A Spring Garden
After the sleepy, slow pace of winter, late spring can be almost overwhelming. Gone are the pale yellow squash and hearty greens. In their place is a sensory overload of bright green asparagus, sweetly smelling berries, and delicate tulips. The addition of new vendors and 'sexier' produce to the farmers markets brings an almost tangible increase in energy as more customers join the usual mix. This year however, I got to experience the excitement of spring in a whole new way. After attending over 25 different farmers markets around the world, I finally decided to try my hand at gardening. I lucked out with fertile soil, healthy seeds, and pretty decent weather patterns. A few days after planting, I could already see the little tops of my radishes poking through the ground. That was only the beginning. As late spring hit, my garden went nuts. At first, I was thrilled to serve salads for dinner made with bok choy and little gem lettuces from my very own garden. I loved realizing that I didn't have enough basil for a recipe, and just strolling down to my backyard to pick some. But then it started coming too fast. My cilantro started to bolt, my radishes turned cottony, and my zucchini plant blocked my beet plants from the sun.
Finally, I decided to pull all of my heads of lettuce and distribute them to everyone I knew. Next I got rid of the cilantro, cooked off the kale, and thinned out almost half of my carrots. Things are a bit calmer now as I wait for my beets and onions to grow, but I've recently realized with a new wave of panic that no one will be there to tend my garden while I'm out of the country for the next few weeks. I never knew how much attention a garden demands and how stressful maintaining one can be. It's exactly like having a pet! I almost longing for the cooler days of fall and a garden full of easier, more self-sufficient root vegetables. Almost.
Wine Columns for Week of May 23rd
Wine Columns for Week of May 16
Wine Columns for Week of May 9
After April's provocations and prevarications, wine writers this week settled down to the sanguine task of wine writing. Mostly, they looked at bargain reds: southern Rhone varietals in the Seattle Times, Merlot in the Detroit News, Tempranillo in the SF Chronicle, and cheap Bordeaux in the WSJ. In the Miami Herald, Fred Tasker found an unexpected angle for his column by considering the merits of wines from Brazil. There's a similarly offbeat story in the Washington Post, where the Page/Dornendorf duo wax lyrical about Virginian wines "fit for a queen."
The most evocative piece of the week belongs to Jancis Robinson, whose SF Chronicle guide to Burgundy wine tasting paints an evocative picture of a noirish world - all backstreets, murky passageways and clandestine trapdoors.
The Corn Dog
Last Monday, the CCA team went to the ball park. The baseball was fun, but I will always remember it as the evening I had my very first taste of corn dog. My only previous encounter with a corn dog was one late night many years ago when my freshman year dormmate Eliah experienced the first of what were to be many lapses in judgement at our local 7-Eleven. After extracting the corn dog from its silver-and-red foil sheath, he dangled it in front of my queasy face. It was hard to believe that this was something people actually ingested. Indeed, the subsequent sight of it entering my friend's maw was so unmentionable and disturbing that I stopped eating for several days. It took a great deal of coaxing and a large scoop of hazelnut gelato before I could put anything in my mouth again.
Kayu dipping corn dog in ketchup
My tastes have since broadened. I have come to love Whoppers, BBQ-flavored Lays, and many other dishes native to this country. I have digested malted vanilla milkshakes and cheeseburgers stacked high. The one thing I could never face was another corn dog. But time heals most wounds, and the corn dog seemed like such a quintessential part of the ball-game experience that I felt it my duty to give it an open-minded try.
The concession stand offered two choices: the traditional corn dog, or its spicy variant. Taking a purist's stance, I picked the first option. Much as I feared, it came in a familiar-looking foil package. I tried not to think about it too much.
Kayu with a corn dog
As with so many gastronomic disasters, the first few bites were actually not too bad. The skin of the soggy battered exterior was faintly reminiscent of baba au rhum (the kind I associate with modest Parisian patisseries). The sausage boasted an inoffensive, if somewhat anemic, savor, with a texture not unlike well-stewed tripe. The pleasurable convenience and novelty of eating something on a stick mollified the vestiges of my revulsion.
But as I slowly worked my way down the corn dog (and it approached its microwave-addled half-life), my contentment bypassed disgust, giving way to a strange, hollow feeling. The taste of the batter and sausage had curdled on my palate into a clot of blandness.
Seeing my dispirited expression, Rachel gestured to the mustard on her hot dog. Try some of this, she suggested. I tentatively dipped what was left of the corn dog into the fluorescent yellow paste and tried a bite.
It turns out that condiments are indispensable to the corn dog. Much like a delicate dab of wasabi can balance and enhance the sweetness of toro, the corn dog greatly benefits from several generous squirts of mustard. Or maybe the deadly fugu is a more apt example, perhaps we could class it among those foods needing a deft human hand to render it palatable for consumption.
Whatever the case, I think it will be some time before I give it another try.