Category Archives: Food

On onions

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Why I have never written about onions is a little bit mysterious–even to me. I’ve been eating them my whole life–white, yellow, red, green. Yes, onions bite back, but that’s why us onion lovers eat onions in the first place–for the bite. Onions are strong stuff, which is why they are so lovely and enchanting. Certainly, they give you dragon breath, but all of us who eat onions are willing to stipulate to that, keeping a bottle of mouthwash at hand. Onions are a vital ingredient in thousands of dishes–soups, stews, hot-dishes, casseroles, sauces. Fried onion rings are delightful, but those of us who eat onions, eat them because they are raw, brutal, raging, fiery, violent. The release of endorphins that we experience upon eating the hottest of onions is what we live for. Onions are strong food, not for the weak of heart, not for the wishy-washy or bland who want to eat gray food their entire lives, never being driven to tears by their food. We also eat jalapeños, limburger cheese, and menudo, looking for that same food high. You can have your macaroni and cheese, your tuna hot dish, or even chicken fried steak, none of which is hot and bothersome. We eat onions because we want our food to fight back. Yes, onions have layers, but a true onion lover cares nothing for subtlety. We love garlic, super-picante salsa, burny hot sauce, and any other food which might make you cry. I love onions. I make no apologies. A hamburger is just not a hamburger without onions on it.

On onions

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Why I have never written about onions is a little bit mysterious–even to me. I’ve been eating them my whole life–white, yellow, red, green. Yes, onions bite back, but that’s why us onion lovers eat onions in the first place–for the bite. Onions are strong stuff, which is why they are so lovely and enchanting. Certainly, they give you dragon breath, but all of us who eat onions are willing to stipulate to that, keeping a bottle of mouthwash at hand. Onions are a vital ingredient in thousands of dishes–soups, stews, hot-dishes, casseroles, sauces. Fried onion rings are delightful, but those of us who eat onions, eat them because they are raw, brutal, raging, fiery, violent. The release of endorphins that we experience upon eating the hottest of onions is what we live for. Onions are strong food, not for the weak of heart, not for the wishy-washy or bland who want to eat gray food their entire lives, never being driven to tears by their food. We also eat jalapeños, limburger cheese, and menudo, looking for that same food high. You can have your macaroni and cheese, your tuna hot dish, or even chicken fried steak, none of which is hot and bothersome. We eat onions because we want our food to fight back. Yes, onions have layers, but a true onion lover cares nothing for subtlety. We love garlic, super-picante salsa, burny hot sauce, and any other food which might make you cry. I love onions. I make no apologies. A hamburger is just not a hamburger without onions on it.

On olives

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Jaca negra, luna grande y aceitunas en mi alforja I seldom discuss my favorite food. People are rarely indifferent about whether they live olives or not. Some can only stand them marinated in gin, still others like them only in brine. I like them anyway I can get them: stuffed with pimentos, seed in, marinated in olive oil and paprika, with garlic, with onions, the possibilities are endless. They are a crucial part of any good salad. I love to eat them by themselves as if they were the meal. They also accompany any kind of meat or vegetable. I love them with pasta or rice, ground into a paste for a crostini. The only thing more complex than the wide variety of olives are the various and in-sundry ways to prepare all of those varieties. I never get bored trying a new kind of olive, crushed, green, ripe, whatever. Olives are the stuff of which life is made, delicate meat, creamy oil, bitter taste. There are always olives in the kitchen, in the refrigerator. Man has been growing olive trees for millennia because he has never found anything more useful or tasty. Once cured in brine, they have an almost indefinite shelf life, never losing their food value even in the hottest desert weather. In some ways the simple olive is the most complex of foods, never a main dish, but more than just a snack, neither fish nor fowl, it is a fruit that is not sweet, yet it displays a complex series of flavor profiles that are grounded in a basic bitterness that defines its identity.

On olives

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Jaca negra, luna grande y aceitunas en mi alforja I seldom discuss my favorite food. People are rarely indifferent about whether they live olives or not. Some can only stand them marinated in gin, still others like them only in brine. I like them anyway I can get them: stuffed with pimentos, seed in, marinated in olive oil and paprika, with garlic, with onions, the possibilities are endless. They are a crucial part of any good salad. I love to eat them by themselves as if they were the meal. They also accompany any kind of meat or vegetable. I love them with pasta or rice, ground into a paste for a crostini. The only thing more complex than the wide variety of olives are the various and in-sundry ways to prepare all of those varieties. I never get bored trying a new kind of olive, crushed, green, ripe, whatever. Olives are the stuff of which life is made, delicate meat, creamy oil, bitter taste. There are always olives in the kitchen, in the refrigerator. Man has been growing olive trees for millennia because he has never found anything more useful or tasty. Once cured in brine, they have an almost indefinite shelf life, never losing their food value even in the hottest desert weather. In some ways the simple olive is the most complex of foods, never a main dish, but more than just a snack, neither fish nor fowl, it is a fruit that is not sweet, yet it displays a complex series of flavor profiles that are grounded in a basic bitterness that defines its identity.

