Day 151: Muffaletta

For years and years I didn't know what muffaletta was. It sounded fried to me. Like a pillow of dough. Like something that would fill your mouth and muffle your voice. (I make some strange root-word/root-sound connections with words when I don't know their actual definitions.) Maybe a doughnut of some sort.

Then I learned it was a sandwich. Still didn't really know what it was. Thought maybe it was like a Monte Cristo, sticking with my it-must-be-fried theory, which would put it in line for one of my favorite foods ever (if you've never had a battered, deep-fried ham and cheese sandwich, dipped in jam, you've never really lived.) I learned it hailed from New Orleans, and I thought of beignets. There was a lot working toward my theory that this thing must be fried.

Then about a year ago, I was at a bar with friends and one of them ordered a muffaletta, explained to me that it had three kinds of deli meat and a tangy olive spread on crusty bread. Wow. Not deep-fried, but still pretty tantalizing. But at that point, as happens on a regular cycle with me (and will have to happen again soon--darn my love of food and my thunder thighs), I was cutting calories, so I didn't try it. And I haven't really had an easy, here-you-go opportunity to have muffaletta again. (Muffuletta? I'm seeing multiple spellings on the interwebs.)

Until last night. It was the special at the Elk. So when I got back from California, that's what I had. Or, part of it. For lunch, my family took me to Angelo's burger place in Carlsbad and I had a monstrous avocado burger (or most of it, since a lot of it fell in my lap) and some fries, so I wasn't incredibly hungry. But I hadn't been able to sit next to my husband on the last leg of the flight back, and he had to go home and take care of the cat and go to work this morning while I had to stay in town to defend my thesis (this afternoon at 1:00!!!), and I wanted to buy time with him, so we had dinner. Anyway. That was a long sentence. But back to the point:

I love muffaletta. It is spicy and tangy and the bread was perfect and the olives were amazing. I still have half of it in the fridge to be eaten as a post-thesis-defense snack/meal/whatever. And, the more foods I eat that originate in New Orleans, the more I think I need to go there and eat. And eat and eat and eat. And then, probably, come home and diet. Oy.

Day 150: Oh, Baloney

While at the store the other day, my mother spotted a package of meat she used to eat as a child: mortadella. I had never had it--I'd heard of it, but I really had no idea what it was. So we bought some, and today we had it for lunch. My first thought was, hey--this tastes like bologna. And you know why? Because it is.
To be fair, this is not Oscar Meyer bologna. It's from Bologna, Italy, and it's made in a similar style of compressing meats into one sausage. Unlike your standard lunchbox bologna, mortadella is dotted with what I presume to be fat. It's spicier and less rubbery. It's the Cadillac of bologna, if you will. The real stuff, un-Americanized.

I had it on homemade white bread with Swiss cheese and tomatoes, plus a grainy mustard and my mother's favorite, Miracle Whip. Which threw me off at first. The Miracle Whip flavor definitely shone through. But I also tried my mortadella on its own, so I feel confident of its flavor. Either way, it was a yummy sandwich.

I would wrap this up with some statement about my love of Italian sausage, but I can't say it without sounding dirty. Anyway. That's some good meat.

Day 149: Holding Swai

Today was a rather fishy day. First, we took a trip to the Birch Aquarium in La Jolla, CA to look at the fish (that's me with the big whale statue outside). Then we went to Alfonso's Mexican Restaurant to eat some.

At the aquarium, we learned a lot about seahorses and jellyfish and, of course, we found Nemo (or one of his brethren). At the restaurant, we learned a tiny bit about something called swai, which I hadn't heard of until this afternoon.

The first thing I learned about swai: it's not good.

