It might not be too late...

It's time for my second annual post before we roll this decade up and toss it into the time capsule.

What a year! Mind expanding, really. New houses, new lessons, new foods.

I once read an article that said if you hadn't tasted something by your middle twenties it drastically decreased the probability that you would try it and, more significantly, enjoy it. It makes a lot of sense, although most of the things I've decided that I don't like have come from trying them (tapioca being the exception) well before my mid-twenties. I think of myself as open-minded but there are a few things that are unequivocal deal breakers when I'm trying to build a relationship with the plate in front of me:

Tapioca pudding or balls - forget about it. I respect it because it's a root. But that's a textural problem that I'll never get over. See also: Jell-O which I have even less respect for because it comes from horse toenails (and the colors are shocking) .

Cilantro - I was told I was lacking an enzyme to really appreciate this noble herb, although this NY Times article explains it differently.

Butter cookies - boring

Vanilla ice cream - ditto

Papaya - this is my personal durian fruit, skunky and funky with hints of ripe cheese. Sometimes I gag just thinking about it.

American Cheese - it's probably unAmerican to hate it, but I think it speaks volumes about our self-righteous, modifications to things that we leave in inferior shape to how we found them. See also: Agribusiness

Fowl - the meat of most birds is stringy, it reminds me of what it would be like to eat people. Sorry if I just ruined it for you.

Fruit in any kind of gelatinous stabilizer. See also: yogurt parfaits (by proxy) and "fruit filled" chocolate truffles.

It's a weird list, admittedly. We humans are a strange group and preferences are tough to get beyond. But I have to say I was pleasantly impressed with myself when I took two items that previously occupied spaces on that list and bumped them into my Garden of Eatin' (insert trademark sign here).

Are you ready for this?

....mayonnaise and diver sea scallops (this does not include small bay scallops, I still don't like those).

Mayonnaise occupies a challenging corner of the culinary space for lots of folks. Eggs and oil emulsified into a jiggly blob; as a long time disliker, I get it. Put simply, it's gross. My entree into the world of mayonnaise can be exclusively attributed to a pricey product from Spectrum made with organic eggs and organic Arabequina olive oil. The texture is silky, the flavor opens up with a strong enough hit of acidic brightness that the fat is cut on your tongue. It's something that deserves to be on a sandwich, or have artichoke leaves dipped into, or to spread on beefy slices of summer's tastiest heirloom tomatoes. That being said, I'm proceeding down the mayonnaise path with fair caution. But I am proud to say that I opened my mind and palate to this new thing, even after I past my middle twenties. Here's my favorite way to enjoy mayo:

That's a fried egg sandwich Assassinites (I just coined that for you multitudes of readers *dad*) with a notable mayo layer beneath that pooling drippy ray of yolk sunshine.

Scallops were a risk, a whim, and a surprising win. Living in Mendocino I can't just bop into any old affordable yet tasty restaurant any old time. The pickings up here are slim, alright pizza or fancy feasts without much in between. We fail in all ethnic categories. Periodically, I tire of cooking the same fresh, seasonal, locally foraged produce in more or less the same style and begin craving variation. This is where my occasional acknowledgement of vegaquarian tendencies kicks in. Sea scallops are readily available here and affordable when cooking for one or a few. My protest against scallops historically had more to do with texture than taste. In restaurants they can be (and nearly always are without exception) stringy or rubbery, reminiscent of chicken breast. They often come suspended in sauces that only serve to highlight them like little sponges afloat on the sea. It turns out, through unlikely experimentation, I like them flash seared in an uncouth amount of butter. And it helps to salt and pepper them and let them rest for half an hour on the counter before throwing them into the pan. My favorite way to eat them is on top of a salad with apples, fennel, grapefruit, and a light peppery green like arugula. For dressing, just deglaze that buttery pan with a crisp white wine and then mix with a little vinger (I used blackberry vinegar once and it was a real game changer) or lemon, a dash of salt and drizzle away on that pile of snappy fruits and greens.

Here's your associated eye candy:

In closing, it's mighty gray out there, don't forget to take your vitamin D.

