Anger Burger

I have some questions about Scotch, and I want to talk about it.  I’ve been happily drinking Jameson for years, but since I generally only consume one drink during an evening out these days, I want to know what fancy expensive Scotch I should be ordering.

I can tell you pretty firmly that I don’t like overly peaty whisky – earthiness is okay (in fact I adore the freshly turned soil thing that sometimes happens) but the eating a prairie fire thing?  It turns my palate off hard.   I do however like salty, briny, seaweed flavors, as well as the usual floral/caramel business.

What should I try?

Sometime last year I learned of spruce tip jelly.  Yes, spruce as in the pine tree, and tips as in the tips.  And jelly as in jelly.  Roll with me here, this carriage is leaving the stable.

Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest and having a life-long obsession with foraging, I was floored to discover that the soft, pale bunches of needles that form at the end of the branches (hence: tips) in spring are not only edible, but make a fine tea and, apparently, jelly.

JELLY. JELLYJELLYJELLYJELLYJELLY.

Ergo, this most recent Christmas I asked my mom for spruce jelly from Simple Pleasures, and despite my being a terrible Struwwelsunday of a daughter she gave me not just the spruce, but rose jelly as well.  I’ve been holding onto them for nearly five months now, waiting until the right day.  I’m not certain what made today the right day, but it was.

First, I have to tell you about the remarkable, magical, ethereal texture of this jelly.  These guys know what the fuck they’re doing.  It’s the softest, firmest jelly I’ve ever had, if that makes any sense at all.  It shimmies and shivers like water, but it is set solid.  It’s almost not spreadable, it’s so firm, but at the same time it’s so soft and in the mouth melts into nectar in a fraction of a second.  It is without question the best set jelly or jam I’ve ever had.

And the taste?  Almost impossible to describe.  First: not what you think.  It does not taste like pine, or cleaning agents, or this wretched soda.  It tastes, as best as I can articulate, like sweet, clean air.  Not too sweet, mind you, barely sweet enough to be considered jelly at all.  I can taste the small amount of lemon juice added for the balanced tang, but the aftertaste is mostly just faintly and pleasantly green and astringent, like chewing on clover blossoms as a child.  It tastes nothing like its color, I can tell you that; that peculiar shade of dusty peach belongs more to crabapple jelly than to spruce.  But bite after bite changed, sighing past with one mouthful as the scent of rosemary resin gone hot in the spring sunlight, and the next taste as icy, mineral glacier water.

It was almost reluctantly that I tried the rose jelly as well, since what could top the spruce?

I say this as gravely and with as much eye contact as I can achieve over the internet: this rose jelly is what they serve at the Faery Queen’s Midsummer Ball.

Never in my life have I tasted something so glittering and pale.  This is what it is to eat moonlight.

The jelly is barely sweet compared to fruit jellies, and stays far, far away from rose perfume.  It is to eat the puff of air behind a bumblebee laden with rose pollen.  I simply cannot imagine a finer thing served for tea on a morning in August, before the heat hits but in that hour after the sun has evaporated the dew from overgrown grasses and blackberry brambles.

I tried for almost 20 minutes to photograph the perfect diamond sparkles set off by sunlight through the jelly, and I couldn’t.  It can’t be photographed.  But I don’t need to take a picture, because you’re going to order some, and you’re going to see it for yourself.

(The following is aimed entirely at my Canadian constituencies, whom now have a lot of explaining to do.)

Over the last few years I’ve taken it upon myself to find the perfect chocolate-peanut-cherry candy, should such a thing exist.  The following have tried and failed¹ to please me:

• Christopher’s Big Cherry
• Twin Bing
• And perhaps worst of all, Chase’s Cherry Mash

So riddle me this, Canadians: why did no one feel the need to mention the Cherry Blossom?

First of all, the packaging is flatly incredible.  I can’t even begin to express the thrill of delight it gives me to look upon such a weird, lurid half-illustrated image of the candy itself, or the vintagey eye-bomb of the nearly eradicated “printing foods on yellow backgrounds” design aesthetics of past decades.

Or how about the small issue that it is food, wrapped inside an unsealed piece of foil paper, which in turn is placed inside an unsealed paper box?

I don’t think that Canada just has profoundly lax food safety laws, I think it’s more that everyone has an unspoken declaration of truce with the Cherry Blossom. What kind of monster would fuck with it?

But let’s talk about the candy itself.  I think the asymmetrically lumpy top was intentionally molded to be that way, not a byproduct of a casual manufacturing process.  My heart goes pitter pat.

