zin for breakfast

i guess i don't not love new york

Whiter than snow. New York City snow, anyway.

Apparently, I'm in New York to do more than wander around gourmet markets and create disasters in my kitchen. They tell me I am also here to learn. School started again last week, and it's been a rough adjustment. Reading novels, writing, having class at the ungodly hour of 2 p.m. Rough, I say! Really, though, things are a little hectic. There's the job, for one thing, and there's a potential second job that may do away entirely with my weekday morning/afternoon wanderings. A scary prospect. That's why, when I woke up this morning with a big book to read and nothing on the trusty Google Calendar until 6 p.m., I jumped on the subway and headed to the Lower East Side for a little cafe crawl.

Appropriately, I'm reading Call It Sleep, by Henry Roth. The LES is a little different now than it was when Roth lived there. Like there probably wasn't a Whole Foods on Bowery.  I wonder what would become of little fictional David Schearl among today's LES residents. He would still get teased relentlessly, but for not looking grungy enough, for not having black skinny jeans, for not knowing how to pronounce il Laboratorio del Gelato, for totally missing the irony of, you know, everything.

But back to me. I've been back for five months now, but I'm still surprised when I open my front door and find weather outside. Today might have set a record for most miserable combination of weather events ever (barring, you know, earthquake/tornado situations). A nice soft snow fell all through the night, but at some point early in the day, it got just a little too warm, and by the time I hauled myself outside (after Morning Edition, before the end of BBC World News), a steady rain was turning the world to frigid mush. I was wearing sneakers, which, to my mind, are sensible shoes. Sensible is relative, I suppose. Compared to black ballet flats, sneakers are sensible. But in frigid mush world, nothing makes sense. Crosswalks become icy lakes, seemingly safe street corners turn to tidal waves when taxis pass. A small puddle is, in actuality, ankle-deep. Sneakers are clearly no match for these treacherous conditions.

Between my subway stop and breakfast, a cool .7 miles, I soaked my shoes, my socks, and my pants up to mid-calf. At a few points, I almost turned around because I couldn't figure out how to cross the slushy oceans in front of me. I could not leap them in a single bound. Finally, I realized that everything was so wet, it didn't matter. Then, it was easy. Coldly and miserably easy.

So I made it to Clinton Street Baking Company.  It did not look like this, because this is not my photo. I stole it from the website, where the weather is always nice. Honestly, I was mostly too sopping to think about taking out my camera, and once I was inside, I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself. Apparently they don't like it when you take your shoes and socks off, literally ring the water out of the socks, and put them on the opposite seat to dry. Why did I go to CSBC? Well they're famous for their pancakes. But I didn't even get the pancakes! That always happens... The smoked salmon scramble was calling my name. It was great--lots of salmon chunks and scallion cream cheese mixed into lightly scrambled eggs--and it was served with a side salad, which I really appreciated. Greens don't get enough love as a breakfast food. This was a simple mixed green salad with mustard dijon dressing. The tangy taste from the dressing nicely complemented the creamy scramble. I admit that I did have pancake envy at the end of my meal, though. Next time, next time.

I sat in CSBC and nursed a cup of tea until I could feel my toes again. Then I ventured on down Rivington to Teany, which is a terribly hip little spot that specializes in teas and vegan desserts. The tea menu is an entire little book divided into sections by variety (black, green, white, oolong, herbal) and again by flavor (fruity, flowery, spicy, herbal, etc). There are close to 100 choices in all. I got the herbal chai, because I wanted to know if it tasted as good as regular (caffeinated) chai. It wasn't as strong, but I liked it a lot. Worth $5.50 for a pot? While I'm sure the ingredients are top notch, I'd say no. My tofu salad dinner cost less than that and gave me more than just a bursting bladder.

Fuzzy, I know.

I did get a good hour and almost 70 pages of reading out of that pot. So maybe it was worth it after all.

I was not going to go anywhere else. I was considering cabbing it to the nearest B subway, that's how much I didn't want to walk outside. What convinced me to put my feet back in my sodden sneakers (the socks were left for dead in my backpack by then) and retrace my route? Sugar Sweet Sunshine did. I know, I hate the name. It's so saccharine. But I seriously I hear so much about this place. I can't even link you to all the blogs that have raved about their cupcakes and their pudding and the atmosphere of the store. I was surprised by the small size, but it certainly was cozy. It's the kind of cozy that I've been searching for desperately in Manhattan. There's an old couch, a few tables, some faded easy chairs, and no one cares if you sit for hours and read. The girl at the table behind me looked like she'd been camped out all day, sketching something with pens and markers. It was about 1 p.m. at this point, and the place was pretty quiet. I didn't have the appetite for cupcakes (what? did I really just say that?), so I got some pudding to take home for later. That was my intention, I swear. But the chair looked so comfy and it had started pouring again and I really needed an excuse to sit in one of those comfy chairs with my book.

