In Victoria

I'm in Victoria. Pavel had a conference to attend at the Empress, so I tagged along for an escape.

An escape from what, you may ask. Wouldn't it be nicer if you asked escape to what? To that I'd say an escape to some time with Pavel, to a bit of luxury, to some walks along the harbor, and maybe to find Cadbury Shortcake Snacks (last seen by me in Victoria, about 15 years ago).

But you asked escape from what. It's a good question. I don't really have much to escape from, life is that good. But if pressed, I'd say an escape from the day to day.

Because isn't that why going somewhere--whether near or far--is so wonderful? I always feel a new lease on life coming with sudden acute observation. It makes me feel completely present, everything new and important. Heck, even the seagulls are fascinating.

So here I am, in Victoria. Pavel's been busy most of the day, so I have set myself a nice routine. After breakfast with him I take a short walk to a cafe where I have some coffee and write in my journal. Then I take another walk before meeting Pavel for lunch.

Coffee so far:

Habit, Caffe Artigiano, and Caffe Fantastico (here with a rhubarb Danish from Fol Epi Bakery).

 

Where we've lunched so far:

Chorizo and Co.

Choux Choux Charcuterie (they use local heritage pigs for their sausages and the mortadella they put in my sandwich).

Red Fish Blue Fish (all local wild caught fish) Here we had pretty good fish and chips, but I came back a few days later for one of the rhubarb creamsicles they sell.

The weather here has been perfect. Well, perfect for a Portlander used to some overcast skies. And perfect for someone who would prefer cooler weather for walking. And perfect if you like to see skies full of clouds in various shades of grey, and the light made when the sun breaks through, here and there. And perfect, at the end of the day, when the sun makes the Strait of Juan de Fuca sparkle, and the clouds break just enough to let you see the snow capped tips of the Olympics, just across the strait (you might have to zoom in, and squint).

And there's so much to see. Signs that clarify:

Warnings:

Invitations (at least that's how I read a coffee sign):

 

 

 

Or just to offer some perspective on your day (and night):

 

 

There are wrapped things, like potted plants in the hallway of the convention center:

And ships at the Point Hope Shipyard:

 

The air smells like linden blossoms, the rugosa roses that are hedges along the Selkirk Water of the Gorge, and cold salt.

The neighborhoods and gardens are wonderful. There are so many carefully pruned hedges and trees. To make room for the passersby (or undersby?):

And others that look like some sort of huge, slightly goofy, pet:

The clematis are taking over:

 

And, some sort of moth-like creatures are as well:

 

Late in the afternoon, this one fellow is taking a nap (he must have read the sign) with his dog watching over him:

And those Cadbury Shortcake Snacks? Even at the English Sweet Shop, where I found them last time, they'd never heard of them. Oh well. I'm making do. I found some delicious ice cream sandwiches from Cold Comfort. Actually, it's not at all a cold comfort. Just a comfort.

And when all else fails, the lounge at the Empress always has boiling water, tea, and silver pots at hand. And the city does it's best to remind me it's teatime.

 

 

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Distribution of Wealth and Chocolate Chips

 Or, a Wonky Look at Toll House Cookies



What could be more American than a chocolate  chip cookie? Buttery cookies studded generously with chocolate chips. Who doesn’t love them?

Recently I read ‘Why Let the Rich Hoard All the Toys’, a Nicholas Kristof column in the New York Times. The column was about the distribution of wealth in our country. About the fact that the top 1% of Americans have a collective worth greater than the entire bottom 90%. Put together. Kristof makes his point by asking us to imagine a kindergarten with 100 students (something needs to be done about class sizes!), where one kid had more toys than 90 of the other kids, put together.

Kristof reminded me of two things I’ve been thinking about for some time.

The first has to do with methods of learning. You hear about people who are aural learners, visual learners, and tactile learners. But what about olfactorial learners? And especially important, what about those of us who are gustatorial learners?

Which leads to the other thing I’ve been thinking about. How would our favorite cookie fare with this sort of distribution of wealth, AKA chocolate chips? Could perhaps a gustatorial example help clarify how extreme the inequality is in this country?