I didn't think so, anyway. I ordered a fish burrito, and trying to be a bit healthier and less wimpy about my fish order, I asked for the fish grilled instead of fried. But when I got my burrito, I discovered that it was filled with a pretty fishy fish, one that seemed to have its skin on, one that kind of tasted like it smells when you walk out onto a pier. Oceany, fishy, dirty. I had no idea at that point what kind of fish I was eating--I kind of assumed it would be something like cod--and the waitress, when asked, said it was swai, which she said was a lot like tilapia. Okay. I've never had tilapia, either. Whatever it was like, my dad had the same fish in his fish tacos and he agreed that it was not the tastiest. He was the one who said it tasted like dirt. And then, when we went down to La Jolla Cove and got down near the cliffs, we smelled that smell. Which is like dirty fish. Or bird poop. Or fish poop. So you can understand why I ate less than half of my burrito and lost my appetite for quite a while. (That's La Jolla Cove in the picture.)

Later, at home, after a little nap (I also had a melon margarita at lunch which was not disappointing at all but actually quite yummy), I looked up swai fish on the interwebs. Apparently, the dirty descriptor is appropriate--it's like a Vietnamese catfish. It's also pretty cheap. Which explains why a restaurant would choose to serve it. I've had regular catfish before, fried with a substantial sauce, and I liked it that way, but I don't think my burrito filling was rich or sharp enough to stand up to it. But hey, it was something new.

Day 148: Peachy Keen

My mother has a beautiful book called Culinaria Italy, part cookbook, part culinary history. It's big and heavy and it contains so many recipes I would like to try. We flipped through it yesterday, looking for something to make for dinner that I'd never had before. There were so many options, so many beautiful pictures and recipes to be perused, that we spent longer looking at the book than expected, cutting into the time we thought we had to prepare dinner. So in the end, we went to the store and bought pizza fixings. For the crust we used a really lovely flatbread, and we made one margherita pizza and one with Italian sausage.

I love a good trip to the grocery store, especially when visiting California, where the selection of foods is often larger and nicely diverse. This time, while selecting a bunch of root-on basil (it keeps a lot longer than cut basil, when you keep the root end in a glass of water), we actually ran into the man who grows the stuff, a man from Archi's Acres, who was quite happy to see us purchasing his product. He told us about his program for hiring vets who suffer from PTSD, which seemed pretty appropriate considering it's Memorial Day weekend. He was a lovely, friendly man, and his basil is excellent.

Back home, we put the pizzas together, but since I'd obviously had pizza before (though not the type of flatbread we used for the crust... I should have written down the name and now the wrappers are out in the trash barrel), I had to have something else. For that purpose, we bought a bottle of prosecco and some white peaches. It was a simple recipe we found in Mom's Italian book: bellinis. For those of you who don't know, a bellini is a drink that originated at Harry's Bar in Venice, Italy--one of the most famous restaurants I can think of. Unfortunately, I've never been there despite the fact that I have been to Venice. When I was there, I was nineteen, had no money, and had never heard of the place. I spent hours searching for a particular gelato shop the travel guide recommended, but it would never have occurred to me to look for a famous bar. Famous bar? I would have said. Ppppbbbbthhh. Ah, to be young.

Anyway, I've heard of Harry's Bar now, and I've always wanted to try a bellini, so I pureed some peaches. Unfortunately, I didn't read the recipe closely enough and I peeled them, which I wasn't supposed to do, which explains why my bellini (pictured above) is not particularly pink. I also don't think the peaches were in perfect condition, and I don't think I got my puree smooth enough. It was still tasty, though. I almost wish I'd just bought a can of Kern's peach nectar--that was the original plan, but they didn't have any at the store we visited and I didn't feel like going to another, plus I thought real peaches would make a better drink. Maybe they did. I don't know.

Next time I have a bellini, I will probably trust a bartender. Maybe the next time I have a bellini it will be at Harry's Bar in Venice. For those of you who would like to try it at home, here's the recipe:

(Serves 1)

Scant 1/4 cup ice cold puree of unpeeled white peaches
2/3 cup chilled prosecco

Place the puree in a chilled glass. Top with prosecco, stir quickly, serve immediately.