So I ate the pudding. I got a mix of two flavors: "chocolate bomb" on top and banana on the bottom. I didn't know that pudding could taste like this! Jello brand pudding is not even in the same food group. The chocolate bomb was some kind of pudding/chocolate cake/whipped cream combo, and it was totally decadent. The banana pudding underneath was vanilla pudding/banana slices/Nilla wafers. It was great too, except the banana slices overwhelmed me with banana taste. I think I'm just not into mixing my fruit with my sweets. The consistency was lovely, though, with the Nilla wafers soft and crumbled into the rich pudding. These blogs have great photos. 

They had a pumpkin flavor that also looked delicious. I'd mix that with the chocolate next time.

You've teased me relentlessly about my mild--ahem--sweet potato interest, but the fun isn't over yet. Look what I found in the Essex Street Market!

REAL YAMS!!!

See how un-sweet-potatoey they look? (The Essex Street Market is also home to Shopsins, which I've yet to experience, mostly because I'm afraid of Kenny and his absurd menu.)

So, in short: The Lower East Side has much more to offer now than circa 1910. I'm glad I can eat pudding  instead of run around with little David, getting harassed by girls with polio and electrocuting myself. I made it home on the subway, sockless, and now my sneakers are drying in the foyer. My toes have yet to reach room temperature. A bag with the rest of my pudding is sitting in the fridge. The bag says I <3 NY. It's a bit of a stretch on a day like today, but I find it hard to disagree.

Act II was a tragicomedy

I think what we have here is a series called Sweet Potato in Three Acts. Act I was The Roast. This is Act II: The Peanut Butter Mistake.

First of all, when I promised more "what I'm cooking" posts, I must have been under the delusion that every meal I make is delicious and inventive and worth talking about. Well, let's put that fantasy to rest right here.

When I "cook dinner," this could mean that I cut open a Tasty Bite Palak Paneer ("Heat 'N Serve in 90 Seconds!") and start a pot of 10-minute brown rice. Usually, because I'm hungry and distracted, I overcook the paneer, which paints the inside of my microwave vomit-green, and I undercook the rice. "Eating dinner," in this case, means that I proceed to burn my mouth repeatedly on the hot chewy mess.

Such was the case with my sweet potato dinner the other night. I used half of my second sweet potato in a "curried sweet potato soup" that was, in reality, a "confused semi-raw sweet potato glop." I'm usually very prepared before I try to cook, but when I'm in the moment and things are looking or tasting funny, that's when I fall apart and start adding ingredients like peanut butter as a "thickener" or teriyaki for a saltier kick. I add peanut butter to a lot of things. Fruit smoothies, Trader Joe's delicious Soyaki, carrot sticks. But with coconut milk and curry paste and sweet potato? What was I thinking? I did manage to eat most of it mixed with copious amounts of coconut-cashew rice (replace some water with coconut milk, add cashews, make rice!). And, yes, I burned my mouth in the process.

In this dish, I failed the sweet potato and the sweet potato failed me. I shouldn't have tried to cook it all the way through in a pan. But it didn't do much to complement the curry flavor either. In the end, we're both to blame.  And what did I do with the last half? That's for next time. I bet you can't even handle this cliffhanger.

because you've been waiting with bated breath...

Sweet Potato mystery solved! Yesterday morning, I woke up with an odd craving for the prepared foods bar at Whole Foods (yes, Whole Paycheck, I know. But at least I'm getting a paycheck these days). I didn't want anything in particular--I've only every eaten their prepared food a few times--but that's how my cravings work sometimes, and so I didn't ask questions, I just followed my stomach's lead. Actually, the 8 degree temperature did give me pause, but only briefly. Since the Ice Age began two days ago, I've perfected a form of heat containment that I call the Russian Grandma Method, which involves my scarf and some hats and hoods. I'm sure you can imagine. It's very warm. I also wore two layers of pants and three shirts.

So I waddled to the subway and took it down to the Time Warner Center, which is essentially a mall. A mall, albeit, with two of the supposed  best restaurants in New York and Bouchon Bakery and Williams-Sonoma and a gym and more designer names than Rodeo Drive... And Whole Foods. I loaded my eco-friendly container with delicious-looking salads and curries and rice. (I'm generally not one to complain about my food mixing together, but they should consider getting compartmentalized boxes. Salmon salad and chicken korma are not a match made in heaven.) As I was walking toward the checkout, I passed the produce section and spotted a large display of sweet-potato-looking things. I went over, and there were three signs posted over three distinct sections: Jewel Yams (from North Carolina), Garnet Yams (also N.C.), and California Sweet Potatoes. More importantly, there was a laminated card underneath explaining that all "yams" grown in the U.S. are actually sweet potatoes, even though they're "traditionally" called yams. It said that real yams are virtually impossible to find in most grocery stores, so you shouldn't worry about buying one by mistake.

