notes from an occasional carnivore

Wowza, am I glad I don't have any obligation to write ***WARNING MEAT REFERENCE AHEAD!*** I can talk about bones ands gristle and meat meat meat to my heart's content.

See, I've been off the meat wagon for two days shy of two months now. It's been interesting, to say the least. I've liked it, for the most part. My body feels lighter, even though I have no idea if I've lost any weight. The "number," as it is, is not the point. One day S. simply said "let's go veg for awhile," and I said "Okay." That was it.

S. had been fighting a cold/flu thing for a couple weeks and finally her body relented--last Friday, she launched into full blown illness. It seems to be moving fast, from her head to her chest, lots of coughing, lots of drainage. I feel so bad for her! Initially, when she started feeling crappy, she said to me "I want chicken." Upon further exploration of this statement, I learned that what she really wanted was chicken soup. The mother of all cure-alls. The moment passed, however, and we continued apace with the vegging out. Then, on Saturday, as S. lay in the guest room hacking up her right lung, I decided enough was enough. I was going to Whole Foods to buy the most P.C. chicken I could find so I could make my sick wife some nutritious soup. On the way to the store, I consulted my trusty gourmand and loyal blog partner, Stine, and asked her how she would prepare the soup. She gave me a rundown on the way she learned to make this elixir of goodliness from the Hungarians, and armed with her vast knowledge, I went shopping.

I returned home with a roaster, about 4 lbs., free-roaming, sourced from a farm 45 miles from Denver, no antibiotics, no hormones. It had been a very long time since I handled a whole chicken. I followed Stine's directions as S. slept, snoring softly in the other room. The smells were intoxicating, enough to get her up after about 40 minutes of cooking time and wander in the kitchen in her underwear, half-asleep, where she then pointed to the pot and rubbed her tummy. Her throat hurt so much that she didn't really want to talk. But I knew what she was saying.

Soon I was serving up some homemade chicken and rice soup (I'd precooked the rice), infused with the curative powers of garlic, ginger, black peppercorns and lots of quercetin (a natural anti-inflammatory found in onions). S. held the bowl in her hands and lifted it to her face, inhaling the aroma and letting the steam enter her clogged noggin. She ate it all, every drop, then went back to bed.

Soon thereafter, I ate a some pieces of chicken with rice. Very plain, just salt and pepper. I wanted to see how it tasted to me. Well, it tasted like chicken. A little greasy, but good. I'd say I ate half a breast, if that. And when I was finished, I was full. Too full, I decided. It was weird.

A week or so ago, S. and I had a conversation about eating veg, during which she said "I don't think I've really felt full since I stopped eating meat." This was an AHA! moment. S. is a fan of the full feeling. She likes being sated to the point of near uncomfortability. I'm sure it's deep seated in her, a void she fills, as there have been times when we've finished a meal and she's still hungry. She gets anxious, antsy. She's been working on this. And I think she's been rather successful, given that she hasn't complained about not having enough to eat since we tried to go vegetarian, even though it's obvious that it hasn't been easy for her.

But back to the chicken. I felt conflicted as I ate it. Like I was betraying something. I didn't feel like I was betraying the chicken, per se, but rather like I'd "given up" on something that I was successfully doing--a rarity for me, this consistency--and I needed to give myself permission to do it this one time. I am so conflicted about this whole meat eating thing, especially because I think there ARE humane and responsible ways to eat meat. It might take extra effort and a little more money, but it's worth it to seek out ethical purveyors and learn exactly where your food comes from. Frankly, I find a lot of vegetarian food to be wanting. Depth of flavor isn't the same. (My veg friends are taking up arms as I write this, I'm sure.) The chefs I most admire, including those in my own family, see vegetarian cooking as limiting, like painting with two colors. I can't help but agree. That doesn't mean, however, that I'm going whole hog :) back to the meat counter to rustle me up some sirloin. To the contrary--I have much more to think about now. I've been to chicken and back. I'm gassy, and the farts are fowl(sic). I'm thinking maybe the occasional meat here and there, but I'm not convinced that I want to go back to full blown meat eating at this point. All that said, hatch green chiles are plentiful this time of year, and I have a hankerin' for some pork green. Now if only I knew a neighborhood pig farmer...