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On fruit

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When asked about my favorite fruit, I’m sure I would have to say fresh cherries with strawberries running a strong second with the kiwi coming in third. Can you ever get enough fruit? I suppose we should ask Adam, but he’s not here, so we’ll move on. Apples and oranges, bananas and pineapple, I can already feel the juice running down my chin. Nature’s own fresh candy, it’s sweet and delicious, a delight to the sense of taste and smell, touch to a certain extent. Not a huge fan of mango, but it’s because I’m allergic. Grapes, watermelon, lemons, limes, grapefruit, pomegranate. Fruit is a dark object of sensuous desire, the colors and textures yearn to split and eaten, juice running everywhere, down your chin, your hands and elbows, you grab for a napkin to clean up. It’s the sugar, of course, which we crave. Eat a banana–it has one of the highest sugar contents in the fruit world. What redeems fruit are all the vitamins and minerals they contain. I also think that sugary fruit, the object of desire, is redeemed by its aesthetics and its taste. The taste of a ripe grapefruit, beautifully red strawberries, sweet white grapes, or that perfect apple are all astonishingly different and astonishingly wonderful. No one will mistake one for the other, but it is rather rare to meet someone who doesn’t like fruit. The textures are also all different: raspberries are not at all like melon, and no one will mistake a peach for a pear, in the dark or with the lights on.

On fruit

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When asked about my favorite fruit, I’m sure I would have to say fresh cherries with strawberries running a strong second with the kiwi coming in third. Can you ever get enough fruit? I suppose we should ask Adam, but he’s not here, so we’ll move on. Apples and oranges, bananas and pineapple, I can already feel the juice running down my chin. Nature’s own fresh candy, it’s sweet and delicious, a delight to the sense of taste and smell, touch to a certain extent. Not a huge fan of mango, but it’s because I’m allergic. Grapes, watermelon, lemons, limes, grapefruit, pomegranate. Fruit is a dark object of sensuous desire, the colors and textures yearn to split and eaten, juice running everywhere, down your chin, your hands and elbows, you grab for a napkin to clean up. It’s the sugar, of course, which we crave. Eat a banana–it has one of the highest sugar contents in the fruit world. What redeems fruit are all the vitamins and minerals they contain. I also think that sugary fruit, the object of desire, is redeemed by its aesthetics and its taste. The taste of a ripe grapefruit, beautifully red strawberries, sweet white grapes, or that perfect apple are all astonishingly different and astonishingly wonderful. No one will mistake one for the other, but it is rather rare to meet someone who doesn’t like fruit. The textures are also all different: raspberries are not at all like melon, and no one will mistake a peach for a pear, in the dark or with the lights on.

On bread

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Bread is the stuff out of which life is made, and although one may not live by bread alone, bread is a good start. I start most of my days with a piece or two of toast–just butter. Bread comes in so many sizes, shapes, textures, and flavors that just saying “bread” is not really enough. I like crusty bread, brown bread, black bread, yellow bread. Maybe my bread has raisins in it, or cinammon, or cardomin. Crusty, full-bodied, chewy bread is better than spongy, airy bread unless of course, you like that sort of thing–spongy, airy, I mean. I like to make my own because then I know what’s in it. I will often toast my bread to bring up the flavors of wheat and yeast. I keep my ingredients simple: yeast, whole wheat flower, water, olive oil, and a little sugar to feed the yeast. The work that it takes to kneed the bread is a labor of love. The whole house ends up smelling like fresh bread dough, all yeasty and musty. Then the magic happens–it quadruples in size. Punch it down. Into the pans and into the oven it goes, filling the entire house with the divine smell of baking bread. When you make it with your own two hand with your own recipe, you have such a sense of accomplishment, and although wo-man does not live by bread alone, making and eating your own bread comes awful close.

On bread

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Bread is the stuff out of which life is made, and although one may not live by bread alone, bread is a good start. I start most of my days with a piece or two of toast–just butter. Bread comes in so many sizes, shapes, textures, and flavors that just saying “bread” is not really enough. I like crusty bread, brown bread, black bread, yellow bread. Maybe my bread has raisins in it, or cinammon, or cardomin. Crusty, full-bodied, chewy bread is better than spongy, airy bread unless of course, you like that sort of thing–spongy, airy, I mean. I like to make my own because then I know what’s in it. I will often toast my bread to bring up the flavors of wheat and yeast. I keep my ingredients simple: yeast, whole wheat flower, water, olive oil, and a little sugar to feed the yeast. The work that it takes to kneed the bread is a labor of love. The whole house ends up smelling like fresh bread dough, all yeasty and musty. Then the magic happens–it quadruples in size. Punch it down. Into the pans and into the oven it goes, filling the entire house with the divine smell of baking bread. When you make it with your own two hand with your own recipe, you have such a sense of accomplishment, and although wo-man does not live by bread alone, making and eating your own bread comes awful close.