Best Food Writing 2010 (34 page)

I couldn’t believe that the cakes actually puffed up like real pancakes. I ate them with a drizzle of honey and some stewed peaches on the side, with the blackened dwarf potatoes. They were the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten. I licked the plate. I counted the remaining corn cobs. Twelve.

A GLUTTON FOR GLUTEN

By Jess Thomson From
leitesculinaria.com

Amid this year’s craze for gluten-free diets, Jess Thomson faced a strict new eating regimen—hard enough for a normal eater, even harder for a professional food writer, recipe developer, and blogger, living in foodcentric Seattle. Before the axe fell, she needed one last splurge.

I
felt like I’d been punched in the gut. But in contrast to the previous few weeks of feeling generally crummy, this time, the wind was literally knocked out of me. By my doctor.

A few days earlier, she’d tested me for celiac disease, an autoimmune disorder that prevents a person from properly digesting gluten, a protein found in wheat, rye, barley, and, let’s be honest, just about everything good in this world. Now she’d just called with the results, informing me that some of the tests were positive, some were negative. This wasn’t normal. “Everything may still be OK,” she explained. “But we’ll have to do more bloodwork to be sure.”

What my doctor didn’t have to say was that if the second round of tests came back positive, all of my relationships and habits surrounding cooking and eating would be annihilated. Even before I’d gone to the doctor, I was shaken by the events of the previous few weeks. Without my habitual food cravings, I feared the food writer’s equivalent of a divorce: loss of appetite.

Now, with the looming loss of gluten, it wasn’t just the potential forfeiture of bread that made me feel sick. It was the whole shebang: No more soy sauce. No more good, thick chowders. No more bedtime bowl of Cheerios. It seemed that my entire relationship with food—and, by extension, my entire sense of self—might fall apart. I struggled to breathe, mentally catastrophizing my career in a matter of seconds. My doctor said she’d call Monday with the results.

It was Friday.

Friday, as it turns out, is a very long time from Monday. So I did what any self-respecting lover of all things food-related would do: I decided to spend the entire weekend having fabulous, unprotected sex with gluten.

I slammed two sticks of butter onto the counter to soften for chocolate-chunk cookies. Feeling stubborn and suddenly hungry for the first time in a month, I grabbed a pen and started scribbling down what I creatively titled “Things To Eat This Weekend.” I concentrated my efforts outside of my own kitchen, desiring those things that weren’t exactly practical to pull off at home. When I stopped to read what I’d written, I realized that these were the foods I lived to eat—foods that I could avoid only if I stripped my tongue of taste buds and invested in a considerable amount of hypnosis. If I was facing abandonment, I wanted a final fling. I’d savor a good, greasy kiss from the double-bacon deluxe with cheese at Red Mill Burgers. I’d lick a hundred translucent shards of impossibly flaky croissants from my fingers, eyes closed, thanks to Café Besalu. I’d slurp ramen at Samurai Noodle, memorizing how it felt as the noodles slithered in my mouth, my lips slippery with pork fat-flavored ChapStick. It would be a long, slow, tortuous dance through my culinary Eden.

As I pondered my list, it occurred to me that it’s perhaps not a coincidence that “glutinous” and “gluttonous” are spelled so similarly. Nothing without gluten would pass my lips until Monday. I’d eat my way through the pain of pending rejection, savoring every detail, every quirk, every crumb.

That night, I gorged on an immodest number of cookies. I went to bed early but spent a couple of hours tossing, distracted, comparing my potential split with gluten to a very real separation. I pondered whether to call a friend of mine who’d just been dumped, thinking he might be able to help me feel less forsaken. After all, our situations seemed pretty identical, save for the minor detail that my break-up, should gluten and I permanently part ways, wouldn’t leave me searching for a new apartment. I decided that at least I had that going for me, which calmed me slightly. I took a Xanax and passed out.

I spent the next day edibly etching the word “last” across my renewed appetite. My husband and I started our Saturday here in Seattle as we always do during ski season: with sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwiches. The last time I’ll dig English muffin crumbs out of my ski boots, I thought. A full 20 minutes later, we stopped for a Frisbee-sized cinnamon roll slathered in orange-tinged icing. The last time I’ll buy pastry that could double as a Princess Leia headdress. I had a BLT for lunch before polishing off the rest of the cinnamon roll. My last sandwich. We met friends for a drink later in the afternoon and I downed a hefeweizen. My last beer. Dinner was at Tavolata, my favorite Seattle pasta joint, where I swooned over my spaghetti studded with anchovies, chilies, and garlic, committing its flavor to memory. My last meal here. (OK, maybe that was a little dramatic. I could always go back and order something without gluten. But why subject myself to the hauntings of a hundred happier moments?) Afterward, I still had room for doughnuts.