I'm also gobbling up Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma and enjoying what he has to say, even when he brings up things that I'd rather not read about. So many of us are so far from our food that we barely recognize it--its original form is lost, its essence supplemented with additives we can barely pronouce. It's unnerving to think of my neighbor, a young boy going on 5, and all the ramen noodles he ingests on a weekly basis. He loves them, and of course they're cheap. And with food prices going through the roof--a dozen organic, free range, veg fed eggs hit $5 at Whole Foods--I'm not sure how many options his Mom has at this point. She's working full time, frazzled, and ramen is EASY. That's one of the things S. said to me recently--eating vegetarian is a ton of work. It is. Moreso than meat eating, hands down. And none of us has more time, that most elusive of things that we wish we had in ample supply. It takes dedication and perserverance to stay this path, not to mention more money. But I'm not willing to give up just yet.

In the interest of full disclosure, however, I should mention that the soup rice--which was cooked in chicken stock--was so flucking good...

all god's children love chicken strips and fries! / who am i to judge?

I like my new job. It's way more engaging than the old job. While I've stepped into this existing structure/menu, I do have the freedom to change things (and I plan to make more changes over time). Right now, though, my main area of freedom is what we call the "Entree of the Day." Even though a set menu was handed to me, I've managed to change that item up, to personalize it, to tweak it here and there to let myself connect more deeply to the food I'm making. I've thought through various ingredients and tried to come up with things that, given the limitations of the time and space I'm working in and the ingredients I (thus far) have to work with, complement each other. So that entree, it has love in it, and it's made from scratch. And given the context of this cafe, it's a nicer meal at a good price (like, $7, average). Yesterday: Wild Mahi Mahi Sammich on an organic roll w/ grilled pineapple, sweet onion, sweet potato fries and ginger sesame coleslaw.

There's another element to our menu. It's called "Fryer." The fryer works it's magic on premade frozen items. These items come in boxes. My work involves opening a box, then a bag, tossing said item into fryer, pushing some buttons, draining the food and tossing it with salt, all the while feeling the eyes of the customer on me as they anxiously await (3 - 5 minutes) their fried food. Yesterday: Chicken Strips and Fries w/ BBQ sauce.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a food snob-- strike that-- I'm not a snob. I'm kind of a food purist. I'm not elitist, but I think about quality and context and health within a framework of affordability and fair pricing. I've struggled long and hard enough with my weight that when I see the same folks ordering the fryer item day after day that I'm concerned for them. I'm not just concerned for the fat folks. I'm concerned for the skinny ones, too.

AND DON'T ASK ME WHY, BUT FOR SOME REASON FRIED FOOD HAS ME THINKING ABOUT THE G.I. HEALTH OF STRANGERS, AND THERE ARE CERTAIN VISUALS THAT COME UP, AND NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO THINK OF STRANGERS LIKE THAT.

So, there's that whole concern element, but that's only one side. The other is this rather snarky and somewhat tremendous judgment that people would choose fried crap over something that clearly has (my! me!me!me!) thought and intention and love and maybe, just maybe, some kind of subtlety of flavor and texture to it. Oy! It's not that I don't sell entrees. Some people get excited about them. And then there's the "I'll have the chicken strips (or fish/shrimp and chips)" people. My suspicion is that I could batter and fry catshit* and they'd buy it.

Enter therapy! I am fortunate enough to have a therapist I connect with, and who seems to understand not only food and my focus thereon, but my quest to know my deeper issues. I'm not gonna dissect my last session with her, but I will tell you that I'm all about noticing my reactions around the food I serve. I'm also blessed to have a profession that allows me a certain meditative space to be present with food, to engage in the process of preparation, to witness my own reactions and feelings. So there's all that, and there's my quest to deepen my creative process, to work for sustainability (and that has to do with not only what I serve, but how much, and how it impacts the health of my patrons). The world will always have its Fryer menu. My work is to find my way through and around it (and in it, in moderation), to notice my judgments and concerns and to work with an open heart. Some of that openness means creating healthy, tasty food that leads people (gently) to new flavors, to new ways of thinking and eating, to foods they might have dismissed as "hippy" or ...whatever.

I work in a small cafe in a big building in a big city. I am not on the cutting edge of cuisine, but I am engaged with food as nourishment for body and soul (and that includes mine as eater and preparer). Most of my dreams and wakings (and I often wake up thinking about food) involve offering something better, something fulfilling to eat/make.

It will be so.

