Dilly of a Pickle Recession Cukes

I've wanted to incorporate video into Eats of Eden for months, and I've always planned to do it with canning.  Thanks to my sous chef/videographer husband and the inauguration of the season, it's now a reality!  See below for a little mini-pep talk on canning.



The recipe I use is out of the Ball Blue Book of Preserving.  If you are going to can anything, ever, then you have to have this on your bookshelf.  It covers all of the basic recipes you could think up - jams, jellies, chutneys, pickles, fruits and vegetables - alongside detailed and illustrated processing instructions, prep and safety tips, and other indispensable information.  

Remember that there are SO many ways to safely experiment and play in the kitchen with savory dishes and baking... but canning is NOT the place to go off-book.  Canning recipes are carefully tested for safety and balance, ensuring that foods will have enough acid and cooking time to become shelf-stable.  If you want to get your hands on some very creative canning recipes, you're now in luck - there are more modern, culinary-conscious cookbooks out there than ever before.  In other words, these ain't your grandma's preserves.  My favorite right now is the Williams-Sonoma Art of Preserving book.  It's available right now at Costco, and includes both canning/preserving recipes alongside recipes that use your new canned goods.

Always remember:
-to wash your equipment before use.  Run the jars, lids and rings through your hottest dishwasher setting, and keep them on a fresh, clean towel to fill.
-to keep rings and lids in simmering water on the stove until the moment you use them.
-to never reuse rings; seals are only fresh once.
-to test all of your goods' seals with the "click test".  If the lid bounces up and down to the touch, it hasn't sealed, and isn't shelf-stable.  If they don't seal, you can still keep them in your fridge for about a month to use.
-that you're not going to save any money canning, contrary to popular belief.  It's fun, not frugal. 
-to share!  Half the fun is impressing family, friends and random coworkers with your gorgeous handiwork.

Dilly of a Pickle Recession Dills
6 pounds of pickling cukes, washed and drained
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup canning salt
1 quart white vinegar
1 quart water
3 tablespoons pickling spice
Dried red peppers
Peeled garlic cloves
Bay leaves
1 large bunch of dill

Combine sugar, salt, vinegar, pickling spice and water in a large saucepot.  Simmer 15 minutes.   Place 1 garlic clove, 1 bay leaf, 2 dried peppers, and 1 sprig of dill in each jar.  Pack with cucumbers.  Ladle cooking liquid into jars, leaving 1/4 inch headspace.  Adjust two-piece caps.  Process pints and quarts 15 minutes in a boiling water canner.

Windfall

Apparently last weekend there was a big shindig cookouts for the higher-ups in my company.  Not being a higher-up, or a mid-up, or really facing upward in general, I was not a part of this fete.  But when I found out there was leftover crab brought in, I got up and over to the fridge.

How often do I have crab?  Probably twice a year, at restaurants I'm lucky enough to accompany someone to.  I've only cooked with it once before, a splurge of crab cakes Matt and I cooked up when we were still living in Hillsboro during the latter Bush years.  The recipe was a little bready, and I couldn't get a great sear with the Target-issue electric skillet we used for almost every meal.  But for free, I'm always willing to try again.

I concocted my meal plan while talking to Lisa, who was also snagging a gallon Ziploc worth of loot.  "What can I do with it?"  she wanted to know.

"You could treat it like tuna fish," I said, drawing from the sweltering weather that made stoves and electric skillets vastly unappealing, and trying to verbally pass on a recipe without being overly complicated.  "A little mayo and lemon juice on a hot dog roll.  That's how they eat it in Maine."  Actually it's how they eat lobster, and it's only because of a distant Cooking Light magazine that I know that.  But who's counting?

"I've got hamburger buns," she said, "this'll be great!"

I think, if I could come home from work every day and smash crustaceans with a meat tenderizer, I could probably ditch the Prozac.  Smash!  Crack!  Tear!  Your reward?  Nuggets of precious sea-fed flesh, ready to pop into the bowl or right into your mouth.  Matt came by to try his hand at it, but he can never get a carcass as clean as I can.  I know all the nooks and crannies on a Costco rotisserie chicken, like those little oysters on the back near the thighs.  I lick my rib racks down to the marrow, shaking my head at his pile of wasted delicious opportunity.