It’s such a large and unwieldy piece of chocolate that I’m not sure how I’m going to bust into it.  It’s too large to just chomp into (at least when you plan on photographing it – next time, when I’m alone and huddled in the closest with three or four of them, I’ll just eat them out of hand) so I carefully sliced the top off to reveal the liquid interior.

It smelled good before – mostly toasty, like peanuts – but now it smells great.  No artificially cherry flavor, though if the glace-flavor of the candied cherry bothers you, than you won’t like it anyway.  But the chocolate has a powerful peanutty and coconutty (!) odor, despite not being saturated with either inclusion.  I carved it down a little more until I felt comfortable taking a bite.

It’s delightful.  And while I can’t say it’s the holy grail of my chocolate-peanut-cherry search, it’s easily the best chocolate-covered cherry I’ve ever had.  The syrup inside might be a little too sweet (as these things generally are) and the cherry a little too unflavored, but the overall construction and retro-ness of it is nearly perfect.  Even if I could change anything about it, I’d be hesitant to, because there’s a place in the world for it.

So, Canada.  How do you explain yourself?

¹A special shout-out goes to reader Sara Brown and her gentle reminder that Australia and New Zealand’s Cherry Ripe is a tasty cherry confection, though made with coconut and not peanuts.  A fine substitute for the eternal lack of CPC satisfaction.

To get it out of the way, I’m going to lead in by saying that after something like 8 years on the same birth control pills, I just switched brands and that’s probably why I am going to tell you about this tinted lip balm I bought and how much I love it.  I can understand if you’re pissed; I am too.

Actually I’m strangely calm.  I was terrified that switching to a slightly different hormone level was going to turn me into a raving nutbag but they haven’t.  Turns out?  The pills I’ve been taking for the last almost-decade?  They were turning me into a raving nutbag.  Whoops.

Anyway, let’s get this over with.  And don’t make eye contact with me, there’s no need make my shame any more intense.  So, I’m a lady, right?  I like to wear the make-ups.  I’m also not very good at it, so I tend to rely on products that are more-or-less foolproof, like mineral foundation and waterproof mascara.  I like lipstick, but I tend to touch my lips a lot so even though there’s a brand that I dearly love, I rarely wear it.  Lip gloss on the other hand, I hate.  I generally don’t like it on other women, either.  It makes me feel like a goddamn prude, but especially sparkly lipgloss?  Just write BLOWJOB HOLE around your mouth already.

Luckily for me and other judgmental old women, there’s this now:

First, if you’re not newt-belly porridge pale like myself, you’re out of luck, because these are super-sheer.  Anyway, I bought the color “Hibiscus” first after reading some glowing reviews online, and I loved it so much I went back and bought “Tiger Lily” and “Pink Blossom” as well.

The formula of these is spectacular.  They feel very, very smooth and moisturizing and not at all sticky, and the color is sheer enough that you can sort of mindlessly slather it on without someone telling you to maybe go home and sober up a little.  In fact, it’s difficult to take a photograph of their color.

Even so, I can tell when I’m wearing them.  It’s just enough, perfect for daytime.  No sparkle, no shimmer, and what I’d call low-gloss.

Alright, that’s enough.  I’m going to go talk to my tomato plants now.

I’m sick over what has happened to Japan.  I’ve written paragraphs of gruesome, atheistic prattle and none of it feels right.  But you know what does?  Talking about how awesome Japan is.

I’ll start.  SUMO ORANGE.  That’s right motherfuckers, the best orange you’ve never had.  A couple of weeks ago I read this article in the Los Angeles Times and tucked the information away for myself later.  Its a crazy article and you should read it, but basically this orange and Satsuma tangerine hybrid, marketed under the name “Dekopon”, has had a rough and scandalous time trying to make it to America.  A massive, illegal grove in Southern California was even burned to the ground after it tested positive for a deadly citrus virus.  Later the whole citrus industry wouldn’t even discuss the fruit with reporters, referring to the fruit under the codename “XP1″.  I swear this is true!  Fruit espionage, who knew.

But now that the growers have a head start on any competitors, the fruit is out.  I went to my local Whole Foods and grabbed four of them at a scorching $10.  Still, if they really are the best oranges ever…

So yes, they are the best oranges ever.  Their marketing points are outlined to a bizarrely specific level at their website, but they aren’t wrong.  Of course, the first one I peeled and ate was full of giant seeds, even though one of the Sumo’s primary marketing points is seedlessness.  I haven’t encountered a seeded one since then.  Despite having a very thick, knobby rind, the fruits themselves are oddly soft, which in part leads to their price.  They can be easily damaged and can’t be harvested like normal oranges, and instead must be treated like peaches or other tender fruit.