*please note that the catshit would be wildcrafted and I'd likely bread it in a combination of panko and rice cake crumbles to give it an ethereal crunchiness to contrast its rather dense and earthy nature.

a moment with brown drink

Jim Crumley passed yesterday. Missoulians are mourning one of its finest--and most notorious--authors. I'm sure there are plans to bronze a stool at the Depot or Charlies, and the state liquor store may well be out of Macallan single malt by day's end.

Though many of the numerous writers in the now-famous Montana Mafia--centered in Missoula-- were quite accessible, Jim was, well, accessible AND easy. Easy in that you didn't have to be anything other than what you were around him. Easy in that it didn't take much to make his body shake with a laugh. Easy in that he was always glad to see you. And it was genuine.

Half the time I didn't understand what came out of his mouth, covered as it was by a full mustache and beard, and thickened with a couple scotches or Coors (in a can, original only, never light) and with me being half-deaf, I was at a double disadvantage. But no matter...hanging with Crum was always a joy. We'd watch football and yell at the screen. We'd munch on goodies brought by friends during the UnSuperbowl, or whatever Martha called the gathering of women--mostly--who weren't as into the football as those who sat glued to the TV all day on Superbowl Sunday. I loved football, but there was much more to see in that house in the South Hills...often, during long commercial interruptions, I would wander around Martha's studio, holding a piece of smooth porcelain in my hand, reading poems tacked to the walls. A sudden eruption of yelling and whistles from above--usually a signal that a team had scored--and I'd be sprinting up the stairs to rejoin the game. Some folks played with the cats; some watched the sunset from the deck. A common thread connected us: we all liked interesting, real people. We loved the heart of every person's story.

I know Jim changed a great deal in the last years of his life...his body began to break down, and in the end, after two trips to Palo Alto to see specialists, he was told to go home and enjoy the rest of his life. Some say he was unrecognizable at the end. In many ways, I am glad I didn't see him. I like to remember him in his leather vest, holding court at Charlie's, sitting on a stool underneath black and white photographs of all the people who'd warmed that seat before him. He came up to me after one of my readings once, at the Old Post, and recited back to me a line from one of my poems: "or don the cheap slicker of selective memory." He liked that line. I was honored, and humbled. I mean, he remembered that line. That kind of generosity of spirit was the James Crumley I knew.

He's probably flying above us all now, heading to the Borderlands that were such a part of his personal landscape. Peace to you, dear Crum. Eldridge and Catherine the Great and Chico...they're waiting for you at the door.








James A. Crumley
October 12, 1939-September 17, 2008

food and drink

I was gonna muse for a bit, but I'm still in my freakish readjustment period, wherein I ponder the nature of everything, how nearly every action or choice is not without consequence; how many of us, in many different ways, try to do the best we can; how no one choice is any better than the other, but rather, individual, to give us what we need, to soothe, to rectify, to undo or prevent one harm or another. See what I mean?

Pondering.

veggin' out ~ a snapshot

It's been almost a month since I stopped eating meat. One day, S. said "I really want to try going meatless" and I said "Okay." Just like that. It's strange how that happens...when you plan plan plan to make a change, it's harder to make. Or so it seems in my world. In this case, there was no pressure. Nothing was going to happen to me if I ate meat...no one was going to come and wag a finger in my face and say "bad girl, animal killer!" and I was pretty sure that my digestive system would be fine either way. Maybe that's why I've been able to stick to it.

There's another reason, though, that has only come to light in the past week or so. See, it's hard for me to understand what "well being" feels like. I cannot recall a time in my life when I truly felt GREAT! physically. If it wasn't my ear, it was my sinuses; if it wasn't my sinuses, it was my back issues; and then the VN came and paid me a loooong visit and life has not been the same since. Most days, I feel pretty normal. I'll have moments where the ground beneath me shifts, like a mini-personal-earthquake, and I have to blink hard (as if that will make everything better) so I can recalibrate my balance. But for the most part, I'm back to normal in that area.

So anyway, this vegetarian approach to eating--I *think* I DO feel better. Lighter. Less puffy, more energetic. There are moments when all I want is to dump my face in a vat of green chile (avec pork), since it's the season for it, and Hatch chile trucks are all up and down Federal Avenue, their roasters firing all day, the smell of fall and New Mexico and rellenos filling the air. The last time I tried to make veggie green chile I failed miserably, but I'm going to try it again. I haven't even scratched the surface of vegetarian cooking, and that's exciting! Honestly, I don't know how long this little "experiment" will last, but who knows...it might just become a way of life.