A Return: to blogging and to the ancestorlands

I am in Scotland. I am eating in Scotland. My dad and I are on something of a pilgrimage (a huge exaggeration) to Scotland this week, and I have been flabbergasted by the food I've partook in so far (we arrived yesterday). [Another thing that flabbergasted me: the "List of linguistic example sentences" wikipedia page, in particular this entry:

Ending sentence with preposition

Prescriptive grammar has in the past prohibited "preposition stranding": ending sentences with prepositions (traditionally defined). This "rule" appears to have been invented in 1672 by John Dryden; for a long time thereafter it was uncritically recited. It had no basis in linguistic fact in 1672 and has none now.^[8]

I never knew! But just did it - did you notice?]

Anyway, HELLO! I'm back! And here is why:

Yesterday evening, my dad and I, in our little rental Hyundai drove in some misty, scenic, hilly circles for a little while, enjoying the clouds and dramatic fog, the cows and lambs and sheared and unsheared sheep, and the general feel of the Aberdeenshire countryside. Upon reaching our destination, Kenneth and Rosalind had a lovely meal prepared for us. Whilst serving the steak and kidney pie (which I will go into further in a minute), Kenneth mentioned that he knew how much of a pie person I am, as he had read my blog! I hung my head in shame and admitted that my blogging had ended, that I am now just a blog-leach, reading the diligent work of other foodie bloggers and simply eating and keeping to myself what those with more heart would share with the interworld.

But then I realized, I can do it! I can make a come back! So here I am, and here's a little bit of what I've eaten in lovely Scotland in the past, oh, 24 hours:

-Vegetarian Haggis seems like a good place to start. My dad studied abroad in Edinburgh some thirty or so years ago, and ate often and heartily at a restaurant called Henderson's. Well, Henderson's still exists, though enlarged and less hippie than he remembers it back in the day. We ate there after flying into the city, and I had really, the most delicious meal. The haggis, of course, was just a cutesie name for a lentil, tomato, kidney bean, potato mashup of sorts (which was splendid and perfect for the rainy day that we were taking respite from) (haha! another sentence ended with a preposition!). Additionally, I had vegan mayonnaise, which was far superior to the real stuff and polenta cake with blueberries. What a meal! MMmmmM! Then, as a surprise for my dad, I bought traditional, homemade, bomb-diggity shortbread and a fruit scone (fruit being raisins, and scone being tender and moist and delicious, though not up to the standards of T or Nina's or mine) (speaking of scones, check these soon-to-be-baked-and-eaten-by-me-and-anyone-lucky-enough-to-be-nearby goodies out: Word). We ate them on the double decker bus back to the airport, from which we drove to Kenneth and Rosalind's lovely abode.

Arrival at Kenneth and Rosalind's meant a perfect supper, the main course of which was steak and kidney pie. Unsure that I would like kidneys, but certainly excited to try something new and heavily aromatic, I dug in. Oh boy! I found it to be the most concentrated meat flavor I'd ever encountered. It was splendid (as was the crunch of the crust atop it). And went perfectly with potatoes and green beans and wine.

Yes indeed, my Scottish culinary experience thus far has been quite pleasant. And with the gorgeous almost-rain clouds pouring across the geometric landscape and the pink-chested wren-like robins singing in the garden below, the loveliness of our days here has not been confined to the plate.

So with that, I reenter the blogosphere. I join the ranks of the Pioneer Woman (although I will not gender my recipes as worthy of either cowgirls or cowboys) and The Burning House (although I hope my readership isn't confined to the hipsters of the world), and Smitten Kitchen (although I have no baby, pictures of whom to ply you with day after day after day) (phrase #3 ended in a preposition in one blog post!).

Anyway, it's off to bed for me, with castles to visit and lochs to admire from the speedylostroadways and perhaps some dimply plum cake to make in the morrow.

Bon Appetit!

I love Cafe Mac.

That's been my mantra alllll week, and I can't seem to stop saying it.


This week's highlight was turkey pot pie.



A perfect combination of vegetables, meat, and crust, the pot pie is probably one of the top reasons America is a great country.

I'm a crust person, so the kind of pot pie that chefs like Ina Garten make where it's just some dough laid across the top of a mini souffle dish - those really don't work for me. The crust should encapsulate the pie.

