consuming

Zagat Chicago Blog Hop: My Best Night Out

December 19, 2011

In honor of the 2012 Chicago Restaurants and Nightlife Survey, Zagat reached out to me to be part of the first-ever Zagat Chicago Blog Hop. The assignment: Post about a special night out in Chicago. So here’s the skinny, straight from the fat kid herself.

I was a Yelper once.
I Yelped a lot.

Yelpers gone wild: Colleen C. and Jelena Z. with me at one of our many parties. (That deer in headlights look was…a thing for me.)

Yelp was the entirety of my social life for the first year I was in Chicago. I made a lot of friends, and holy crap, I ate a lot of food. (And I drank even more. But those are stories for my book — maybe — not this blog.)

Fellow Yelpers propped my hangover-addled body up at Kuma’s as we feasted on design-your-own mac and cheese and my very first High on Fire.
I sampled Vietnamese fare at Simply It at a girls’ night out.
I fell in love with mole and tres leches at Mixteco Grill.
On a day off from work, I stood in line to experience the most enchanting corn dog ever at Hot Doug’s.
I discovered Café Tiztal’s lovely, perfectly sweetened oatmeal shake over breakfast with a friend.
A date got us in to Publican shortly after it opened, and…there was pork. (And, in my review, really awful pork-themed innuendo.)

Somewhere along the way, I kind of grew out of Yelp. Maybe I just moved on to greener social pastures. But more than that, I think it was the idea of going out to a meal knowing it was all for the sake of rocketing home to write a pithy review… (You know how sometimes you’ll talk to certain people and you can tell they’re not even listening because they’re already planning out what they’re going to say back to you? Yeah, kind of like that.)
It just left a bad taste in my mouth.

But if there’s one thing Yelp taught me — besides how to write reviews others would FUC with abandon — it’s that any meal can be fantastic when eaten with the right people. My best nights out really haven’t been about the restaurants at all. Some of them haven’t even been nights.

Chicago has many incredible dining establishments, some I’ll only dream of patronizing (ahem, Alinea)…but in the end, if you can’t remember the experience and the people you shared it with, all you’ll have to show for it is a food baby and a big hole in your wallet.

So I did the assignment kind of wrong. But that’s my way.

Read posts from the other bloggers…here!

Then vote for your favorite local spots in the 2012 Chicago Restaurants and Nightlife Survey (open until Jan. 16). And just for participating in the survey, you’ll be eligible for a free copy of the 2012 Chicago Restaurants and Nightlife Guide…or entered to win a $500 “Night on the Town.”

3 comments

Why I’m cooking.

October 18, 2011

The air in my apartment is layered with scents of autumn rapidly collapsing and fading to winter: dry, stale heat bangs out of radiators that have been sleeping since April; leaves fallen from the tree outside have gathered in damp gutters and under car wheels, decomposing with a familiar fragrance I’ve never been able to describe. Almost smoky. A cross breeze cuts through from the open back door in the kitchen, setting me shivering with warmly scented memories of peppercorn bacon and brewed coffee on Sunday morning, Monday night bread baking with cinnamon and nutmeg, dinnertime garlic and onion, baking and sautéing filling my days.

This happens to me a couple of times a year: I’m seized with a mad desire to cook everything. And it’s not just in fall. The urge strikes at random. In the past, this has resulted in many loaves of quick breads and a couple of pasta dishes slightly more complex than the standard penne with Italian sausage, spinach and homemade marinara.

Traditionally, I’ve chosen safe-bet dishes. A necessity for someone who’s actually terrified of cooking. Between the commitment — time, money, refrigerator real estate — and my high risk of abject failure and subsequent need to fall back on the shameful Spaghetti-O backup plan have kept me paralyzed for life.

Pumpkin bread

Yes, there have been quick breads: beer bread, pumpkin bread, banana bread. There has been pasta. But something has changed this time around, though. Maybe it’s the prospect of new love bolstering my spirit; maybe it’s my new health and wellness coach, Lisa, lighting a fire under my ass; maybe I’m simply sick of my pants not fitting; maybe I’ve realized I cannot survive on Spoon Thai’s green curry with chicken alone.

