L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Erev Xmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house kids were hyperventilating. They were small and their little skins were hardly up to the task of containing the enormous fizzing excitement of a Christmas that seemed simultaneously imminent and maddeningly remote. As a distraction, I decided to have them help make gingerbread men. At right: Alan, 3, post baking, first year AC (anno cookie), below, Alan, 22, or 19 AC.

It was a howling success and has evolved into an annual rite with enough arcane rituals, required elements and passionate devotion to surpass the Catholic Church. The boys are in their twenties now and any time I float the idea of maybe skipping it this year, I’m greeted with gasps of horror so intense most of the air is sucked from the room and the windows bow inward.

The Making of the Cookies

The recipe is more or less from the Joy of Cooking to the extent that I follow any recipe. I don’t bake much because I am constitutionally unfit to actually measure anything. Perhaps someone who bakes all the time can eyeball it, but being baking-impaired, I force myself to dig out measuring thingies. It’s a true measure of a mother’s devotion.

A critical part of the ritual is never to use a cookie cutter. From early childhood, I have put knives into the hands of my children and let them cut the dough any way they like. Beyond monitoring the battlefield enough to make sure most body parts stay clear of the dough, I try not to interfere.

There is a sort of reverse evolution to cookies hand cut by children. The first pan are close approximations of people, angels and Christmas trees. But this gets old fast and the second pan devolves into simpler forms: stars, moons, and letters of the alphabet consisting of straight lines. Then there’s the mutant pan with zombies, rockets, UFOs and aliens. By the fourth pan, we’re down to triangles and Rorschach inkblot tests (Is that an amoeba or the pope?).

The Frosting of the Cookies.

The frosting is traditionally from a can in my cooking universe. Except this year. We’re snowed in for the first time ever on Christmas and I was forced to make frosting. It was harrowing, but has been given the “acceptable” rating by the cookie priests. On top of the frosting goes massed sprinkles and drools of colored icing from tubes.

We’re not talking Martha Stewart here. It’s about letting the process belong to the children. With the suppurating mounds of gooey frosting, bleeding candy dots and dripping ropes of red and green gel viscera they look more like something out of the Alien dinner scene than the cover of Gourmet, but the kids love them.

I’m looking at this year’s creations and wishing I’d taken pictures each year. They’re always artistic, but this year they’re more in the Keith Haring way than Jackson Pollock.

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Eight Crazy Latkes

Latkes are made from potatoes. Potatoes. Let me say it again, in case you missed it: Po. Tay. Toes. It’s a tradition! Without it, I’d feel as shaky as… as…

Then I saw this. Eight different latke recipes. One for each day of Hanukkah. Potato, of course. Salmon. Zucchini. Banana. Creamy Lemon. Chocolate. Pumpkin…

At first it was shocking but then, suddenly the world shifted. I was floating free in a universe of limitless possibility - far, far beyond mere creamy lemon. Zucchini? Puh-leez! Banana? Pfft! If you’re going to throw tradition to the winds, why be a plodding pedestrian? Why be a mere muggle?

Note: The recipes for some of these are still under wraps in the Eva Moon test kitchens.

Eva’s Eight Nights of Latkes

First night: Bacon Latkes. You know you want them. You can smell the sacrilege already, can’t you? Go ahead. Piss off the old folks. In fact, why not serve bacon, ham and shrimp latkes for a traif trifecta?

Second night: Valium Latkes. The holidays are a stressful time. Are the kids are overexcited and underfoot? Driving you nuts? Relax! You’ll want to gauge the dosage carefully, but with practice you can knock the little buggers out for as long as you want: long enough for a hot bath or a weekend getaway. It’s your choice.

Third night: Candy Corn Latkes. To mark the official end of autumn, dig out that half bag of leftover Halloween candy corn you squirreled away in the cupboard behind the oatmeal and stir it in. Fry as usual. Let cool unless you like blisters.

Fourth night: Altoid Latkes. Curiously strong.

Fifth night: Jello Shot Latkes. Without our traditions, life would be as shaky as…

Sixth night: White Widow Latkes. If you had to google it, you can’t have one. Well, OK, maybe one. The first one’s free. After that I’ll have to charge you.

Seventh night: Viagra Latkes. Makes a firmer latke. Warning: Too many may cause blindness. For Hanukkah candles that burn longer than four hours, contact your rabbi.