Having said this, though, something happens to me when I enter Cafe Mac; something that makes the top-sheet kind of pot pie OK.
In fact, Cafe Mac's pot pie isn't really a pot pie at all. for one, it's not crust surrounding innards, and for two, it's not crust. No, Bon Appetit uses a phyllo number. I feel like I should be against this, but I can't be. As I wait in line at the Iron Grill, my mouth waters in anticipation of the perfectly light topping, which contrasts nicely with the tasty and thick gravy in which the turkey, peas, carrots, and onions? are complacently suspended.
I won't say that I've moved beyond a true pie crust preference, but my horizons have certainly been expanded.



How do you feel about alternative pot pie crusts?

What other fillings could we put in a pot pie besides meat and veggies?

Do you think frozen pot pies are good?

Have you ever had the pot pie at Bosten Market?



I don't have a lot more to say about pot pies, but I do have a sort of tutorial-esque video for you about Cafe Mac. I would like to introduce you all to the most wonderful aspect of Macalester College. Please watch this. (*scroll down to 'student life' and then click on the first one (fittingly) 'cafe mac'*)



-Lillie

Pork Bung?

Pork Bung!

Once a week or so I'm sent over to Chinatown to pick up dumpling wrappers or toothpicks or some other product for which newly arrived Chinese peasants do not have the vocabulary and toward which they cannot lead me. I often get lost.

Which is good. It's almost like I'm studying abroad in East Asia for like twelve minutes. Seriously, the only products I recognize are Coke and Diet Coke and Fanta and Sasparilla (spelled Sarsparilla in Chinatown, which made me wary of drinking it). That's it. And chicken, I guess. But I think their chickens have more parts than ours.

So as I'm walking out of the market yesterday I spot a steamy little pile in the hot food case called "Pork Bung." This immediately made me laugh out loud because I'm dumb and crass and immature. I figured, though, that it was too good to be true. "This must be an ancient Chinese way of saying 'chop,'" I figured. I thought that Mike Judge had created the term "bung" or the more emphatic "bung bung" for use on his 90's slacker cartoon Beavis and Butthead.

Wrrrrowwwwwwwwng!

Pork Bung defined: the large end of the digestive tract of the hog. Also referred to as "pig bung" and "hog bung."

When you google "pork bung" you get many versions of the exact same post that I'm making right now. All posters are spurred to post by seeing this product at an Asian grocery. All posters use self-deprecating humor about their childishness, with a surprising number jokingly referring to themselves as being, specifically, fourteen. I feel unoriginal. Nonetheless, I will link to my favorite of the finds on this GoogAdventure.

Recipe, courtesy of The Poop Report, using pork bungs:

Braunschweiger Liver Sausage

50 lbs. fresh pork liver

50 lbs. fresh pork jowls or fat pork trimmings.

Grind livers and pork trimmings through 1/8-inch plate of the grinder. Chop in the silent cutter after adding the spices. 2 lbs. cereal, if wanted

6 oz. pepper

2 oz. nutmeg

2 oz. marjoram

2 lbs. salt.

Chop fine 3 lbs. onions.

Then add pork and chop very fine. Stuff in large hog bungs about 25 inches long. Cook l/-2 hours at 160° F. Chill in cold water and hang in the cooler. Smoke if desired in cool smoke until casings are dry.

Gonna try this tonight! Let y'all know how it goes!

The Smells of My Youth

Yesterday Jessie (my sister) and I went out to lunch at a sweet little cafe in St. Paul called Trotter's. [In fact, we sat in the chairs you see in the website's picture.] It's on a really adorable block with a toy store (in my head it's a toy train store - Jessie? confirmation?), probably an antiques store, maybe a travel agency (a cute one), and an ice cream store called Izzy's, which is bomb in the sweetest way possible.

Anyway, Trotters is sort of a sandwich/soup shop bakery with some fun flavor combinations and really good iced tea. [maybemama, take note.] When we walked in yesterday, the smell inside brought me back to the happy days of my youth.
Those were the days when me and my cousins would eat dinner at my grandma and grandpa's (Bamma and Grampa) every Thursday and the families would get together there on Sundays to eat. Thursdays were macaroni and applesauce, and I'm not knocking that, because I really really really like macaroni and applesauce, but Sundays were the real treat.

As I remember it, Bamma would make this one stew every Sunday. I know that's not true, but let that serve as a statement to how greatly the scents and flavors impacted me. It was a stew with beef and bacon, and it was rich and hearty, and we would eat it out of these cobalt aluminum bowls with white speckles. I think it tasted similar to bouef bourguignon, but I know exactly how it smelled.
We would walk into their house and the permeating, slow smell of bacon and saltiness and braised things would sneak into our nostrils and incite hunger immediately. I would know that everything for those next few hours would be fine and that we would play and eat at the kids table and that the bowls would be the same and that we'd use the heavy silver spoons like always and that maybe we'd watch Harriet the Spy later on.
I know I liked the stew (I've always called it Hunter's Stew), but the smell was really the most important part, and the scent memory that it has imparted.

