On olives

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

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 a molded gelatin salad

Whenever I feel a bittersweet feeling of melancholy and nostalgia creep into my bones, I also start to think about all of the molded gelatin salads that I ate at innumerable potlucks held by the Lutheran ladies in the church of my youth. Although I wouldn’t blame Lutherans for inventing the molded jello salad, I would fault them for raising the recipe to high art, albeit “pop” art, populism in its most base form. Though the term “exotic” never enters the same sentence describing the nature of gelatin desserts, most cooks making a strangely shaped gelatin dessert thought they were bordering on the exotic, if not original, use of gelatin. Whenever I eat gelatin, I am always reminded of the bowls of red gelatin that came out in summer to celebrate friends, family and colleagues at picnics, reunions, and random get-togethers. I still love red gelatin, but I don’t want anything odd in it. I think there still exists a tendency on the part of some cooks to “jazz up” their recipes and presentations by adding other foods, fruit cocktail and little canned tangerines being among the most common. I have also see shrimp, tuna, cabbage, olives, anchovies, spam, celery, carrots and radishes floating suspended in green gelatin. There is something rather grotesque about seeing a shrimp suspended in green gelatin coming toward your mouth. Just because you can suspend different fruits, vegetables, meats, and fish in gelatin does not mean you should do it, necessarily. Gelatin is rather sweet, and it seems rather diabolical, if not unethical, to mix olives and Spam into a molded gelatin salad–and it’s not really salad either. I’ve seen people make some rather entertaining desserts constructed of gelatin cubes and whipped cream, but this a far cry from celery, carrots and cabbage in gelatin. I often wonder if the creators of such monstrosities ever eat their own potential fiascoes. Gelatin as a food is problematic for lots of reasons, not the least of which is its wiggly nature. Being transparent doesn’t help because unwary cooks will always fall into the trap of trying to put something interesting into the gelatin for the unwary consumer to look at. Just because you can do something does not necessarily mean you should. Gelatin cut into cubes, stacked in a decorative glass, and topped with a little whipped cream, though not very daring, is an acceptable dessert. Gelatin forced into strange molds of fish, dogs, geometric shapes, and rings is not. Is there a creepier food out there than a yellow gelatin molded fish with canned mandarin oranges and tiny salad shrimps suspended in it? And it’s been garnished with celery and parsley by some adventurous and imaginative cook who scammed the recipe out of that one church cookbook her cousin Marge gave her. Or a large five-pointed star of molded red gelatin in which someone has suspended chopped olives, fruit cocktail, and shredded carrots? Perhaps the only thing weirder than that is seeing a ring of orange gelatin with little bits of stuff floating in it which you cannot identify at all. I’ve eaten a lot of weird things, but between the slimy giggle factor and its unidentified contents, a strange molded gelatin salad is not my idea of good eats, but I say this not because I hate gelatin, but because as a food it has been abused by creative cooks anxious to impress the in-laws with some wildly exotic combination of shredded Spam and horseradish, which when suspended in gelatin in the company of white rice might be considered criminal behavior. Really, don’t make me cry. Just give me a bowl of red gelatin with nothing weird in it, and I will be a happy camper–end of story.

On a molded gelatin salad

Whenever I feel a bittersweet feeling of melancholy and nostalgia creep into my bones, I also start to think about all of the molded gelatin salads that I ate at innumerable potlucks held by the Lutheran ladies in the church of my youth. Although I wouldn’t blame Lutherans for inventing the molded jello salad, I would fault them for raising the recipe to high art, albeit “pop” art, populism in its most base form. Though the term “exotic” never enters the same sentence describing the nature of gelatin desserts, most cooks making a strangely shaped gelatin dessert thought they were bordering on the exotic, if not original, use of gelatin. Whenever I eat gelatin, I am always reminded of the bowls of red gelatin that came out in summer to celebrate friends, family and colleagues at picnics, reunions, and random get-togethers. I still love red gelatin, but I don’t want anything odd in it. I think there still exists a tendency on the part of some cooks to “jazz up” their recipes and presentations by adding other foods, fruit cocktail and little canned tangerines being among the most common. I have also see shrimp, tuna, cabbage, olives, anchovies, spam, celery, carrots and radishes floating suspended in green gelatin. There is something rather grotesque about seeing a shrimp suspended in green gelatin coming toward your mouth. Just because you can suspend different fruits, vegetables, meats, and fish in gelatin does not mean you should do it, necessarily. Gelatin is rather sweet, and it seems rather diabolical, if not unethical, to mix olives and Spam into a molded gelatin salad–and it’s not really salad either. I’ve seen people make some rather entertaining desserts constructed of gelatin cubes and whipped cream, but this a far cry from celery, carrots and cabbage in gelatin. I often wonder if the creators of such monstrosities ever eat their own potential fiascoes. Gelatin as a food is problematic for lots of reasons, not the least of which is its wiggly nature. Being transparent doesn’t help because unwary cooks will always fall into the trap of trying to put something interesting into the gelatin for the unwary consumer to look at. Just because you can do something does not necessarily mean you should. Gelatin cut into cubes, stacked in a decorative glass, and topped with a little whipped cream, though not very daring, is an acceptable dessert. Gelatin forced into strange molds of fish, dogs, geometric shapes, and rings is not. Is there a creepier food out there than a yellow gelatin molded fish with canned mandarin oranges and tiny salad shrimps suspended in it? And it’s been garnished with celery and parsley by some adventurous and imaginative cook who scammed the recipe out of that one church cookbook her cousin Marge gave her. Or a large five-pointed star of molded red gelatin in which someone has suspended chopped olives, fruit cocktail, and shredded carrots? Perhaps the only thing weirder than that is seeing a ring of orange gelatin with little bits of stuff floating in it which you cannot identify at all. I’ve eaten a lot of weird things, but between the slimy giggle factor and its unidentified contents, a strange molded gelatin salad is not my idea of good eats, but I say this not because I hate gelatin, but because as a food it has been abused by creative cooks anxious to impress the in-laws with some wildly exotic combination of shredded Spam and horseradish, which when suspended in gelatin in the company of white rice might be considered criminal behavior. Really, don’t make me cry. Just give me a bowl of red gelatin with nothing weird in it, and I will be a happy camper–end of story.