The first one I peeled also worried me, because no juice leaked out as I pulled the segments apart.  And I hate a dry orange like most people hate Cheney.  But mysteriously, they are juicy.  The little pips of orange inside the segments are large and firm, like a grapefruit, confirming Sumo’s somewhat laughable claim of:

“Eat in the Car Test” — Unlike other citrus varieties, SUMO CITRUS™ is ‘neat’ meaning no sticky mess, and hands stay dry.

But the joke is on me, ladies and gentlemen.  Because I would like to eat a Sumo in the car, please.  And on a plane or a train.  And in the shower, and at the gynecologist’s office.  I would like to eat them every hour of every day.

Hypothetically speaking, you’ve invested a great deal of time and effort into something.  A ridiculous amount, really, but it’s going to pay off in a big way.  You’ve made a lot of sacrifices along the way, both physical and moral.  But you’ve always been told: no pain, no gain.  Grown-ups do this: See the bigger picture.  Plan for the future.  Work frantically all summer hiding your peanuts so that when winter comes, you can have peanut butter.  Invest everything to dig in the glory hole that for sure for certain has gold at the bottom.  Keep your eyes on the motherfucking prize.

And then, one morning, someone takes it from you.

It’s time to invest in some coconut fat.

Personal dramas aside, I was reading this article in the New York Times about coconut oil when I ran across the recipe for Coconut Oil Roasted Sweet Potatoes, if you can even call it a recipe.  Coat some cubed sweet potato in coconut oil, salt, a spoonful of brown sugar (and the recipe calls for nutmeg, which I omit).  Roast for about 40 -50 minutes in a 350° oven.  Turn the pieces halfway through to ensure more even caramelization.  And SHAZAM.  Perhaps the best sweet potatoes you’ve ever eaten.  Chewy and salty-sweet on the outside.  Creamy middles.  A faint ha-choo of coconut sneeze wafts across your plate as though some Hawaiian goddess moved through your house.

The fish is my salmon recipe tweaked to be “Thai?”.  It’s important to pronounce it with the question mark at the end.  I think it was lime juice, olive oil, lots of cilantro, grated ginger, garlic, fish sauce and a little sweet chili sauce all whisked together.  If I’d thought ahead I would have used lemon grass and lime leaf, but “thinking ahead” is for people who aren’t lying on their kitchen floor huffing their jar of coconut fat while wondering if Anonymous takes projects on commission.

I think for one thing and one thing only we should all be able to come together as a people, without prejudice and without … being judgy and stuff.

But first: I’m obsessed with ratios.  Burgers, pizza, burritos, pie – the primary thing that either vaults these items into the annals of Perfect Food or plunges them into dire, unrecoverable sadness is ratio.  Burger-to-junk.  Cheese-to-sauce.  Carbs-to-other-stuff.  Filling-to-crust.  And while you think that the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup is normally a work of mastery, behold the available only at Easter-time Peanut Butter Egg:

Not getting anything?  No twinges of lust?  How about this:

Don’t worry, you’re not missing some secret, only a maniac like myself would notice there is way more peanut butter filling in one of these.  They’re like a full ounce of peanut butter filling coated with just enough chocolate to keep it from getting dried out.  They are exquisite perfection and I simply cannot be convinced otherwise.  I literally had to sit myself down and have a talk with myself about why I’m allowed only one of them a day.

This week was a rough one.  The Viking and I got two solid pieces of miserable news, one of the Grandma Really Isn’t Doing Well variety and the other of the Just When You Thought Shit Was Under Control variety.  Just before the bad newses I placed an order for tea from Simpson & Vail, promptly forgot about it and then was pleased and surprised when it arrived yesterday.  Because some days you have to plan a Hobbit tea party for yourself if you are expected to remain sane.

I knew about Simpson & Vail from many years ago when we stocked them at a cafe I worked at.  I forgot about them entirely until I was reading a copy of Martha Stewart Living Magazine (SHUT IT) and they mentioned that S&V sold teas in as little as 1-ounce units.  I totally made some kind of “B’GOK!” chicken noise, because I never buy tea because I don’t want like 40 billion pounds of it.  But an ounce is the perfect amount of tea – maybe 20 cups?  Less?  Enough that I’ll actually use it up.

First, though, and just to be totally confusing, I wanted to get two non-tea tisanes, which aren’t sold in units smaller than 4oz.  Still, I’ve been stuck drinking Celestial Seasonings “Tension Tamer” tisane at night (which The Viking calls “Temper Tantrum”) and I’m officially over it.