So I bought two.

Plus a delicata squash and some carrots. And I roasted them with lots of garlic and rosemary and sage in olive oil, and I threw in some cranberries too. Then I ate two big bowls of it for dinner, and that's all I have to say about that.

In other food news, this week is Restaurant Week! There are 250 restaurants doing prix fixe menus for $25 (lunch) or $35 (dinner). Where should I go?! I'm afraid that all the spots are already booked, but I just can't choose. Any advice? I don't like fussy French food or food that looks more like modern art. I like...pretty much everything else.

Now that I'm back into somewhat of a routine, I'm going to try to blog more about adventures in my own kitchen. December was kind of a crazy month, and I did barely any of my own cooking, and, well, let's just say Zin For Breakfast should have been retitled Refined Sugar for Breakfast (and Lunch and Dinner). The key, for me, is to allow myself to spend money on groceries on a fairly regular basis because, when I spend that money up front, I'm more likely to guilt myself into cooking, rather than being lazy and spending even more on prepared food. So that's my New Year's resolution to you, readers. All 7 of you, according to Google.

Also, I hate reading posts with no pictures, so I'll try to get on that too. Now, time for another hot shower.

three scalding hot showers a day keeps the hypothermia away

Right. So have you noticed that I have a habit of ending entries with lines like, "Stay tuned for an update on..." or "Check back soon for pictures of..." or "And I haven't even told you about..."? Have you noticed that I never get around to picking up those loose threads later on? Yeah, I know. But by the time I am ready to post again, I have other stuff to say and life has kept happening, as it tends to do. I have huge ambitions, you see, to tell you about all these strange and funny and beautiful things, and when I finally sit down to post, there's just too much to say, and I end up making promises that I can't keep. So, forgive me?

On to business, then. I do have some things to say about this new year that we've found ourselves in. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that, in 2008, I reached the highest highs and the lowest lows that I've ever experienced. Technically, I guess that averages out to some level of mediocrity? But 2008 was anything but mediocre. It was a big year, a painful and stretching and changing year. And the dust is still settling. So, rather than recapping, I'm take to do a little look at what might be ahead for us (me, you readers, we the American people?), with a few resolutions thrown in for fun. I'm always making these kinds of plans and promises, really, so the new year is just an excuse to talk about them.

1. I'm going to keep working at this restaurant until a) I collapse under the weight of too many fur coats, b) I'm fired for turning away a Martha Stewart Living restaurant critic, or c) I buy a plane ticket back to California. I hate being bad at things I expect to be good at, and hostessing turns out to fit squarely into that category. And I need money, and I'm a sucker for free food.

2. I would like to start a public awareness campaign regarding the sweet potato. This is a venture I'm interested in pursuing in 2009. Grocery stores, at least in New York, seem to have a huge misunderstanding about sweet potatoes. The problem seems to be that in most places, yams = sweet potatoes. But the two are not interchangeable, though they are similar in appearance. Yams originated in Africa, have rough and scaly skins, and are earthy-tasting and not very sweet. Sweet potatoes, on the other hand, can range in texture from firm and crumbly to soft and moist, and they are sweeter than yams. More importantly, sweet potatoes have tons of vitamans (A, C, and B6), fiber, potassium, iron, and a low glycemic index (for a starch), which means they won't make your blood sugar spike as much as regular potatoes. Yams aren't unhealthy, exactly, but they don't have the same miracle-food properties as sweet potatoes. I went to three grocery stores yesterday in search of sweet potatoes.  An employee at Westside Market said they didn't carry sweet potatoes, only yams. Said "yams" were suspiciously small and orange. Across the street, at D'Agostino, there was a bin labeled "velvet yams" and another bin labeled simply "yams." The "velvet yams" were a bit larger and rounder. They also had small, single "sweet potatoes" shrink-wrapped with a label that said "Pop Me in the Microwave for a Quick and Nutritious Treat." Hm. I didn't know what to believe. No employees were available for comment. Lastly, at Garden of Eden, the UWS equivalent of Whole Foods, a special potato area promised a good selection but delivered only some suspiciously yam-looking "sweet potatoes." The poor employee whom I questioned did not understand why I cared. I couldn't really explain.
More research since the failed sweet potato hunt has led me to believe that most "yams" sold in the U.S. are actually sweet potatoes, not the other way around as I had thought. Real yams look nothing like sweet potatoes. Nonetheless, the U.S. Dept of Agriculture mandates that "yams" that are actually sweet potatoes also say "sweet potato" on their label, but none of the ones I found said both. None of them had countries of origin listed either. What's the problem here? I want my Vitamin A, damnit!
On a related note, do you think there's a market for an iPhone app that uses GPS to locate the nearest bona fide sweet potato?