Fresh crab is such a contradiction.  Light, yet rich.  Flavorful, but impressionable.  Sweet with a kick of salt.  Overflowing from one claw, absent from the next.  It's so different from any of the usual protein subjects: beef (ground), chicken (breasts), pork (chops).  It even eclipses the "exotics": steak, salmon, the rare shrimp, experimentation with tofu, a sinful meal highlighting the virtues of bacon. 

After I got through annihilating my catch, I mixed in a few tablespoons of mayonnaise, a couple more of light sour cream, lemon juice, green onion, Penzey's Sandwich Sprinkle, and a good shake of Tabasco sauce.  Spread on a pedestrian hamburger bun, it induced a fit of eye-rolling and moans.  Simple, but sinful.  Those clawful creatures are just full of surprises.

Living the Dream

I hate that phrase.  Especially when people use it at work.  "Hey, how's it going, Bob in Accounting?"  "You know, just livin' the dream!"  Really?  That's your dream?  Filing purchase orders and fielding bitchy customer phone calls is "the dream"?  What a sad recessionista world it's become.

But sometimes, when you have a dream worth dreaming, and you find yourself living in it, well... those are just the best nights there are.

I knew Heather and Chandler were coming over for dinner Saturday night.  A little celebration for Heather's last day of corporate slavery, and the first time we'd gotten together couple-to-couple in a long time.  It was the first nice, hot day in a long stretch of overcast summer sabotage.  I wanted to make something special, something fresh and seasonal and close-to-home.  It seemed like the perfect time to bring out our cryogenically preserved salmon friend.  You know, the one my father in law caught on the river this spring.  Our tomatoes are going crazy, so I wanted to feature them as well.  I remember Ina Garten making panzanella salad for some ridiculous manufactured Hamptons party on the beach, so I thought that would probably be good.  I do adore her recipes. 

Matt had to work on Saturday, which allowed me to do my grocery shopping solo--a blessing and a curse.  It's lonely going into Tigard all by yourself (feels like driving to work...), but at least I don't have to listen to someone critiquing my ingredient choices and asking a million menu questions.  I got to go to Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, and tried to stay on shopping list task, but they had this lady sampling local strawberries in the produce section.  I didn't even know strawberries were still growing in August, but maybe since we've had such an October-esque summer so far they're going later.  They were the best berries I've had all year, so I had to buy a pint of those.  And I felt bad for Matt working all day, so I bought him some microbrews.  Sadly, I had to pass on getting that gorgeous hat that still keeps taunting me :(

I stuffed the unsuspecting salmon with a fresh goat cheese log I mixed with minced rosemary, diced green onions, and the juice of half a lemon.  I layered that with lemon slices and rosemary sprigs, and a heavy rub of salt and pepper.

While prepping him up, I had the strongest urge to start playing puppet with his grouchy fish mouth.  Once my fingers got close to his lips, however, I flinched away.  Something in his eyes... I just had visions of him somehow jumping to life (after the catch, and the full gutting, and the 3 months in the chest freezer) and biting my fingers off.  His head remained, to the end, blissfully unmolested.

The panzanella salad was refreshingly easy, just a lot of therapeutic chopping. You toast the bread with olive oil in a saute pan, which gives it a nice, crunchy texture and olive oil flavor without making it a total crouton.  You still maintain some of the bread's true texture. 

It took two planks to stretch the length of the salmon on the grill.  An impossible task on our old Patio Caddy, but now an entire world of barbecuery has opened up.  The goat cheese developed a golden crust yielding to a molten velvet warm cheese sandwiched between buttery fish fillet.  Slicing it up to serve was probably the most delicious task I've had in ages (actually up until tonight, but that's a story for the next blog). 

The meal was relatively simple, and didn't take me all day to make.  Still, I can't pick out much that would have tasted better on a 100 degree day.

It was too hot to eat out on the ghetto patio dining table I'd erected under our shady tree (the 1970's green card table my parents still haven't re-claimed from Thanksgiving covered with a Target tablecloth and surrounded with our super-comfy patio chairs), but by the time we were ready to roll with Heather's blackberry cobbler, the temperature was hovering in the 70's.  We all sat around the table, with tealights and tiki torches, inhaling cool berry cobbler and gorging on conversation.  The stars began to come out in full force, uninhibited in our clean country sky. 

As I caught a falling star shooting across the center of the galaxy, I realized I'd finally gotten exactly what I wanted out of a house.  A gorgeous place to share love in all its forms -- food, comfort, conversation, friendship.  I may not have my s'mores party fire pit or tile-topped table yet, but I've got beautiful friends and a mean recipe for panzanella salad.  At last, we're living the dream.