Sunday morning. Before the newspaper had even hit the porch, I’d torn into a ham-and-Gruyère croissant. My husband and I cruised the farmers’ market while munching on a crusty baguette. Then I ordered a slice of thin-crust pizza from the market’s mobile wood-fired oven. I forced a vegetarian pal to come to Red Mill with me, where I picked the burger bun apart and obsessively rolled it into little balls before eating it. She just stared at me, not knowing what to say. We’d invited friends over for dinner that evening, so I made spelt risotto and, after licking my plate, gorged on pain de campagne dipped in olive oil.

All the while, something deep inside my brain, a little nagging whisper—or was it my husband’s voice?—reminded me that there’s more than one way to make a cinnamon roll, a slice of bread, or a strand of spaghetti. That, in fact, there’s more to eat in the world than wheat. But, like a bitter divorcée-to-be, I had no interest in reason. I couldn’t see a way forward without what I couldn’t have.

With each bite that weekend, celiac disease seemed more and more probable.You know how sometimes something happens—or doesn’t happen—and you make up a completely irrational explanation and then convince yourself that it’s true? That’s how I was with gluten. By bedtime Sunday, I was taking it personally. Gluten hates me, I thought. Then suddenly—OK, finally—it registered. No one had ever really broken up with me. I was being dumped for the first time. By a protein. Or not. I wasn’t sure. And that was the problem.

I spent most of Monday staring at my phone, realizing that the last time I’d willed someone to call like this was when I was still wearing braces. Now, like then, I wanted validation. I needed resolution. I thought about sending gluten a handwritten note with two boxes: Check here if you like me. Check here if you don’t like me. To distract myself, I made pizza with nettle pesto, kale, and semi-dried tomatoes, ate a panini while it was still too hot, and rattled around the house looking for other foods to cry over.

Late Tuesday afternoon, I got my call. The test results were all normal—except that stubborn antigliadin antibody, which some believe is the leading indicator of celiac disease. “You probably don’t have celiac,” were my doctor’s opening words. “But we can’t say for sure without a biopsy. You could try not eating gluten for a while....Although, that might not be the solution, either.”

I should’ve been elated. It seemed that gluten wanted me back. Mostly, anyway. So what now? Make-up sex, I decided halfheartedly. Spaghetti bolognese. And the next day, I’d go for that ramen I’d missed over the weekend. No protein dumps this girl.

But when I opened the pantry, I saw a bunch of needy, noncommital pastas and flours staring back at me, daring me to prove to them—and to myself—that I needed gluten. Now that gluten had decided to crawl back to me, head hanging, it looked rather pathetic.

One of my friends is Shauna James Ahern, a.k.a. Gluten-Free Girl, who’s quite possibly the only person on the planet who makes eating gluten-free sound downright sexy. Maybe if I called her, she’d do break-up duty, commiserating with me. Reassuring me that no, I didn’t need gluten. I tried for a moment to pretend that going gluten-free could be an adventure. Character building, even. I’ll admit, I was curious to learn about all those flours I’d marveled over but never actually used in baking. I was sure Shauna would show me The Way. So I called her.

Some of her tests had come back negative the first time, too.Yet when gluten rejected her, she turned her back on it, defiantly and irrevocably, head held high.

I decided that mostly wasn’t good enough. I didn’t want to be the girl who was lucky enough to maybe get a second chance. No woman wants to be loved conditionally.

I was going to give eating gluten-free a try. It wouldn’t be easy. I’d miss the burger joint. But what if I actually started feeling better?

I had my answer.

“It’s not you,” I said, staring into the pantry. “It’s me. I just need some time to myself. Some time to think.”

And with that, I packed up all of gluten’s things and tossed him out.

THE DOUGHNUT GATHERER

By Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl From
Minnesota Monthly

Having children is a life-changing experience—but Minneapolis/St. Paul food writer Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl never anticipated how her oldest child would radically alter her approach to food.

T
here such a thing as a bad doughnut? Until very recently I would have said: “Yes. Most of them.” The gas-station doughnut. The grocery-store doughnut. The big-box store doughnut. These are mere vehicles for sugar and grease, and Americans would be better off if we ate carrot sticks until we could purchase superior artisan-made doughnuts.

I would have said this because I say it about every kind of junk food: nachos, pizza, chilidogs, cheese steaks, and so on. In fact, I’ve based most of my professional identity on this idea, that if you want to know what the best doughnut in town is, you simply go to 12 or 20 of the likeliest places and find the best. And you want the best, don’t you? That’s self-evident, right? Everyone wants the best.