Eighth night: Potato Latkes. Sorry. In any universe these are required eating. Here’s how traditional potato latkes are made (and no, I don’t care how your grandma used to make them): Approximate proportions: 2 potatoes, grated, 1/2 onion, grated, 1 egg, 1 handful of flour, salt, pepper. You only want enough egg and flour to keep it from being hash browns. Heat plenty of oil in a cast iron skillet and drop big spoonfuls of the stuff into the sizzling oil. Brown well on both sides, blot on paper towels. Serve with sour cream. Applesauce is OK if people are whining for it. We never actually manage to get them out of the kitchen. Everyone burns their fingers. It’s a tradition.

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Cream in my coffee

I know I’ve been writing about food a lot lately. I am a woman of strong appetites and the urge is especially potent this time of year. After all, why stop with just one when multiples are on the table? Let me squeeze out one more for you:

Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes

What could be more festive for the holidays? Some sample recipes from the book: “Almost White Russian” (2 oz vodka, 1 oz coffee liqueur, 1/2 oz semen, cream or milk, ice cubes), “Tuna Sashimi with Dipping Sauce” (Seafood n’ spunk. Now there’s a natural pairing!), and for dessert, “Creamy Cum Crepes.”

And so on. Well, you get the jizz. I can’t wait to see this episode of Iron Chef.

It’s hard to think of many human-based substances one would want to cook with (perhaps including the above), but here’s a true confession: Back when I was nursing my kids, I found a fresh and convenient substitute for cream in my coffee… Oh c’mon. Like you never thought of it.

Happy Thanksgiving and do have some more of the cream pie.

Thanks to Mr. Squid.

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Poetry in Bacon

Too much bacon? Is it even possible? Apparently, it is.

Behold the Turbaconducken!

The Turbaconducken is a whole cut up chicken, each piece individually wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside a whole duck, also completely swathed in bacon and then crammed into a turkey which is… plastered in bacon.

I wonder why they didn’t deep fry it?

OK, the outside looks tolerable, but I don’t even want to think about the gelatinous swamp of fat that poured out of the murky interior.

My 22-year-old-bacon-loving son’s response:

7:17:13 PM Alan: okay
7:17:16 PM Alan: speaking as a bacon enthusiast
7:17:18 PM Alan: that is just
7:17:20 PM Alan: too much bacon
7:17:29 PM me: who knew there was such a thing?
7:17:33 PM Alan: I was aware
7:17:49 PM me: I mean, such a thing as too much bacon
7:18:02 PM Alan: yes
7:18:04 PM Alan: it is rare
7:18:05 PM Alan: but achievable

Reformatted as poetry:

A Poem for the Morning

okay
speaking as a bacon enthusiast
that is just
too much bacon
who knew there was such a thing?
I was aware
I mean, such a thing as too much bacon
yes

it is rare
but achievable

(Thanks to Lisa Whipple, Nina Forsyth, Alan Gordon and Bacon Today)

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Soup Weather III

I will run out of soup recipes before long but this one is a family classic and I promise I’ll be just as vague about quantities as ever.

Eva’s Borscht

Fill a big pot (I don’t know, 8 qt?) about half full of water and toss in some meat.

Beef is traditional, but I don’t eat beef for reasons I would go into, but I’m afraid someone would write back explaining how the same objections apply to pork or chicken or lamb and I’d have to put my fingers in my ears and go “lalalala.” I’ve found that a pork wad works just fine (that would be a pork tri-tip roast. I like them because they have no fat. Something with a bone in it would add more flavor, but this is a pretty flavorful soup anyway. A wad is approximately two pounds). I think it would be good with turkey too, but I haven’t tried that yet.

Add some salt, pepper, a few cloves of garlic and a bay leaf or two and cook until the meat is tender, skimming if necessary.

Then add: a sliced onion, 1 can diced tomatoes, 2 cans sliced beets and a shredded head of cabbage. Add some water if it’s boiled away too much. You can add a couple diced potatoes if you like. I didn’t this time.

When the veggies are soft, taste and season with salt, pepper and about a cup of cider vinegar and a cup of sugar. But don’t add the vinegar and sugar all at once. Add about half and taste. It should have a nice tang to it and be evenly balanced between sweet and sour without being overpowering.

Serve with sour cream or plain yogurt. I like yogurt personally.

As a bonus, here’s how I made the pirozhki in the picture:

Cook a couple of potatoes and set aside. Dice a large onion or two medium. It’s really hard to have too much onion. Cook it in a dry heavy pot until much of the liquid is gone and they are limp. Add chopped garlic, scallions and some olive oil and stir until the onions are dark and caramelized. Do this on a daily basis. Caramelizing onions and garlic is one of life’s wonderful aromas. I plan to do up a vat to get me through election returns without going mad. Dice the potatoes and stir them into the onions. They’ll mash up a bit, but do leave it mostly lumps please.