I made chili. My mother’s recipe, deceptively simple but daunting nonetheless to a doting, reverent daughter, finally duplicated in my kitchen to faithful specifications, though not exactly exacting. In addition to the chili powder, cumin and diced tomatoes, her recipe adds cocoa powder for a richness and depth that was a mystery to us for many years.

I was astonished at the first spoonful: a taste of my onetime home in my now home. My mother used to send me back from holidays with frozen Tupperware containers of it, wrapped in foil and sealed in Ziploc bags, packed into my suitcase to enjoy for weeks after I returned home. And now here it was, made by me…an entire batch of it, all to myself.

It’s like Christmas in a bowl…every day…for the past week. (That’s one of the other reasons I historically don’t cook: my culinary attention span has little time for those miles of cooking-for-one-leftovers.)

Christmas in a bowl, wrapped up with the gift of self-confidence when I realize, yes, I can cook.

This afternoon, I played with leeks and butternut squash. I’d never so much as touched either before today, and today, I’m cooking with both.

Pumpkin-leek soup

My first-ever blended soup experiment was not without stumbles: First, I forgot to buy celery. Then, I got all the way through peeling and cubing an acorn squash, only to realize the recipe called for butternut. (Peeling a lovely, scalloped-edge acorn squash is not an easy task, by the way.) But friends assured me that the soup could do without celery, and the farmers market is right across the street, so butternut was handily acquired.

The mixture did not boil over the top of my too-small pot. The blender did not erupt with scalding soup. And when I took my first taste…it was perfect.

God, I can cook. The astonishment could wear off, maybe.

Tonight, I’m making pork loin and homemade beer-bread stuffing (adapted from this recipe).

Maybe I’ll settle in for a couple hours of work before I start in on dinner; I’ve officially done nothing to generate income today. The rent’s paid through the end of November…

For all the reasons I’m cooking right now, I think there’s one that tops them all: In my head, spending hours on a single meal somehow makes it okay not to be writing. Which is where I’m funneling my fear now.

My words have gotten me in trouble lately; if I’m not pissing someone off, then no one is really paying attention. There was once a happy medium. Writing leaves a bad taste in my mouth and an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach; I dread sitting down to write as much as I do going to the gym to burn off all this food.

My fears of squandering time and money dissipate with every meal I make; I actually look forward to the challenge, because it’s one I feel I have control over. Pulling that fresh loaf of bread out of the oven doesn’t leave me emotionally exhausted. Even if I screw up the meal, at least I’ll have tried. I’ll at least have something to show for my efforts. Even if there’s a big mess to clean up when I’m done cooking…at least it’s well contained. At least it’s just my mess. People don’t get angry when you make them dinner.

The shopping, the chopping, the first taste from a wooden spoon, the whole meal arranged on a plate — this all feels safe and warm for the moment, makes me feel like I’m growing as a person. Writing doesn’t bring me joy right now, and I’m trying to be okay with that. Creativity ebbs and flows. Needs can change like the weather.

To everything there is a season.
A seasoning.
Pass the pepper, please.

9 comments

I shall call him Squishy.

March 9, 2011

Thank you to P&G’s Have You Tried This Yet? program and Kroger for sponsoring my writing about trying new things and breaking out of my everyday routine. Click here to find great savings on high-performing P&G products at a Kroger store near you. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

It’s pretty common knowledge that I was never really happy with my decision to attend the University of Kansas.
As high school neared its close, and my perfect SAT–scoring, International Baccalaureate genius friends fanned out to various Ivy League and other top-tier institutions, and I prepared to spend the next four years of my life at Miami of Ohio, in a postage-stamp town called Oxford, I suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Kansas.
(Truthfully, I didn’t even want high school to end; those were the four happiest years of my life.)
So I slithered back to the admissions department at the University of Kansas and begged them to find me a spot to live somewhere in the residence halls. I enrolled at Shawnee Mission East, the sequel, and I was miserable. I didn’t even try. All I could think was, “My friends are out there, living, and I’m stuck here.”
Killer of a self-fulfilling prophecy. No — a self-defeating prophecy.