On the munchies

Everybody gets them, and always at the worst time. The munchies are rather irrational–eating when you don’t really need to. You had a big lunch or supper, but only a couple of hours have past and you already want a Twinky. You know that there is a fresh bag of chips in the cupboard, and you are planning your assault. The munchies show up at about midnight, maybe a little after. They also show up during sporting events, especially when you ensconced on your sofa drinking a refreshment. The munchies are an irrational craving that crawls into your brain like a Night Gallery earwig and gnaws at your cerebellum until you give in and make the popcorn, break open a new package of Ho-Ho’s, eat an entire row of Oreos, deep fry a few Twinkies, roll out a barrel of carmel corn, break out a box of chocolates, eat that Snickers that you hid away in the back of the freezer, go to White Castle for some sliders. Some people, skinny people mostly, can luxuriate in a profound attack of the munchies and suffer no ill effects from a night of gorging, but the rest of us feel nothing but bloat and guilt. Gluttony is a mortal sin, after all. But the munchies are amoral and know no bounds or ethical codes, are blind and unfeeling. The stomach growls, the saliva flows, and visions of sugar plums dance in your head. You start looking for your keys, the local gas station gas candy bars, peanuts, Cracker Jacks, and potato chips. Maybe some soda too. Some Little Debbie snack cakes. You stare into the dim light of the refrigerator wondering where the leftover meatloaf went and wondering what might happen if you resuscitate the macaroni and cheese that was left over last week and is starting to look furry. In disdain, you push aside a Diet Coke, and wonder if you can super-size an order of burgers at the local fast food chain, you know, the one with the clown. It’s three a.m. and the pit in your stomach is deep and empty, so you head out to Wally World for crackers, gum drops, Pop Tarts, Cheerios, milk, and a couple of caramel apples. The munchies are why the big box stores never close. They are filled with people trying to solve their munchies habit, walking up and down the aisles trying to find that one perfect snack that will resolve their craving. The munchies bring out the worst in all of us, eating when we don’t need it, ruining our diets, putting on some extra weight, wrecking our teeth, pushing our blood sugar to record levels. We dream of cheese cake, doughnuts, and cotton candy, but we should be eating a small salad with lettuce, tomato, and onion. Olives are part of the munchies family, so one must stay away from them. We have met the enemy, as Pogo once said, and he is us.

On the munchies

Everybody gets them, and always at the worst time. The munchies are rather irrational–eating when you don’t really need to. You had a big lunch or supper, but only a couple of hours have past and you already want a Twinky. You know that there is a fresh bag of chips in the cupboard, and you are planning your assault. The munchies show up at about midnight, maybe a little after. They also show up during sporting events, especially when you ensconced on your sofa drinking a refreshment. The munchies are an irrational craving that crawls into your brain like a Night Gallery earwig and gnaws at your cerebellum until you give in and make the popcorn, break open a new package of Ho-Ho’s, eat an entire row of Oreos, deep fry a few Twinkies, roll out a barrel of carmel corn, break out a box of chocolates, eat that Snickers that you hid away in the back of the freezer, go to White Castle for some sliders. Some people, skinny people mostly, can luxuriate in a profound attack of the munchies and suffer no ill effects from a night of gorging, but the rest of us feel nothing but bloat and guilt. Gluttony is a mortal sin, after all. But the munchies are amoral and know no bounds or ethical codes, are blind and unfeeling. The stomach growls, the saliva flows, and visions of sugar plums dance in your head. You start looking for your keys, the local gas station gas candy bars, peanuts, Cracker Jacks, and potato chips. Maybe some soda too. Some Little Debbie snack cakes. You stare into the dim light of the refrigerator wondering where the leftover meatloaf went and wondering what might happen if you resuscitate the macaroni and cheese that was left over last week and is starting to look furry. In disdain, you push aside a Diet Coke, and wonder if you can super-size an order of burgers at the local fast food chain, you know, the one with the clown. It’s three a.m. and the pit in your stomach is deep and empty, so you head out to Wally World for crackers, gum drops, Pop Tarts, Cheerios, milk, and a couple of caramel apples. The munchies are why the big box stores never close. They are filled with people trying to solve their munchies habit, walking up and down the aisles trying to find that one perfect snack that will resolve their craving. The munchies bring out the worst in all of us, eating when we don’t need it, ruining our diets, putting on some extra weight, wrecking our teeth, pushing our blood sugar to record levels. We dream of cheese cake, doughnuts, and cotton candy, but we should be eating a small salad with lettuce, tomato, and onion. Olives are part of the munchies family, so one must stay away from them. We have met the enemy, as Pogo once said, and he is us.