Then, pop open a tube of large buttermilk biscuits. (I’m for easy. So sue me, grandma.) Plop one on a floured board and roll out to thin. Put a spoonful of the potatoes in the middle, wet half the edge of the dough with a bit of water, fold over and press the edges together. Repeat. Bake at 375 for about 20 minutes. Try to get them out of the kitchen before they’re eaten up. Three medium potatoes and one huge onion made almost enough filling for three tubes of biscuits.

Go thou and soupify.

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If they come, feed them for chrissakes

We’ve driven, oh, about two and a half hours to play at your wedding. The instructions included phrases such as “get to the ferry at least a forty-five minutes early”, “turn off the paved road” and “watch for a fence post on the left with a boot on it.” Negotiations with the neighbors to let us to bring a microphone onto the property surpassed the Kyoto treaty, but we’ll be allowed to plug in as long as the sound is not audible from 50 paces away and we stop by 7 pm. The remote farm you’ve chosen to celebrate your special day is charming and the slanted patch of gravel and mud by the creek is the perfect place to set up our gear. Let the festivities begin!

It is standard procedure to feed the band at some point. We’re stuck there for a good four hours, not counting transportation time and we can’t exactly nip around to the 7-11 during a break. We don’t expect special treatment. We don’t need to eat your $150 a plate catered dinners. It’s nice, but a plate of sandwiches in the kitchen will do. And beer. Thank you kindly.

Usually people are generous and there’s plenty of whatever to go around. But two events in the past year were remarkable for opposite reasons.

The first was a wedding so remote Google Maps just said “Here be Dragons.” The grounds included campsites and trenching tools for the guests. It was festive however, with flocks of little moppets dressed as fairies flitting about on the grass. But there was no food for the band. None. We asked. Eventually, a sympathetic caterer snuck out one plate of sesame noodles. For five people. If Sue hadn’t had a can of peanuts in the car we might have been reduced to chewing cable insulation.

Maybe it’s my Jewish upbringing. Maybe it’s that most of the private events we play are for eastern European families. But the thought of anyone being hungry at a wedding is just… inconceivable. We’re still shaking our heads.

The second event was last weekend on a local island. Early in the evening, while we were setting up and waiting to play, waiters circulated with trays of appetizers and they made sure to put the band on their rounds. Drinks were plentiful. At the end of the first set we were told to go to the kitchen for dinner. Even better! The chef served us plates of crisp salmon cakes and quinoa salad with sugar snap peas, which we took to a small table near the stage to eat. The royal treatment!

We started the second set, expecting fewer dancers on the floor as the waiters brought dinner to the guests. But no dinner appeared and guests soon began to exit. Perhaps seeking insulation to chew on. By the end of the set the room was nearly empty and we realized that for some reason, they’d chosen to dinner the band but not the guests!

Maybe times are tough. Maybe the attendees were all islanders happy to have actual mainland people come out to add a little spice to the quiet life. Sure the guests had their canapes. But to the salmon cakes were suddenly heavy in my stomach. The second situation was as uncomfortable as the first.

We didn’t have a caterer at our own wedding. My family and I spent days cooking to save money. But by god, everybody went home stuffed. Everybody. Anything else is just… inconceivable.

Amended to clarify: The second event was a fundraiser, so of course their budget was restricted. I just wish they hadn’t chosen to feed us more than they fed the guests. We would have been fine with appetisers.

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Soup Weather II

I promise this will not turn into a food blog. But one good soup deserves another and this is a recipe that’s been simmering in the family since the original appeared in the Los Angeles Times at least a quarter century ago. As with all my recipes, it is substantially transmogrified from the source. I can’t help it. When I decided to make paella, I read a dozen recipes, closed the books and made my own impressionistic gestalt paella. Tonight’s soup is a gestalt of cioppino, but happily can be made almost entirely from ingredients on hand in the space of about 20 minutes.

Eva’s Mediterranean Seafood Soup

Chop an onion and a bunch of garlic and saute in a big pot in a splash of good olive oil. When it’s going good, add a bay leaf, a couple of whole dried red chilies, thyme, basil, salt and saffron.

A word about saffron. For god’s sake, just use the stuff. There’s no substitute. People talk about in hushed tones it as if it were fairies’ toes or moon rocks. Sure it’s expensive, but how much do you need? Shop around. I buy a little vial like this from a spice market across the street from Pike Street Market for $5. If I used a quarter of it (which I don’t) it would be a dollar and change. A pot of soup serves 5-6 people. Are you going to tell me your friends aren’t worth 25 cents worth of saffron? Go hog wild. Put in a half teaspoon full.