But the summer after my sophomore year, I made plans to try something new. I moved to Philadelphia for the summer. I landed an internship and was going to learn the ropes of the big city and spend time with my best girlfriend, who I’d missed terribly since she left for UPenn.
As it turned out, the internship was unpaid (and my wallet had been stolen by the end of the summer), my “big city” apartment was actually on the fringe of the ghetto, and my best friend had other plans for the summer.
But life had other plans for me, too, in human form; those plans careened one night into the restaurant where I was hosting, wearing Rollerblades and a black do-rag. Those plans were named Kenrick.

Kenrick took me to see Finding Nemo the first time we hung out. He started calling me “my squishy,” and I never tired of it.
He was an actor, and a couple of years older than me. He was already 21, knew about wine and could convince any customer to get a bottle of the Amarone, and he sold more side dishes and desserts than I ever thought possible.
On one of our first dates, we had Mexican food in a hole-in-the-wall cantina in Old City, just off the Delaware River. (I was underage and we had margaritas anyway; he could walk into any restaurant like he owned the place. I wasn’t getting carded.) We strolled through the city that steamy summer evening; he regaled me with stories of his Philadelphia life so far.
He talked a lot. But the stories were interesting: He had been a high school outcast in Mennonite country; he was studying fight choreography and taking trapeze lessons out in the suburbs. So I listened.

It was an education.

As we made our way back toward his place — we cut down Smedley Street, still my favorite block in the entire universe — we zig-zagged to South Street for my first-ever mojito in a dark basement bar, then stopped elsewhere for dessert. Flan, I think. And always more drinks.
I stayed up until 2 or 3 a.m. every night, drinking life in. Most nights, we shared the tiny twin bed in his apartment, all streaky purple- and maroon-painted walls with curtains for doors, and a kitchen stuffed to the ceiling with dishes and strange ingredients and cooking implements. We watched his favorite movie, The Princess Bride, on a tiny TV over the hum of the window air conditioner.

I got up early the next morning for work, barely conscious, and did it all again the next day.

That summer, thanks to him, I discovered red wine. Our restaurant sold a bottle with a beautiful label emblazoned with a feather, the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted; I spent months seeking it out when I returned to Kansas.
Near Rittenhouse Square, there’s a dangerous little shop called Di Bruno Brothers — just down the street from the equally treacherous Scoop de Ville — that sells cheese. And charcuterie. And about 50 kinds of olives. And quince paste, and about a million other beautiful things I’d never tasted until that summer.

Peter Frampton performed as we watched the fireworks in the park by the Art Museum on the 4th of July. I’d never seen such colors before.

I was in love — truly in awe, for the first time — with him and everything about the life he showed me during those few short months.
He made me who I am today: the giddy foodie and wine ingénue, the city girl who forgets how to say no sometimes, the overspender, the life lover.
I owe my good taste to Kenrick.

10 comments

I Wish Lessons: Make sushi with me!

March 3, 2011

Do you live in Chicago?
Wanna hang out?

I like to pronounce this "kick-a-man" because that makes me smile.

Well, if you’re free on Monday and can write a haiku, it’s totally possible: I Wish Lessons let me put together a contest to give away a free entry ($50 value! BALLER!) to the March 7 sushi basics class at Trace.
That’s right: I will go to Wrigleyville if you promise to hang out with me.

Head to my latest blog at I Wish Lessons for more information.

While you’re at it, maybe you should like them on Facebook or follow them on Twitter.
Or something.

Anyway, I have some huge news.
But I can’t tell you yet.
So go write a damn haiku instead.

7 comments

DishKebab: Love and deep fryers.

February 23, 2011

So, in addition to all the other stuff I do, I also write about food once a month on a little blog called DishKebab, which is run by the Rewards Network.

They pay me. It’s neat.

There’s an archive of them on my site, with links! It’s up there, under the Food heading. This month’s blog is about the Sunday dinner I had with my friends Gayle and Rachel at Nana’s in Bridgeport.

Valentine’s Day: Love and Deep Fryers.

BONUS: Here’s us at dinner! Yeah!