Ina Garten's Snobby Outdoor Party Panzanella

• 3 tablespoons good olive oil
• 1 small French bread or boule, cut into 1-inch cubes (6 cups)
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 2 large, ripe tomatoes, cut into 1-inch cubes
• 1 hothouse cucumber, unpeeled, seeded, and sliced 1/2-inch thick
• 1 red bell pepper, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes
• 1 yellow bell pepper, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes
• 1/2 red onion, cut in 1/2 and thinly sliced
• 20 large basil leaves, coarsely chopped
• 3 tablespoons capers, drained

For the vinaigrette:

nocoupons

• 1 teaspoon finely minced garlic
• 1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 3 tablespoons Champagne vinegar
• 1/2 cup good olive oil
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Directions

Heat the oil in a large saute pan. Add the bread and salt; cook over low to medium heat, tossing frequently, for 10 minutes, or until nicely browned. Add more oil as needed.

For the vinaigrette, whisk all the ingredients together.

In a large bowl, mix the tomatoes, cucumber, red pepper, yellow pepper, red onion, basil, and capers. Add the bread cubes and toss with the vinaigrette. Season liberally with salt and pepper. Serve, or allow the salad to sit for about half an hour for the flavors to blend.

The Whole Enchilada

It seems that everyone has the best recipe for enchiladas.  Even Matt has his own cinnamon-fueled specialty rounding out his culinary repertoire (alongside bratwurst spaghetti, ghetto-style alfredo and cube steaks).  My recipe comes from my mother, who found it in a country-style cookbook.  I first had them at her house when we were visiting, when she always pulls out all the stops.  She used Cougar Gold cheese, which made the most sharp and creamy version I have ever met.  I've held a thick slab or tin of it in my hand on several occasions since, unable to justify the investment.  I got spoiled on specialty cheese during my food marketing days, like the post-food show $100 macaroni and cheese I threw together with 1/4 wheels of Ossau-Iraty, Beechers Flagship, Comte and Rembrandt.  After realizing how much the commoners pay for 1/2 pound of Jarlsberg, I faced a huge Catch-22: no money for good cheese, and no taste for bad cheese. 

I would sing the virtues of fabulous cheese all day long, but a wedge doesn't go far, and I certainly can't keep my deli drawer constantly stocked with artisan specimens all the time.  Not since I left the company handing out half-wheels of Manchego after a food show like leftover pizza post-manager meeting in a typical office.  But if you're having a very beloved guests over, you'll never beat tin-packed Cougar Gold in these enchiladas.

Random side note:  Today I was at Whole Foods and I was thinking about burrata.  Oh burrata.  It looks like a mozzarella ball, but when you cut into it, you find a creamy, ricotta-like curd that spreads like velvet across tomatoes and strawberries.  There is no better cheese for mid-August.  I asked at the cheese counter, as they sliced huge hunks of emmentaler, "do you have Burrata?"

"Yes, he'll show you where it is," she says, pointing me in the direction of a tall, dark, geeky-sexy cheese guy that I totally wanted to talk tallegio with.  He removes a delicate green leaf-wrapped cheese, placing it right into my hand. 

"There you are, burrata."

$9.99 burrata.  $9.99 for a cheese that was completely off my menu plan.

"Will you have this next week?"  I ask, putting it back on the shelf.  "My tomatoes aren't quite ripe yet."

2nd cheap-ass move at Bridgeport Village Whole Foods in a week.  I ooze class.

My everyday version may sport pedestrian Tillamook cheddar, but the filling is still creamy and delicious.  This is a great dish to have in your pocket for potlucks... if you can condescend to trying it over YOUR recipe.  Speaking of the recipe.  I had the little recipe card I copied it onto sitting on the counter, but I did a major recycle-n-sort this morning.  I think it may have become a casualty.  Luckily, Matt's begged me to make them enough times that I THINK I can remember it.  Watch out, your favorite recipes are one cleaning spree away from death. 