Using the Economic Policy Institute’s briefing paper, ‘The State of Working America’s Wealth, 2011’, I followed their numbers for the distribution of net worth, listed on page 4. 

That is, the top 1% of households (ranked by income) have 34.6% of the total U.S. net worth.

The next 9% have 38.5% of the total U.S. net worth, all together.

And the next 90% (which means me and, I suspect, all of you) share between us 27% of the total U.S. net worth.

I made a batch of chocolate chip cookies, carefully counting out the chips in a 11.5 ounce bag.  There were about 660. I say about because I may have eaten one or two along the way.

Normally my recipe makes 60 cookies. Because I didn’t want to tax my brain too much, I decided to make 100 small cookies. Look—the cookies all started out just the same, 9 grams each of cookie dough.



Yes, I recognize the irony of using a ‘made in France’ silpat. But I like their healthcare system, and this liner, too!

To 90 of the cookies I stuck two chocolate chips in the top.



The next nine cookies got 28 chips each, which was definitely excessive.



I used a separate pan for that lone final cookie, and lined it with foil. I didn’t want to ruin my  pan with all that oozing wealth. All those chocoate chips had to somehow fit into that one little scoop of cookie dough.



I know, oozing chocolate doesn’t sound so bad. But oozing burning chocolate is less attractive.

In the end, I noticed that the cookies with more chips spread more than the ones with two chips. As if wealth begets wealth.

But no way 9 grams of dough would spread enough to accommodate 228 chocolate chips. That’s no cookie. 



Meanwhile, 90% of people get the cookie below:



And 9% get this one:



Or, by the numbers, left to right:



Approximately 283 million of us get the one on the left.

About 28 million get the one in the middle.

And 3 million get the one on the right.

It just doesn’t seem right.



I understand that cookies aren’t the same as people. And I don’t expect every single cookie to have the exact same number of chips as the next cookie. But it seems a batch of cookies that tries to approach a more fair distribution is a better cookie. A more civilized cookie.

The kind of cookie you might like to enjoy with a friend and a cup of tea.

Don’t forget to vote tomorrow!



And maybe reward yourself with a proper batch of cookies. I like these ones.

A bit more info:

In his column, Kristof recommend Joseph E. Stiglitz’s book The Price of Inequality (he’s a Nobel prize winner in economics). I don’t generally read much about economics, but I’ve put it on my to-read list.

For more on the inequality of wealth distribution in the U.S., take a look at the Gini coefficients (which measure income equality) for countries around the world—it’s fascinating. You’ll see our ranking places us in a different group of countries than we generally like to believe we belong.

Rather than being aligned with other ‘First World countries’, we’re with the kinds of countries that still have capital punishment. Countries where fairness in elections is questioned. Where health care isn’t easily available to all citizens. Er…

(Thanks to Obamacare, the U.S. finally has improved in the access to healthcare department).

Lots to think about as we eat our cookies.

A is for Anise

I’ve always loved anise flavor, in any guise. Many of my early taste memories revolve around anise. As a little kid back when it was fun to be a little kid, I had plenty of freedom to explore my world by myself.  Remember those days when you had free reign of the block until you heard your mother yell up and down the street that dinner was ready?

Fennel by visualdensity on Flickr

All that running through the neighborhood tired me out. My favorite way to catch my breath was to flatten a hiding place in the tall grasses and wild fennel that seemed to forest Berkeley’s empty lots. I’d snap off a stalk of wild fennel and lie hidden in the grass. The fennel plants, with their lacy green foliage and bright yellow flowers, drooped over me. I stared at the sky, crunching the stalk between my teeth, releasing the peppery sweet cleansing flavor.

Not everyone liked anise. I could usually find someone more than happy to trade his black Chuckles square for my green one. That green square, incidentally, was lime. I always wondered—it just tasted like bad green flavor to me.

At the movies, while other kids cemented their teeth together over Milk Duds, Jujubes, or Sugar Babies, I tended to buy a box of Good & Plenty. Not because I didn’t like those other candies—I liked them fine (and my friends knew I’d take any black jujubes off their hands). It’s just that the pink and white Good & Plenty were fun to eat. I’d nibble off the candy coating, and then have a nice piece of licorice to suck on.



