This isn’t Fussy’s Fuzzy Navel. The trick for that would be to find a great brand of peach schnapps. Maybe one exists, but I can’t say I’ve been in much of a rush to find one. I suppose the closest I might come would be squeezing and straining some Florida oranges into a glass and mixing it with Harvest Spirits’ Peach Jack.
But that’s a far cry from the original low-alcohol refresher.
Bastardizations of cocktails abound. Some are worse than others. The crimes that have been perpetrated against the simple and elegant Martini are uncountable. Mojitos aren’t far behind. Folks can’t seem to understand that a Dark and Stormy can only be Gosling’s Black Seal Rum and Barritt’s Ginger Beer (there is no lime). And now people are starting to tinker with the venerable Negroni. Where will it end?
Still, there is something bothering me more than those who would take something as tropical and refreshing as the mojito and fill it with sweet and sticky liqueurs. It bothers me more than the vodka aisle in the liquor store starting to look like a candy shop. Salted caramel vodka? Does anyone over 21 buy that stuff besides Albany Jane?
No, the thing that is keeping me up at night are the bastardizations that I find acceptable.
It’s been over a month since my last reconciliation. That means I’ve been in New Jersey, New York (including a visit to Flushing), Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania (twice). On top of all the travel, I’ve loaded and unloaded a truck filled with my family’s worldly possessions (twice).
Later today it’s Hoffman’s Playland. Before you know it I’ll be in a cabin by a lake in the Poconos. Then it’s some time on the farm, my cousin’s wedding weekend in New Hampshire, and with any luck I’ll be able to find some time for a few days in East Hampton.
Summer is fun, but it’s crazy busy.
No wonder there hasn’t been time to answer all of your questions. And there have been a lot. But I am committed to answering every question that is asked in the comments section of the FLB, just so long as it uses proper punctuation. So without any further ado, let’s get to it.
That crappy gas grill I bought last week? It’s still in the box.
Not because I’m not excited to give it a whirl. I’m kind of looking forward to charring some vegetables on the fire. But for starters, I’ve been busy. Also, it’s also been raining. Plus, there’s the sticky issue of having no vegetables to cook.
Sure, I could just run out to Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Honest Weight, or any of the local farmers markets. Or I could arrange a Field Goods account, place an order with Farmie Market, or simply just walk to the Barber’s Farm truck that is a regular fixture around my neighborhood. Not to mention the Price Chopper, Shop Rite, Hannaford, or Walmart produce sections which are all only a few minutes away.
But no. Instead I was just sitting around a barren kitchen bemoaning the fact that this would be the second year in a row that I missed signing up for a CSA share with my favorite local farm. Incredibly, my salvation came from a reader named Sarah.
I’m beginning to see the light. This calls for a song.
It also calls for a get together. You can call it a meet-up, or maybe a social if you prefer. But whatever word you use, I’d love to try and get a few of you out of your homes and away from your screens for a few minutes next week to join me in enjoying something cold and sweet.
Sure, I still have stuff in boxes. But progress is being made. Things are being put away. Meals are being cooked in the kitchen. Bills are being paid. Broken things are being fixed or replaced. But there is a lot of food stuff to catch up on from my sabbatical.
For example, I missed three tours. The last cider donut tour happened without me. I was absent for the Troy edition of the Tour de Buffalo wing. And I had to read about the Tour de FroYo from New Jersey.
Turns out that I wasn’t the only one who read about the Tour de FroYo. One of the more promising runner-ups reached out and wanted to do a little something special for readers of the FLB. So, here is what we’re going to do.
Pizza comes in many forms. Some dispute this and say New York thin crust is the one true pizza style. But that’s ridiculous.
That would leave the blistered pizza napoletana of Napoli, the coal fired apizza of New Haven, the red streaked tomato pies of Trenton, and the cheese stuffed deep dish of Chicago out in the cold. And what about Old Forge, Pennsylvania, which proclaims itself to be the pizza capital of the world?
I had been to Old Forge once to try their rectangular pizza with its sweet tomato sauce and unique cheese-blend topping. But it was many years ago, and I can’t even remember which of the town’s many pizza joints we visited.
The time had come to finally commit to a broad tasting of Old Forge style pizza. So with the guidance of NEPA Pizza Review and the iron stomach of Albany Jane, I think I now have a solid sense of the style. All it took was nine slices of pizza from five different places. And then of course we stopped at two other pizza joints in New York for dessert on the way home.
It’s been a while since there was a song to go along with a post. Here’s the one for today.
All the food books are unpacked. They were easy, because I have one bookcase that’s dedicated to the subject. And I try to keep it fairly well organized. Reference books go on top, cookbooks on the bottom, and food prose goes in the middle.
Food prose? Sure. That where titles like The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Extra Virginity, and An Economist Gets Lunch live. But also on that shelf is a thinner, less famous history of gin, simply titled, Gin. That is a delightful and informative volume in The Edible Series by Lesley Jacobs Solmonson.
Among other things, she is half of the 12 Bottle Bar team. Perhaps you remember them from a while back. Lesley and her husband David had the ingenious idea of suggesting that classic cocktails need not be complicated. Together they launched a blog where the duo limited themselves to just twelve bottles, and crafted really well-written posts about all of the drinks you can make with this limited arsenal of spirits, bitters, and vermouths.
In just a few weeks, the 12 Bottle Bar is taking a huge step. It’s leaping off the internet and into a published book. And you’ll never guess what else.
Electric stoves seem like such a terrible idea. The world is a big place. I guess there are some people in it who get excited about such things. Maybe it’s the clean lines of the appliance. Perhaps these folks have an irrational fear of gas. Or, I suppose, they are good for places where natural gas isn’t available.
Sadly, we have an electric stove. The kitchen isn’t set up for gas. Sure, we can redo the kitchen to run a gas line for a stove. But that’s a project we’re just not ready to undertake right now.
During the sabbatical, however, I was cooking with gas. And that was absolutely essential for blistering eggplant to make baba ganoush. Now that I’m back to electric, I have to re-learn how to cook. For example, I knew how hot my high output gas burner would get the cast iron skillet when cranked up all the way. But I have no idea how long it takes an electric coil to get fully hot on the number six dial setting.
Transitions are tough.
In part because I need some way to char my eggplants, and in part because I miss cooking with gas, I’ve just done the unthinkable.