Stir that up for a bit and then pour in about a quart of stock. I used a box of seafood stock I picked up at the market, but part chicken stock / part clam juice works just fine. Chop in a couple of tomatoes (or add a can of diced if you don’t have fresh). Simmer 5 minutes. Then add some seafood - a chunk of some kind of firm, white fish and a couple handfuls of shrimp are things you can keep in the freezer. Tonight, I also added clams and mussels. Simmer a few more minutes and then toss in sliced zucchini. Another five and it’s ready to serve.

For those of you who complain that I don’t specify quantities, try these: 1 cup, .75 lbs, 16, half a teaspoon, 3 medium or 2 large.

Now go and trust your instincts.

Photos by Eva Moon.

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Soup Weather

I rarely blog about recipes, but this is a request. I’ve been making pozole for ahem-ty years and before I start off another recipe firestorm, I’ll say right out that I know it’s not the way your old abuelita made it. It’s just the way it’s evolved for us over the years so get over it because I’m not going to change it.

Start with a pork wad.

I used to make it with a shoulder, which tastes the best but it extends the cooking process by about a day because you have to chill it and then scrape off a foot of fat. Now I use a pork tri-tip. Not as richly flavorful as the shoulder, but we’re watching our girlish figures over here at Eva Moon HQ. They come three wads to a pack at Costco and have so little fat you could cook it for a week and you’d still need an arc lamp to find the fat dot.

Chunk the pork and toss it in a pot of water with: garlic (go ahead and use a whole head), a handful of those little dried red chilies, some whole black peppercorns, a couple of bay leaves, oregano, cumin and salt. Boil until the meat is tender. When you can find the fat dot without the aid of a scanning electron microscope, it’s ready for the next step.

Dice and dunk: a large onion and about four anaheim chilies (the long green not-too-spicy ones). Dump in two cans of diced tomatoes and two large or four small cans of white hominy, rinsed. I also like to add a can or two of red and or black beans (so sue me).

Note: If you haven’t worked with chilies before (even the not-too-spicy ones) have a care which of your personal mucous membranes you finger afterwards. I’m just saying.

When the onion and chilies are pretty much cooked, adjust the seasonings and toss in a few sliced zucchini. Simmer another 10 minutes and serve with chopped fresh cilantro and lime slices. You may want to discard the dried red chilies. They never really get tender enough and they’ve given their all to the soup, so don’t think you’re proving your manhood or anything by eating them.

Bring on the fall. And bring on the soup recipes.

Photo by Eva Moon. Really.

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Trail Mixed

Once a year I hike to the top of Mt. Si. Mt. Si towers over the Washington town of North Bend (location of the cult TV series Twin Peaks) and since it’s only 45 minutes from Seattle it’s one of the most popular hikes in the country. The trail rises 3,200 feet over 4 miles. For me, it’s my annual excuse to eat trail mix, or GORP as we used to call it. GORP is an acronym for “Granola, Oats, Raisins and Peanuts” which is pretty stupid, since the oats are in the granola, but I guess it needed a vowel. Of course, nowadays there are so many different combinations of goodies, mere GORP seems quaint and puny. Looking at trail mix rack, I wondered, how does one choose? And that got me to thinking: What if you could have custom trail mixes suited, not just to a particular hike, but to different stages of each hike? Much like a sommalier might recommend a different wine for each course of a gourmet meal, your snackier could whip up just the right combination to suit your trek.

Therefore, I present to you our day hike with appropriate trail mix suggestions.

MILE ONE: We arrive at the trailhead, fresh and ready to tackle the mountain. We sling on day packs, check water supplies, tighten bootlaces and we’re off.

TRAIL MIX RECOMMENDATION: GORP - Granola, Oats, Raisins, Peanuts. Good old GORP is the perfect accompaniment to the first mile of the hike. Say it out loud: GORP. It’s a happy, friendly sound, reminiscent of the sound your boots make tramping across the gravel pathway at the start of the trail. GORP GORP GORP GORP.

MILE TWO: Still going strong, but it’s getting hot and there’s no breeze. We’re all sweating profusely, but gamely forging on to the interpretive signs that will mark our first stop.

TRAIL MIX RECOMMENDATION: CRAP - Chocolate chips, Raisins, Almonds, Peanuts. Mere GORP simply won’t do the job any more. What’s the deal with all that cereal anyway? It’s time for something more substantial: two kinds of nuts and chocolate will shore up flagging energy and make a fine complement to the increased exertion.