I quickly learned that if I bought licorice instead of chocolate I wouldn't have to share as much of my candy. ‘Aha’ moments are supposed to be life-changing moments when you gain sudden clarity and insight. I suppose the realization that liking licorice afforded me more candy at the theater was my first ‘aha’ moment.



Maybe the moment when I first saw the recipe for Rhubarb Anise Upside Down Cake on Epicurious (it was originally in the April 1999 issue of Gourmet—which I still miss, but that’s another story) was another ‘aha’ moment.

The cake was fun to make. Aren’t all upside-down cakes fun? First you get to melt brown sugar and butter (one of my main childhood hobbies—why did I ever give that up?). Then you get to arrange the fruit in a pleasing pattern.



And it was fun to turn out of the pan. Not a single square of rhubarb stuck to the pan.  After the cake was out, I took a spoon and carefully scraped out all the rhubarb flavored buttery brown sugar. And ate it over the sink.

The cake was delicious. I’m sorry there aren’t any pictures of a slice of the cake, but it disappeared pretty fast. It’s a moist cake, made with buttermilk (always a promising sign!), flavored with a teaspoon of anise seeds, pounded in a mortar and pestle.

I’ll make it again soon. Since rhubarb is just about finished, I think I’ll use up some of the frozen plums I squirreled away last summer. To make space for the bushels of blackberries I‘m planning on picking this summer.

Slumps

“I’ve been in a bit of a slump,” I said this morning to Franny. By that I meant mainly with this blog. I have been writing other things (at this point for myself), reading, and starting my garden. But this blog has been sadly ignored.

Two things happened when I said that. Franny ran upstairs, and I remembered a picture I’d taken when I visited my parents last spring.

A couple of seconds later Franny came running down. “Do you have three minutes, Mom?”  And she sat down next to me with Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go!. “I read this yesterday when I was babysitting. When you said ‘slump’ I thought of it right away.”



I’m not sure how pleased I should be that a book Franny read to a three-year-old struck her as possibly useful to me. But I knew better than to argue. As usual, she was right.

By halfway through the book I was hooked. Especially once we arrived in the Waiting Place. It sounded so familiar, full of people waiting for things to come and go, phones to ring, and the pot to boil.

My interest piqued, I listened a bit more carefully, waiting for some instructions. Surely on the next page Dr. Seuss would lead us away from the Waiting Place.
 

This was not what I expected. Though perhaps I should worry that I was thinking Dr. Seuss had all the answers.



And that picture I’d taken? On that visit I’d looked through my mother’s old recipe file. And there, in the dessert section, I found this yellowing scrap, with my name written across the front (I remember feeling quite proud of that cursive capital ‘G’ and ‘S’).



Opening it I found my first recipe. I had given it three names. The first was simply (and so descriptively) ‘Stuff’.  Then I tried ‘Apple Mush’, but decided that wasn’t texturally pleasing.

Actually, I’d wanted to call it ‘Apple Slump’, but thought that sounded a bit depressing. Apparently I didn’t yet realize that ‘Apple Slum’ wasn’t exactly tempting either.

In my defense, I was barely 7 years old. I’m a little shocked by the paltry amount of sugar I added, though maybe I was balancing it with the sugar in the cookies. So clever. I think I get extra points for proofreading, having caught and crossed out the ‘h’ in sugar. I knew enough to add 4 butter (4 cubes? 4 Tablespoons?).  Dessert should have butter. I think the recipe was my answer to the banana pudding on the Nilla Wafer box.

The last thing I remember about that recipe is how proud I felt when I wrote it, and presented it to Mom. Like a real cook.

And most importantly, I remember how seriously she took me and my recipe. We even made it together. I think the cookies got crushed, and perhaps the eggs omitted. In my memory, it really wasn’t that bad.

Maybe slumps don't have to be bad.

Here’s the recipe, as I wrote it:

Stuff    Apple Mush     Slum   Apple Slum

Mixer Bowl.