3. I'm trying to get paid to write iPhone app reviews. Or, more broadly speaking, I'm trying to inch my way into a few freelance writing jobs so that, when I do collapse/get fired/leave the state and/or graduate with an impractical degree, I could, you know, have something to show for myself. I'm also looking into writing greeting cards, which is an industry I could really break into, especially in these trying times.  To My Wife, Our 401(k)s May Have Lost 60 percent in 3 Months, But My Love Accrues Interest Every Day. Or maybe, To My Favorite Non-Graduate: Way to Postpone Unemployment for One More Year!

4. Sort of on that subject, I want to do a better job managing my money. No, not like investing it. I want to spend less money on stuff I don't need ($9 for buffalo mozzarella?) and work on strategic saving for things like flights to San Francisco or a rendezvous in Memphis or train trips or European adventures or all the things I pretend I can't do because "I don't have enough money." The truth is, I probably don't have enough money. But at least I can avoid feeling guilty by doing a better job of budgeting, earmarking what I need for what, and not spending beyond my means on a day-to-day basis. Maybe the U.S. government and I can make that like a joint New Year's resolution.

5. In 2009, somewhere and somehow, my name will be in print. As a byline, I mean, not in the police blotter or on the address label of my New Yorker. Not in an article about a hostess who suffocates under a pile of mink stoles.

Excuse me, but I've got to go take another hot shower. Stay tuned for, well, you know.

oh, hey, 2009. i didn't see you there.

So I think we can say that the Christmas season is officially over. Now there is nothing to distract us from the cold gray days of East Coast winter except everyone's least favorite holiday, Valentines Day. And also Lent, if you do that sort of thing, which I don't, but it sounds equally as depressing as Valentines Day. Times 40. Giving up something for Lent might seem like a good winter goal, but if I sacrificed my sugar habit for Lent, not only would I be cold and miserable, but I wouldn't have cupcakes to distract me. You see? The system cannot hold.

Before I get mopey, though, let's recap. Christmas was perfectly lovely. My parents both got very nice hats, but I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to show pictures. Oh, what the hell:

Ric's has flaps! My grandparents also made an appearance:

And a little Jewish fairy came to light our menorah and distribute gifts!

Although she looks more like she's trying to steal something in a jealous rage...

The best present I received? Well, The Chicago Manual of Style is up there with the Writer's Thesaurus. Although the battery-powered miniature lantern from Ric is certainly practical ("for when the apocalypse comes, and we're living in shopping carts").

There was also a reunion of sorts that involved many people I never planned on seeing again and a few that I had missed dearly (pictured below). Did you know that you can buy a liter of cosmo mix with the vodka already IN IT? For $7.99? Genius or folly? I haven't decided.

I've got more updating to do, mostly about New Years in Maryland, but those pictures are stuck on my camera for the time being. I'll just say that the world record for hot-tub occupants was smashed and the trip was full of secret surprises, most of which involved salmon, bacon, sardines, or any combination of the three.

Also (drum roll?), get ready for the launch of a new blog, a joint endeavor that will involve myself, a certain sweet treat, an equally obsessed co-author, and a few more surprises (not involving the fish/meat mentioned above). It's going to be huge, or, at the very least, amusing.

What else, you ask? I saw an exhibit at the Whitney today called Seed Stage, and it was totally crazy! It's a room inside a room, which you can only see through slits in the four corners of the walls. Inside the room is a kitchen/photography studio/workshop with a secret root cellar underneath. The artist sits in the room and makes stuff, takes pictures of stuff, and makes prints. The prints that he finishes get hung on the walls outside the room. The room is cluttered with tools and utensils and food scraps and big camera equipment, so it's hard to look through the sliver in the wall and understand what's going on. When we saw it, the artist was in there molding something at a desk and there was tomato sauce bubbling on the stove. It smelled amazing. It was very weird to walk into an art museum and smell tomato sauce so intensely. I'd recommend seeing the exhibit, but I think it closed today. 

I'm gearing up for a week of restaurant work, my first week as a real employee. Sometimes when I'm hauling ass downstairs to the prep kitchen/coat room, I watch the prep chefs and wish I could be down there with them chopping arugala and listening to Spanish radio. I don't know whether I'm cut out for the front-of-house side of things, but for now I'm going to smile big and carry those coats with gusto.