them as well. It was nearly impossible to walk down the boardwalk without seeing at least two to three people eating a bowl. I tried some of the alternate sellers, but none held the allure of the boardwalk-based cart.

Each time I approached the Açaí cart, the seller was on the move. No doubt a result of his endless supply of Açaí and guarana, he had a surfeit of energy and was endlessly flirting with bikini-clad girls, taking photos of seagulls with his ubiquitous digital camera, or eating an energy bowl of his own while watching the endless parade that makes up the Pacific Beach boardwalk.

 
Once I got his attention, and gathered my composure, I’d place my order for a small energy bowl. He would remove a pre-measured plastic container of sorbet from his freezer and begin adding the fruit. The included fruits are frozen blueberries, frozen peaches, frozen strawberries and fresh bananas. He then would grab a squeeze bottle of honey, and slowly, seductively, drizzle a thin stream of honey over the fruit, making sure that every corner was covered. This masterpiece was then topped with a sprinkle of granola and handed to me with a smile. The first time I visited, I got my photo taken with my treat in hand. The second time I visited, he asked if I had seen my photo, posted up on a large board of other smiling women enjoying their Açaí. Indeed I had, and the photo wasn’t the only lasting memento of my visits to his booth. This all took place nearly two years ago, and I can still remember it as if it were yesterday.

I keep a supply of Sambazon Açaí smoothie packs in my freezer and occasionally make up an energy bowl for myself. It’s not as special as eating it on the boardwalk (and buying it from a Brazilian god), but it brings me back, regardless. Perhaps not as poetic as Proust and his madeleines, but it works for me.

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