2010 Decade of Spice

I fancy myself a lover of spice. For years now I've been adding red pepper flakes, Burn Baby Burn (all proceeds go to the Huey P. Newton Foundation - put your fist in the air), jalapenos and whatever other fiery bit I can get my hands on into whatever it is I am eating. Spaghetti sauce, you bet. Stir fry, most def. Lentil soup, no doubt about it. If it's going into my mouth, chances are the heat is on. And if you are fortunate enough to be sharing a meal with me, it’s highly unlikely I'll take your heat tolerance into consideration (unless you are five years old or younger). In short, good luck to ya.

The military maintains the philosophy that when someone is confronted with all their worst fears it will help eliminate them. Hence, in training they get you wetter and colder and more sleep deprived and more sore than you've ever been and then explode stuff near you - just to show you that you are strong enough to survive it and even, in some cases, be high functioning. I pretty much subscribe to this philosophy when building a tolerance to spicy foods.

My gauntlet of sorts took place in 2002, in Thailand, in a boat, amidst the well known floating market. At the time I was staying firmly convicted about my vegaquarian eating habits and moving through that country on a diet of rice and noodles with a green veggie or two and maybe a reconstituted fish ball now and again. It meant I missed out on certain delectable dishes like coagulated pig’s blood soup, a bummer, but I rolled with it. My habits were annoying to street vendors who would give me the curious "why's a farong like you not eating meat?" look and then serve me noodles or rice suspended in oil with chilies.

I had managed on that diet fairly well. I was popping acidophilus pills to keep the good flora neutralizing the new water and food bacteria I kept introducing to my intestines. The success rate had been quite high. And then we went to the floating market.

If you do a Google search for the Damnoen Saduak floating market, there is no shortage of images. In all of them you will see narrow, hollowed out boats, coasting under the weight of brightly colored fruits and vegetables, fabric, ceramics, toys, woks, you name it, it’s floating and being steered by folks of all ages and genders moving slowly and smoothly, a veritable soft core, bumper boat experience. The other thing you may universally observe is the color of the water: brown, green, murky, and fairly still except for the movement inspired by the boats…no one is swimming although upstreaming someone may be using the river as a toilet.

It’s a very sweet and unique experience that I highly recommend. What I don’t recommend (unless your stomach is lined with stainless steel), and you may have enough common sense for this to not ever cross your mind, is hitting up the soup boat as she passes. The base of many soups is water and when you are floating on a river full of the stuff chances are the cook isn’t hauling it from somewhere else. And that’s how I ended up with a steaming bowlful of river water soup filled with rice noodles and, for lack of ingredients other than meat (to the dismay of the soup maker), four heaping scoops of chili flakes. A wiser person might have assessed the situation and thought better. Not me….when in Rome.

I was determined to get through that bowl: to not waste food, to eat something authentic, to not be a prissy tourist. My mouth was aflame, it seemed probable that whatever water bugs I was sucking down were being killed instantly by the acid fire coursing through my digestive tract. I made it through to the last noodle, returned the bowl to the soup lady and continued bumper boating for the remainder of the hour, sweating in the muggy air with a full belly.

That evening, back in Bangkok, we found ourselves headed to an Indian restaurant searching out dinner. The feeling hit me four steps outside the door as we approached. I can’t remember ever walking to the table, just making a B line for the bathroom. I remember little about that room, maybe a slatted wood door that I stared at as the world melted around me and liquid fire exited my shocked system. I was sweating, hunched over, light headed and the blood had certainly drained from my face. Minutes passed with the passing of all my insides. On fire.

When I finally made it back to the table I was on the green side. And it was obvious. But I had survived what probably remains one of my lowest travel moments – and it wasn’t even that low. Our memory likes to whitewash trauma. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so much hurt in the stomach, and yet, it passed and I managed to back it up with another meal within the hour. And I proved to myself that four scoops of chili was digestible and not deathly. That was the turning point.

There’s no going back. I’d like to think that now, after years of spice and liquid fire making a home inside of me, if confronted again with river water chili soup I could handle it and might not even get temporarily crippled.

Here’s to being high functioning in the heat of battle.