1. Crack 2 eggs
2. 2 teaspoons of shuger
3. Stir 10 cookies in
4. 4 Butter
5. Appelsuac
6. 1 Tablespoon of cinnamon

Bake

With its creative spellings and vague directions, if you squint you could almost think it was an early American recipe. Almost.

Food Sake Tokyo

Little kid and drying fish in Ameyoko

As soon as I got my ticket to Japan, grand ideas started forming in my head. I’d learn some rudimentary Japanese. I’d memorize words for menu items. I’d read guidebooks and plan itineraries so as not to miss anything. I’d read novels that took place in Ancient Japan and modern-day Tokyo, to steep myself in the culture.

Warning: these mushrooms are plastic. That makes them poisonous.

But, as it always does, time slipped away. Suddenly it was just a few days before my departure and the Berlitz Japanese book hadn’t been cracked. The only things I could say in Japanese were arigato, konnichiwa, ichi, ni, and sayonara. As far as food words went, miso, tofu, ramen, soba, and udon  were the extent of my skills.

I also had no itinerary planned, and the pile of Japanese novels on the bedside table did little more than threaten to topple over my dusty water glass.

The one smart thing I did, though really it was pure dumb luck, was to buy this book:



Food Sake Tokyo, by Yukari Sakamoto, is one of the Terroir Guidebooks. Incidentally, she also writes a Food Sake Tokyo Blog, which I wish I'd found sooner. The series so far includes books on Italy, Rome, Budapest, France, and Burgundy. To show you how unprepared I was for my trip, everytime I looked at my book I kept thinking the second word rhymed with bake. It made sense to me—‘Oh, for food’s sake!’

But the European guides are called Food Wine, not Food Sake. I finally figured out the second word referred to the rice-based alcoholic beverage. As any halfway intelligent person would have realized instantly. What can I say. For the first third of my life I thought there was a saying that went ‘that’s mighty wide of you’. 

A shrine next to fish market in Ameyoko

Anyway.  Food Sake Tokyo turned out to be a great companion throughout Japan. On the one hand, it’s a guidebook to restaurants, ramen joints, pastry shops, tea shops, and candy stores.

Ningyo-naki stall in Asakusa

It also lists food-centric tourist itineraries, some of which I followed into market stalls under train tracks, through chopstick stores, and around markets and shrines.



These are the ningyo-yaki sold by the Asakusa Shrine. The little cakes are made in stalls, some with extremely mechanized machinery, others by hand in old griddles.

The finished products look like this:



You know what they say. A bird in the hand…



The cakes come with different fillings, but we only tasted the chestnut.



I also visited the stores that sell the amazingly realistic plastic reproductions of restaurant items.

This food is plastic. Do not eat.

But Food Sake Tokyo is more than a tourist guidebook.  Chapter two, ‘Food’, takes up nearly a third of the book.  All those Japanese words I meant to learn—and some that I never imagined—are listed here. The seafood section lists 41 seafood preparation terms, and the names for 144 different types of seafood.



The sections on produce, noodles, sweets, and meats are similarly thick. What a treat to be able to find out the English words for foods I might come across.  Not that it always helped. Knowing Fuki was a ‘giant butterbur’ and seri  is ‘water dropwort’ wasn’t that helpful to me. Some translations were unnecessary, or even meaningless.  Who knew mizuna is ‘potherb mustard’? I’ve only seen it called mizuna. 

Finally, there were times I really wouldn’t have wanted to know the translation.  Komekami and nodomoto come immediately to mind: temples and throat. Offal has never been my favorite, which I know is a shortcoming. Pavel did me a favor and saved his visit to the innards restaurant for his next trip.

Best of all, though, Food Sake Tokyo explained the tricky Tokyo address system for me. Other guidebooks do this as well. But here the maps also showed the block numbers—without those, I would have been lost. Ok, full disclosure. Even with them I was often lost. But that never mattered. I was happy just wandering.

Yukari Sakamoto's blogs:

Food Sake Tokyo Introduces readers to Tokyo food shops, a travel guide for curious eaters.

Japanese Cuisine-Cooking Japanese Food at Home Recipes for foods she eats at home and resources for Japanese food.