Cheesy Chicken Enchiladas
2 cups rotisserie chicken, picked off in little pieces (get one at Costco!  They're the best and the cheapest!!)
2 cups semi-hard cheese (Cougar Gold if you can, Sharp Tillamook Cheddar if you can't)
1/2 onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
Vegetable Oil
1 cup sour cream, plus additional for topping
1 small can diced fire-roasted chiles
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp salt
8 flour tortillas
1 can of enchilada sauce (Matt insists Rosarita is the best, but I like the Trader Joe's kind myself)

Warm vegetable oil in a large skillet on medium.  Add onion and garlic and saute until softened, about 5 minutes.  Add chicken, sour cream, chiles, cumin, chili powder and salt.  Reduce heat to low and stir, allowing to heat through.  Remove from heat.  Fill each tortilla with about 1/2 a cup of filling, and top with cheese.  Roll, and place in a pan prepared with 1/3 the enchilada sauce poured on the bottom.  Continue for all the tortillas.  Top with remaining enchilada sauce and cheese.  Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes, uncovered.  Remove from heat.  Top with sour cream, then bake for 8 more minutes.  Serve, and top with guacamole if you want a real treat.  It might make up for the fact that you cheaped out on the cheese.

Freak Pasta

Every once and a while, you surprise yourself.

I was so surprised, I didn’t even bother taking any porn shots of my—hmm, let’s see.  How about Shrimp Garden Pasta.  It was an accident, a fluke, a chance.  A product of not wanting to go out into the garage and grab a chest freezer pack of chicken thighs.  I bought those Schwan’s shrimp, I reminded myself as I dashed out the door.  Make a pasta.

When I got home, I plucked the reddest tomatoes from the bionic Early Girl vines.  They’re ripening exponentially; cordon bleu day, one.  The next day, two.  Three.  Four. A whole seven had crimsoned in today’s muggy sun.  I sliced them up alongside a Whole Foods zucchini, seasoned with hazelnut oil, salt and pepper and cooked on the Griddler.  The sauce took shape in the All Clad pan, with two cloves of minced garlic softened in canola oil (I’ve been out of olive oil for like three weeks, and I’m just too spoiled to buy it retail). 

P.S., I totally humiliated myself at Whole Foods at lunch.  I saw this beautiful, huge-brimmed hat near the door, and read the tag at $9.99.  Nice!  At the register it rang up as $35.99, and knowing that I could not spend $35.99 on a hat, had to sheepishly give it back. AFTER I had ripped the tag off and crowned myself with it.  The guy was typical  Whole Foods gracious – “no worries!  I got a guy who puts tags back on” – but feeling like a peasant at Lake Oswego Whole Foods is not becoming. 

I added some unloved white wine from the fridge, the sliced garden tomatoes, butter, a little hazelnut oil, dried basil, lemon zest, salt and pepper.  The aroma was fresh, sharp and citrusy.  

To stave off a known cooking disaster, such as last night's homemade pizza with wheat flour kerfuffle, I made Matt turkey paninis and macaroni and cheese.  But once he heard my "oh my god" exclamations, he got curious.  

"That is good!"  He agreed, taking another bite. 

Usually my impromptu pastas are ok, but not something I'd brag (or blog) about.  But I have to at least write this down for a next time.  Tomorrow already looks more promising, knowing a Tupperware of love awaits.  

Shrimp Garden Pasta

1 package dry spaghetti

1/2 bag Schwan's Caesar Shrimp

1 cup fresh sliced tomatoes

1 cup white wine that you probably used for risotto before this

1 zucchini, sliced and grilled

2 tablespoons canola oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons hazelnut oil

1 teaspoon lemon zest

Juice of 1/2 lemon

Penzey's Brady Street Cheese Sprinkle

1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Salt and Pepper

Boil noodles.  Heat canola oil over medium-high heat, add garlic and saute until softened, about 4 minutes.  As it gets golden and aromatic, add the wine.  Allow to cook for 2 minutes, then add tomatoes, butter, hazelnut oil, lemon zest, dried basil, salt and pepper.  Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and allow to thicken for about 10 minutes.  

Toss the sauce, pasta, cooked Schwan's shrimp, grilled zucchini, lemon juice, cheese and a good sprinkling of Brady Street Cheese Sprinkle along with salt and pepper to taste.  

I can't wait until the heirloom tomatoes come in and make these dishes all colorful and fancy.  Maybe I can get some glamour shots then.

Update:  Enjoying the fruits of leftover labor!

A Weekend in Paris

Beast is not the kind of restaurant you're a "regular" at (unless you're making serious bank and living in the Concordia district).  It's the place a guy takes you if he really wants in your pants.  Or to marry you.  Or it's your birthday, and you have people around that are good planners.  Or your fabulous Bellevue friend Brynne comes to town, and fate sits you down at the last two seats on Saturday night.

