Last Hurrah in the Northwest

Well.  That blog title is rather misleading, because I’m no longer in the Pacific Northwest but in Sevilla, Spain.  Finally made the move.  I’ve spent a few days arranging all the things I could fit in two duffel bags and a small carry-on.  It’s a surprising amount of crap, actually.  Strange things that made the cut: a statue of Ganesh, lots of bubble gum, tea tins full of earrings, two types of hot sauce, a pie pan, the third season of MacGyver, and a pastry cutter.  They are all nicely shelved.

I haven’t gotten the chance to cook because 1) my roommate does, better than I, and 2) I’m afraid of buying anything not prepackaged and clearly labeled in price at the market.  Yep.  My Spanish languished away for a year and a half and I am resultantly a lot rusty and afraid to talk much to strangers, especially in front of a long line of more strangers.  My friends can just suck it up.  And they do, thank God. But it isn’t really conducive to shopping when you are having to think in a foreign language and a foreign measurement system.  I really don’t know how much a kilo of chicken legs is…or what a good price is for them. My only contribution to the kitchen has been washing lots of dishes and making chai which fortunately went over well.  FYI – they have whole stick cinnamon in most grocery stores, though not cardamom. In case you needed to know that.

Luckily, my roommate is going to take me shopping with her tonight in preparation for a welcome back party for me and another girl.  I’ll stand quietly behind her and pull the little shopping carrito. I’m good with that.

In between being useless and being useless, I now find myself with a little time, during the siesta.  I spent the morning trying to search out my bus stop in dark wash jeans, got really hot, and decided to join the rest of the world in returning home to hide from the midday sun and eat my ham sandwich (I did find prepackaged lunch meats).  And so, I finally get to look over the pictures I took of food in the last few hectic months.  The next post or two will be these catch up pictures.  I thought I’d start with what I consider to be my last truly Washingtonian feast – clam digging.

Fresh fresh clams!

An open love letter to James Beard

I have a new lover.  And his name is James Beard.  Unfortunately, he is dead.

No, I am not a necrophiliac.  James Beard is my kitchen lover, the man who has spoken to my soul by cooking the American-style food I had feared I’d never find (outside spendy restaurants) then writing about it in a way I’ve always wanted to read and write.   He has such love for his food that it is almost a physical joy to page through his works, with just a slight aroma of pretension that only makes him endearing, because it stays within the bounds of good humor and a consistent invitation into his realm of delicious simplicity.

I had heard his name before, usually from the mouths of Top Chefs as they grappled for supremacy in the kitchen, toting up awards and culinary battle scars.  But I didn’t fully understand his impact on the American cooking scene until I committed a minor Christmas infraction by buying his book (on huge sale!), Beard on Food, while I was supposed to be shopping for others.  It’s a major no no in my family to buy yourself something once December has gotten underway.   I do not apologize.  For that day, my heart was won by this simple phrase:

“…green beans boiled until just bitey-tender…”