Like all of their teas, the “Moonlight in the Garden” tisane is breathtakingly photogenic, as beautiful an apothecarian potpourri as you can hope for:

It is alfalfa, malva¹ flowers, cornflowers and violet and vanilla flavors.  Every single tea you’ll want to take to an interior designer and say “Make my house look like this,” but the “Moonlight in the Garden” combo of deep violet and pale green is at the top of the list.  For me.  Am I discussing interior design?  Forgive me, I’m not myself today.

Then I got the embarrassingly named “Silky Spice”:

It looks like my spice drawer asplode.  But it smells STUPID.  I mean, if there ever were a scandalous Victorian tea party tea, it’s this stuff.  They say it is hibiscus, cinnamon, cloves, sarsaparilla, coconut, allspice and orange flowers.  All I know is that I want to find a Highlander and give him what for.

I bought 2 ounces of violet black tea and wish I’d bought more:

Violets feel like nighttime in the forest to me.  I can’t explain it – certainly my native forests of the Pacific Northwest do not smell like this.  But in my dreams, where bioluminescent toadstools light your way to the faery rings, it smells like this.  And tastes like, it, apparently.  Really subtle and not at all cloying.

“Sweet Sizzlin’ Cinnamon” needs to check itself with that name:

Anyone who plays Professor Layton for the DS knows what I’m saying when I say that S&V tea names give me Diabolical Box flashbacks.  If you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, listen to this song instead.  Anyway, “Sweet Sizzlin’ Cinnamon” is what you’d expect.  Bonus: this tea is to The Viking what garlic is to vampires.

Then comes the “Blue Moon”:

Black pepper and “berries”.  The peppercorns are whole, so they’re barely detectable, unfortunately.  For me.  I was hoping for more pepper.  I guess I could just grind some pepper into my tea, but that would mean walking over to the other side of the kitchen.

“Floral Nectar”:

Lavender, as you can see, with “fruity” flavors.  On my nose it hits as a sort of peachy-strawberry fruitiness, but way under the dusty lavender perfume.  It’s a very nice tea, super subtle in a good way.  I mean, you can tell it’s not plain black tea and it’s not all LAVENDER PANTY SACHET in your face.

And ah, my favorite of all, the lilac black tea:

I love this tea.  This tea makes me want to go find a forest glade or a renaissance fair or quilt a velvet cape or I don’t know what the fuck, but I love it.

And at $1.55 an ounce?  Dudes.  Yes.

S&V sent some samples with my order, and my first thought with both was “Yuck.”  And after tasting?  Nope, still no.  Nice try S&V!  I’m sure normal people love them, but these ones are not invited to the Hobbit tea party.

Simpson & Vail have no idea I’m writing this, mind you.  I paid for my order.  I just wish you were here to come to my Hobbit tea party with me where we’d talk about only very good things while eating lots of cake.  I’d like that a lot.

¹ Malva flowers are also known as “mallow” is a very, very old remedy for sore throats that really works. The flowers are full of mucilage.

It was brought to my attention that my keeping “emergency butter” in the freezer may not be normal.

As an American, I didn’t understand until recently that ramen is an edible foodgroup.  That wretched dry brick was all I’d had, and even as a salt-hungry and largely tastebud-dead teen I knew that shit was evil.  After eating it I’d get a chemical flush all over my face and neck and would often lose sensation in my tongue for a short while.  It did not bode well for my desire to be a penniless college student.

Then, I found real ramen.  A paragon of noodles.  The king of bowl-meals, an ambassador of all things salty and soothing.  Hakata ramen, my current obsession, is made with a thick, oily, milky-looking bone-based pork broth.  It’s fucking insidious, I warn you now.  Traditionally, Hakata ramen should have very thin noodles lacking that trademark kinkiness of other ramens, and I think that’s a good deal of why I like it so much, but if I implied it wasn’t about the broth I’d be misleading you.

The Viking and Frego.

It doesn’t surprise me that Los Angeles is home to several great and totally authentic ramen joints, but what did surprise me is that we moved near one of them: Ramen Jinya.

He accepts your heathen noodles and will spare your village.  Today.

I think I’d still prefer a bowl of Shin-Sen-Gumi’s Hakata ramen if handed a bowl of each and asked to choose, but we’re starting to enter Sophie’s Choice territory.  Jinya’s pork is superior and the broth is almost a dead ringer – only the noodles break in favor of Shin-Sen-Gumi, and then only because I feel less of an ass ordering them soft (the option is right on the ticket you fill out and hand to the server).  But here’s the real issue: Shin-Sen-Gumi is a 45-minute drive away now.  Jinya, you have the lead.