I called Paley's Place and Park Kitchen first, all booked up.  I called Beast on a whim, and took the last 2 reservations for the night.  It was an hour until the first (of only two) seatings, so we rushed out the door and out toward Northeast Portland.

Another perfect example of what I'd mentioned in my Petite Provence post, this area has changed a lot.  When Brynne and I first visited this street, it was seven years ago.  I was auditioning for a theater scholarship with Concordia's now-defunct progam, and we stopped for lunch at the cafe on Killingsworth and 30th.  Then the Dahlia Cafe, the space is now the Cup and Saucer Cafe (stupid name, better food), the scary convenience/liquor store has vanished and the animal-rights group's low-rent headquarters is now crimson-colored Beast.  The Garmin took us to Alberta, so we had a walk in heels down to the minimally-signaged restaurant (Brynne was able to spot the big B crowning the small inlet). 

Two long, communal tables flanked the open kitchen and assembly prep area, with our two (painful) chairs waiting.  The menu was printed on small cards at each seat:
CHILLED ZUCHINNI AND YOGURT SOUP
WITH MINT SALSA VERDE AND FAVA TOAST
DROIN CHABLIS 1 ER CRU MONTMAINS 2008 BURGUNDY, FRANCE
FOIE-GRAS BON-BON, SAUTERNES GELEÉ
STEAK TARTARE & QUAIL EGG TOAST
CHICKEN LIVER MOUSSE & PICKLED SHALLOT
BLOOD SAUSAGE WITH SUMMER CHANTRELLES
PORK SHOULDER RILETTES WITH SEVILLE MARMALADE
BOTT-GEYL RIESLING LES ELEMENTS 2008 ALSACE, FRANCE

BRASIED THUNDERING HOOVES BEEF CHEEKS
SAUTEED CUCUMBERS AND BABY ONIONS
HORSERADISH CREAM
DOMAINE MONTIRIUS VACQUEYRAS GARRIGUES 2007 RHONE VALLEY, FRANCE
EARLY GIRL TOMATO & BABY OAK LEAF SALAD
GARLICY CROUTONS & RED WINE VINAIGRETTE
8 MINUTE EGG
BONNELIERE CHINON ROSE 2009 LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
~SELECTION OF STEVE’S CHEESE~
CRACKED BLACK PEPPER & FLEUR DE SEL SHORTBREAD
OREGON WILDFLOWER HONEY
POACHED APRICOTS & CANDIDED HAZELNUTS
DOM DU CLOSEL/ CHATEAU DES VAULTS CLOS DU PAPILLONS 2006 LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

PEACH LEAF CRÈME CARAMEL
VIRIDIAN FARMS POACHED APRICOTS
ALMOND TUILLE
MARTINOLLES COUX METHODE ANCESTRALE VERGNES NV LANGUEDOX, FRANCE

SUBSTITUTIONS POLITELY DECLINED.

Also, vegetarians need not apply.
 
In a room without air conditioning on a 90+ degree day, the chilled soup was a welcome first course.  Very floral and fresh, it was a little too lavendar/perfume tasting to me.  Maybe because I don't have much experience with chilled soup or edible flowers.  Or I've never been to France.  If I'd go in a heartbeat before, now my heart simply beats to go.  We chose the pairing flight, which offered a small pour of a specifically selected wine with each course.  It's odd to have a Portland menu sans any Oregon wine (bordering on sacrelidge, actually), but paired so well with the simple, lovely food, it couldn't have been more perfect.
 

Beast's signature Charcuterie was delivered next.  "I'm scared of the blood sausage," I admitted to Brynne, my distrust of all foods British bubbling to the surface.
 
"I had it in France; try a little corner.  You'll like it."
 
She was right.  Everything, all the little bites I'd seen on Iron Chef America were now real and tastable, leaping from my perma-Food Network screen.  Blood sausage is rich, a bit smoky, like a deep country-style pate.  Loved the smooth, salty chicken liver mousse cut with a snappy house cracker.  The winner was the pork shoulder rilettes with Seville marmalade.  I could eat an entire trough of that candy.  Imagine the best pulled pork you've ever had, topped with a note of sweet citrus.  The fennel salad in the center, again, very welcome in the heat alongside the heavy.  Each bite is decadence squared.
 