And that's what I smelled and felt when I walked in to Trotter's yesterday. I smelled Sundays and Bamma and cousins.


Are there any smells that so strongly transport you back to your youth?


-Lillie

Bon Appetit! Not just for Julia anymore.

Julia Child famously called out "Bon Appetit" after concocting one of her French dishes. Her joyous command inspires us all as we watch her show, but it has another meaning for me and the other 1800 students that attend Macalester College: our food service here is Bon Appetit, and the food at Cafe Mac is soooooooooo good. I can't get over it. I want to be a grown up and get off the meal plan and like, have my own food in my fancy shmancy dorm room (or, to complete the grown up image, my very own place), but I can't imagine not reveling in the plentiful and tasteful cafeteria here.

There are stations for all different types of cuisines and the salad bar is simply inspiring.
I like to mix stations. Sometimes making a noodle dish is the best way to do this. I take noodles from the salad bar, go over to the burrito station and get some shredded chicken or pork, go to the "IRON GRILL" and get some steamed broccoli, dob some cottage cheese on it, and mix in some beans from the salad bar or maybe even chili if it's good that day (what am I saying? it's allllways good!), and then microwave it. [There's a microwave. Rockin.] Sometimes it feels like I'm making my very own hot dish!
Some favor the curry bar, but as I find myself unable to tap into the glories of curry, I stay away from that station in the cafeteria until it's morphed, once monthly, into the jewel in the crown of Cafe Mac: the a la mode bar. I'll tell you about that when it happens.

And that brings me to my purpose for all this blathering about (and tempting you with) all these cafeteria delights: the induction of my first weekly feature (and the fourth colon so far today): Bon Appetit?/!
Check back next week for the first installment, and get ready to be blown away!


Lillie

College and my promise

I'm so sorry. I have eaten many exciting things lately, but I've been all caught up getting back into school, so I haven't told you about them. I'll write tomorrow. I WILL! Come on, believe me.
Here's a teaser: I am widely known and revered for my concoctions in Cafe Mac (Macalester's "caf"), making my college's high-end food service food even better.

Anyway, I need to sleep a little. Except that I'm listening to this awesome mashup of UNK vs. LCD Soundsystem...not the best music to lull me into dreamland.

I promise to write tomorrow.

Camping: Recap

On Saturday night I was the happiest boy in the Catskills. What I considered to be the smoothest, speckliest, sweetest brook trout on the famed Beaverkill river jumped onto my little caddisfly imitation and gave himself over to me. I shouted "dinner!" and Willie was already making a fire next to the bridge.

I felt sad for the fish because I really cared about him and I felt like he would probably have a pretty nice life where he was living. It was a secluded spot, nobody there to bother him, lots of rocks to get shelter from the current and bugs to eat and all. But I also feel like seeing where your formerly living food comes from is a rare treat and should be savored and appreciated. I gutted him next to the river and I cut his head off and rinsed him off so he was nice and smooth and clean cut. Then I pulled some long grasses from the riverside and wet them in the really very cold river water and tucked him in my bag covered with the grasses to keep him cold.

I kept on fishing for awhile and caught some of his smaller kin. Brook trout of all sizes are rewarding to catch because they have the most intricately cool patterns stamped on them. Their coloring is really dramatic. It's cool to me that something that looks like it was designed purely for beauty can be so functional as a camouflage. Bill "Big Willie" Bradley has some pictures of the fish and I'll try to post them at a later date. I also noticed that its flesh changed from, when I first opened it, a kind of deep translucent orange, on the darker side like towards maroon, to the more pinkish lighter orange you see in salmon flesh. Thought it was cool to see.

We cooked him over the fire then. I left the tail on and opened him up and splashed some olive oil and salt and pepper and some lemon juice on him and wrapped him in foil. Then I put him directly on the fire. Not more than four minutes, i don't think. I took him off and checked him out and he looked just perfect - skin still a marvel to look at. I pulled the spine out carefully and almost all of the little bones came out cleanly. Then Willie and I ate with our hands. Like I said, this made me the happiest.

All I needed was some dessert. Maybe Lillie will tell about her famous campfire cobblers and crisps?...