Day 147: Pho Fun

Last night, my parents took my husband and me to a little pho place near their house (sorry--if I knew how to add the little accent mark, I would). The best part of that statement is that we're in California, with my parents! The second best is that I finally had some pho.

I have friends who love pho, who go out to eat it as often as possible, but as fate would have it, I'd never encountered it until this trip. I sort of knew what it was: noodles in broth. The particular pho I ordered contained rare steak and well-done brisket. I did not try the tendon, because I wasn't sure about that. Anyway, the menu stated that their broth was made with oxtail and beef and all those wonderful bones, and that it cooked for ten hours. Wow! Then they add the meat and the noodles and herbs, plus you add more herbs (basil) and bean sprouts and jalapenos and lime juice at the table. And then you dig in with spoon and chopsticks (or fork) and though the noodles are slippery (not as slippery as the udon Ian ordered, but still) and I'm no whiz with the chopsticks, it's worth the effort. It kept me full all evening, and very satisfied.

Day 146: The Incredible Inedible Egg

This morning I attempted some fancy scrambled eggs. I'm not one to mix stuff in with my eggs or do much fancy footwork. I might add a little cheese. But recently, I made some sundried tomato pesto, so I thought they might go well together. I was incredibly wrong.

While it was cooking, this mix smelled like dog food--owing, maybe, to the pine nuts? But still I gave it a chance. It was an ominous red color, not very pretty at all (I would have taken a picture but the hubby and I are embarking on a trip tomorrow and he seems to have packed both cameras away who-knows-where).

It didn't taste like dog food. I don't know what it tasted like. Like stale sundried tomatoes if there is such a thing. I'm sure there's some culinary explanation for this. Maybe just that my pesto wasn't up to snuff.

Oh well. Another day, another lesson learned.

Addendum:

I've been very adventurous today--for lunch (early lunch, I know, but I only had a mouthful of eggs and coffee for breakfast) I made a new type of smoothie. You see, I'm in the process of moving out of my Spokane apartment, since grad school is ending, and I figured I ought to use the food I had in my fridge and freezer. The milk had gone bad, but I had frozen strawberries and orange juice (you can tell my husband was here this weekend because I never buy orange juice except for him). But that seemed a little lacking. I also had some pecans in my freezer (I keep them there so the oils won't spoil--greatly extends their shelf life), so I threw a handful of those into the blender, too. And guess what? It's great. And vegan. So: here's the recipe.

~1 1/2 cups frozen strawberries
~1 cup orange juice
~1/3 cup pecans

Blend well

Day 145: In Purgatory

Today, the hubby came home for lunch and I made him a dish I've been curious about for a while: Eggs in Purgatory. It's a pretty basic dish: eggs cooked in pasta sauce. That doesn't mean, to a certain extent, that I didn't screw it up. It also doesn't mean that the outcome wasn't good.

You see, I put in too much pasta sauce. The most basic recipe I could find said heat up one cup pasta sauce, crack in two eggs, cover and cook until whites set. Okay. I remembered most of that. I just didn't remember the proportions. So I dumped in a whole jar of sauce (2 1/2 cups) and cracked four eggs onto that, which meant they had more of a tomatoey jacuzzi than was intended--not too much more, but more. It was actually a little scary to watch them as they cooked, with the sauce bubbling up through the whites--it was more like eggs in hell.

But then they started to look like poached eggs, and I grated some parmesan on top and served them.

This was a first for me in a couple of ways. First, I've never had eggs in purgatory. But more importantly, I've never had an egg cooked to this particular level: solid whites, partially runny yolks. It was a little scary. This was probably one of the best ways I could have started, though, since I could sort of hide my yolks in the sauce. Wimpy, I know, but you've got to start somewhere, right? So one day, when I have my first eggs benedict, I won't be afraid of the yolks.