In between this and the main course, we were treated to an "off script" intermission - a berry-something sorbet along with the DOMAINE MONTIRIUS VACQUEYRAS GARRIGUES wine.  I don't know how to say or spell that, but it's a red wine that tastes like jam and sunshine.  Those two playing on my tongue, basking in their season... probably my favorite taste of the night.
 

Beef Cheeks might sound like something you'd pick up in the "Others" bin at WinCo, but this is an elegant, mild and tender cut.  And with that cloud of horseradish cream and sea of flavorful jus, how can you not ravage it? 

It was right about this time Brynne gave me leaned over to whisper, "you have to see the bathroom, and I know it sounds weird, but take your camera!"  Beast's kitchen wall is a giant chalkboard, and apparently the theme continues into the bathroom.  Trying to look totally normal and not like some creepy psychopath taking my camera bag with me to the bathroom ("it holds LIPSTICK, asshole!!"), I left my cheeks to check it out.
 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OMG I LOVE Channai Masala!  It's the Indian restaurant I lived next to in Palladia.  Saw Bunk Sandwiches on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, the guy makes all of his food on, like, three hot plates on a counter.  I'm quite curious about this Potato Champion.  I would like to meet him, I say. 

The salad's Early Girl tomatoes tasted like some other breed of food.  Brynne put it best - "they taste like fruit."  I can't wait until I can start enjoying that true sensation with the green guys in my backyard.  I have one small grape-ish tomato (from the most wild, crazy, bountiful vine of the bunch) that's just about red.  The first tomato of the season, so close!  This served as a perfect prelude.

The cheese plate featured milder selections, including a very good French soft-ripened.  I haven't tried many of these; quite a few imports have a funk.  The scene was stolen by the candied hazelnuts, spiked with a flowery honey. 

By this time, the light is beginning to melt into candle glow.  I won't use flash, it's so rude.  Nothing worse than shelling out for an amazing experience and being blinded by the papparazzi.  Thankfully, I have PhotoShop.  We've been at the table for over two hours, drowning in conversation and flavors.  The point of the communal table was lost on our crowd - we were surrounded by unfriendly Portlanders (or maybe visitors from San Fran?  Portlanders are usually a *little* friendly), and they kept their conversations tightly to themselves.  But I was in such good company that I don't get to see very often, so seriously whatever.  It was probably better than having some couple from Fremont debating the new plastic bag ordinance.

After dessert, the bill was left with dark chocolate-dipped bacon.  It just doesn't get any more Portland than that.

The next morning, I felt French-inspired.  Fittingly, I'd already decided that I was making smoked salmon benedict.  I've never made homemade Hollendaise sauce.  Luckily, I found, it's all in the ingredients and technique.  Use the right amount of good-quality stuff, and take care of it while it's cooking - it works!  I whisked constantly as I slowly added the melted butter to tornadoed egg yolks, just teaspoons at a time, Matt helpfully holding the handle of my ghetto double-broiler to keep the saucepan from taking off the stove.  "It's actually getting thick!"  I exclaimed with delight!  "It's WORKING!" 

Goddess Julia was a little less generous with my poached eggs.  The first set broke and seeped all through the gently simmering water, and since I only had 4 eggs, Matt had to go down to the Food Mart to get another dozen chances.  We cranked up the pan to a no-bullshit boil, and in three minutes, the fickle pillows were ready to go.  On top of my pa in law's smoked salmon and English muffins, I felt like I could make a go of charging people $60 a plate and politely declining substitutions. 

"It was the best meal I've had all year," Brynne described to Matt, who was at the Portland Brewfest and eating Taco Bell right around our Charcuterie course.  From someone who eats all over the world and glam-happy Bellevue/Seattle, it's quite the hometown-pride compliment. 

I present it all as reason #4,384 to visit Paris.  Or at least Northeast, which is quickly becoming my very own Petite Provence.

Trip to Provence

This morning, I met my friend Kim for brunch at Petit Provence.  Kim was my thesis adviser at Concordia, a creative writing prof that I never got to have a real class with.  That doesn't mean I didn't learn a ton from her--without her support and advice (coupled with that of a few other wonderful, inspiring people I'm lucky enough to have in my life), I wouldn't even be thinking about getting my MFA.  I nixed paltry pedestrian Starbucks as the meeting point and suggested this, my favorite pre-noon spot in North Portland instead (Sorry, Milo's City Cafe...).