MILE THREE: I don’t know how it happened - it’s only been a year since we were last here - but they’ve raised the mountain! Mile three goes on for at least four or five miles and what used to be a manageable 15-20% grade has become nearly vertical. Judging by the rivers of sweat soaking our clothes, they’ve also apparently moved the entire mountain to Equatorial Guinea.

TRAIL MIX RECOMMENDATION: HELPMEGOD - Hazelnuts, Edamame, Loganberries, Pretzels, M&Ms, Exedrin, Granola, Oats, Dates. Time to kick it up a notch, don’t you think?

MILE FOUR: Starting to come out of the cover of trees. The sun is a relentless orb of burning torture. The summit recedes into the shimmering distance. I always thought it would be cold in the stratosphere, but it’s not. Oh God, it’s not. Legs begin to liquefy. Will it never end?

TRAIL MIX RECOMMENDATION: KILLMENOW - Kalhua, Ibuprofin, Loganberries, LSD, M&Ms, Ecstasy, Nuts, OxyContin, Wild Turkey. Ice. Somehow I must find ice.

SUMMIT: Four miles of switchbacks bring us to the summit of Mt. Si. The last batch of trail mix is just kicking in. There’s a lovely breeze up here and the view is spectacular. Mt. Rainier is majestic as hell and downtown Seattle looks tiny and remote. The top of the Space Needle looks like a floating tic tac. What was I so upset about? It’s beautiful! We ramble about the summit a bit and rest for awhile. After some time, we rouse from our stupor and start to think how nice it will be to get home and have a shower. Then the realization hits: Four miles up = four miles down.

TRAIL MIX RECOMMENDATION: AAARRRGGH!!! - Almonds, Absinthe, Amphetamines, Raisins, Red Hots, Red Bull, Granola, Ganja, Halcyon. That’s better.

UPDATE: It wasn’t just my heat weeny-ness. The temp was a record-breaking 90º (two degrees hotter than the previous record). I can hear all you Florida types snorting, but I challenge you to find so much as a hill to climb. When I visit Florida, I pretend freeway overpasses are hills. Just for laughs.

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The Wages of Beer

We played outdoors in Bellingham Sunday afternoon at a lovely, old-fashioned village square on a perfect sunny day filled with babies and dogs in the grass. The people danced for three solid hours. (I hope to have some pictures soon, but in the meantime, here’s a picture that shows the setting, if not the band).

Afterward, hungry and thirsty, we headed for the Archer Ale House across the street. If you’re ever up in Bellingham, Washington, I recommend you stop in for a brewski from their extensive selection and please, please, please don’t miss the beer-steamed mussels. You’ll need extra bread to sop up the heavenly liquid. I fashioned a crude spoon from an empty mussel shell. A bluesy three-piece blue grass band strumming by the bar drowned out the Yankees/Red Sox game on the overhead plasma TV. (By popular vote, Coco Crisp is the best name in baseball. Perhaps the best name in sports. Ever.)

First pitcher of beer: The chatter turns to sports. Specifically, which sport has the stupidest athletes? We thought it might be either baseball or basketball. In the end, I offered to consult an expert. My friend, Calvin Beam, who was a sportswriter in Philadelphia had this take on the subject:

“Ahh, always a great debate. It used to be baseball and hockey players, because they were drafted right out of high school, while the others were sort of exposed to four years of college. But the advantage to baseball and hockey players is that they have periods of time in the minors with long bus trips. They at least become social and a reasonable quote for sportswriters. So now, I’m leaning toward basketball. They either don’t go to college, or go for a year and bail.

This of course is discounting boxing, which wins all these arguments hands down.”

Boxing! Doh!

Second pitcher of beer: Suds-inspired entrepreneurial creativity sets in. We invent a bar/restaurant concept that we’re convinced will make a fortune (a good thing, since music ain’t doing it): Pitchers. At the future Pitchers Ale House, everything is served in pitchers. You can get the pitcher of fries, the pitcher of pork. Even the pitcher of mac’n'cheese. Given the American addiction to trough-feeding, how can it fail? As an added entertainment element, diners will be given a substantial discount if they consent to consume their pitchers with hands handcuffed behind their backs. Investors, email me for a chance to get in on the ground floor.

Ok, so we’d been drinking.

Third pitcher of beer: There’s something so sad about the fact that the more you drink, the more brilliant you get but less you remember. I suppose it’s nature’s way of limiting the havoc that might be caused by too much brilliance.

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