Alberta's Petit Provence lives up to its name, right down to the fleur de lis-shaped croissant pastries.  Every detail brings me into the France of my fantasies, as I've never been there (or anywhere) in reality.  Mugs of cappuccino with foam fans floating on top.  An affinity for brie.  The lovely black wood with yellow trim, adorning each table and fixture inside and out of the restaurant.  The friendly, chatty clientele that strike up conversations with you in front of the pastry case... believe me, this is a rarity in the rest of greater Portland, unless said conversationalist is a schizophrenic panhandler hitting you up for admission fare to a sliding-scale hotel for the night. 

I have not been anywhere else like it, and this includes the Petit Provence in Lake Oswego.  Thinking I was in for the same experience at a fraction of the drive time, I was sorely disappointed.  An old, cramped building that smelled of something not pretty and buttery (more like septic and pipe failurey), Lake Oswegans knocking me down in the name of a baguette, and aloof waitstaff.  No, this isn't something that even belongs in suburban sprawl. 

As usual, I was early to meet someone who's usually running ten minutes behind.  I took a table on the street, in the shadow of the bakery's fresh-baked loaves.  I ordered a mocha served in a sunny yellow mug, the restaurant's signature secondary color.  The pair of friends next to me ate their croissants with house strawberry jam, silent in the face of their fare.  This used to be my neighborhood, Alberta, Killingsworth, 33rd... almost a million years ago for this street, back in 2003.  Back then, the street was what a sheltered little white girl like me would call "a bit dodgy."  Church missions, radical lobbying/grassroots group offices, a vegan cafe where I saw real-life lesbians for the first time.  A LOT of taco stands, with menus I couldn't decipher.  It wasn't overtly dangerous, but it sagged with neglect and decay.  Paint faded and flaked off buildings and murals.  Signage was the realm of poster board and Sharpies. 

Since I moved out of my dorm and further and further away from NoPo, Alberta and many other neighborhoods have gone through controversial gentrifications.  Commercial space has been snatched up by the parcel, refurbished with new insides and new outsides, the buildings with the most vintage character restored with gleaming new colors and facades.  Boutiques sport hanging signs and sandwich boards with the most mod of pastel shades, their names spelled out in hip anorexic typeface.  Yoga studios, Thai food, eco-friendly clothing.  And Petit Provence.

I could be here every day, I realized suddenly, drunk on the fumes of croissant and coffee.  Every single day.  Wake up to buttery pastry and cappuccino, evened out by the bike ride here and back.  Watch the diners and the pedestrians, take notes, get back to a sunny home where a laptop and a Word document and an audience await a labor of love.  The dedicated life of an artist.

Kim arrived, late from finishing up my current short story. "It was so dense!"  She said, fooled by the deceptive 7 pages.

"I know; Windows 7 has this tiny new default font," I explained, "when I set it to Times New Roman double-spaced last night, it was over 15 pages already."

We talked about my latest piece, like contemporaries, like it really mattered.  Like this was real.  Our conversation meandered into my residency, where I started name-dropping.

"Pam Houston... have you ever read Pam Houston?"

A sly smile curled around her lips, stretching above the mug.  "Next time you see her, tell Pam that Kim says... hello."

"You know her?"  Well even I knew her, but only through the most ackward, stilted conversation I could muster in the face of pure talent that had transcended into tangiable success.

"She was doing some grad work while I was in my MFA program."

Later, after I was slicing into my grilled Monte Cristo...

"Bonnie Jo Campbell was giving us a talk on how to get jobs and stuff after the program."

"We were in class together."

She'd just emailed Debra Gwartney to set up a speaking engagement at Concordia.  Met Barry Lopez.  I realized, these aren't her heroes.  They're her coworkers!  Full-fledged, passport-stamped members in the world of literature and academia.  I flashed forward fifteen years, casting a shadow over some starry-eyed apprentice, listening to her gush over graduate studies.

"Leann Wendell was my workshop leader," she tells me with glee.

"Oh, tell Leann I say hello."

"You know Leann Wendell?!"

"Oh yeah.  We were roommates at Pacific.  She does a mean karaoke 'Like A Prayer'."

And hopefully, you know, vice versa.

I brought souvenirs of Provence back home to my lonely husband: tart tartin, fruit tart and some beautiful cake.  Little tastes of a world I burn for, can just see on the edge of a glowing horizon.  P.S., they are fucking delicious.