I do. Or I did. Before I got pregnant, before I had kids. Now I’ve got a one-year-old who will eat anything—shabu shabu, red curry, sand—and a three-and-a-half-year-old who will eat almost nothing. Consequently, this food critic has learned a few things about food.

I’ll call him Beans. That’s not his real name. But I used to sing him a lullaby about bumblebees when he was a baby, and over time, bee turned to beans.

Beans was born colicky and beset by acid-reflux. Tilt him off an upright axis and his stomach acid would bubble past a little poorly functioning valve and make him scream. Until he was eight months old, he had to be held upright at all times. My husband would stay up walking and holding him until 3 a.m., at which point the alarm clock would ring and I would wake to hold him.

Things have gotten better, though not much. His stomach still hurts all the time, and he doesn’t like food. He eats about a dozen things, all white, all things you’d want if you were recovering from stomach flu: pears, apples, Saltines, white bread, pretzels, Cheerios, string cheese, poached chicken meatballs, butter, and ice cream (rarely). That about wraps it up.

If you read the foodie press, you’ll know it’s a point of pride among today’s parents to brag about what arcane foods their child delights in: Japanese nori paper, capers, Roquefort cheese. Ideally, the sentence you want to drop at the playground runs something like this: “Little Gabriel is such a snob, he won’t eat cassoulet with truffle oil—only real truffles. I’m going to go bankrupt!”

Not us.

This is painful. As a food critic, it destroys the dream I had when I first got pregnant, that of running around to obscure taco holes and barbecue dives with my little sidekick. More urgently, as a parent, it means I have no way to bribe him.

Other children consider being sent to bed without supper punishment. Being sent to bed without supper would be Beans’s preferred evening. (My husband and I have twice taken our pediatrician’s advice to simply offer food, without insisting Beans eat it. Both times, after two days, when not a single morsel of food had crossed his lips, we buckled.) Other children can be coerced into all sorts of activities by offering or withholding dessert. We’re as likely to get Beans to eat a cupcake as we are to get him to eat a block of soap. A few weeks ago, I got a bag of jelly beans in the mail as part of some promotion. I brought them home. We got Beans an egg carton, into which he happily sorted the jelly beans by color. Over the next week, he did this several more times—and not one jelly bean went missing. He has a bag full of Dum-Dum lollipops from which he has removed all the wrappers. He sticks them into modeling clay to make sculptures. Child-rearing experts tell us that one of the chief predictors of a child’s future success is the ability to delay gratification, to choose two cookies in 15 minutes rather than just one cookie now. There are no studies on children who want no cookies ever.

Now, you may be thinking: Why don’t you just cut the kid some slack and let him not eat? Isn’t the ultimate state of enlightenment to live without desire? Hasn’t Beans achieved this at the tender age of three?

If you are thinking this, it is probably because you are an idealistic 14-year-old without kids. I know this because I was once an idealistic 14-year-old without kids, and that idealistic voice still echoes in my head. I find myself incredulous how deep and dark my desire is to lure or coerce my kid into eating. This uneasy part of me, however, has been pummeled into submission by the panic-stricken part of me, the part of me that can’t shake the memory of being at a friend’s vacation house in Wisconsin where we met another family with a child beset by the same cluster of acid-reflux symptoms. This child’s family didn’t force her to eat. She was five years old, but she was the size of a slight two-year-old. Her family explained that her teeth were so soft, from lack of nutrients and vomiting, that she would probably soon get child-sized dentures.

So we force him to eat. Here’s how: We turn on the television. There have been studies showing that sugar is more appealing to rats then cocaine. In my experience, television, to a curious toddler, is more powerful than either. We turn on a screen, and sit behind him popping bites of meatball and cheese in his mouth. It’s a terrible option, except for all the other ones. I’ve heard other parents call television “the zombie machine.” Exactly.

Then there’s YouTube. For a while Beans was obsessed with church bells, and we would watch videos of ringing church bells, as well as glockenspiels, carillons, and hand bells. Later it was marble-runs and domino constructions falling down. Then he discovered a show that airs on the Discovery Channel called “How It’s Made.” The show consists of five-minute segments explaining the construction of crayons, novelty ice-cream treats, push brooms, and everything else. Beans’ favorite was about doughnuts.

At first, I didn’t think too much about it. It’s not atypical for Beans to watch a two-minute YouTube clip hundreds of times. There’s a 1979 Sesame Street abstract animation, set to a piece by Philip Glass, called “Geometry of Circles” that he must have watched a thousand times. But one night, I found him in his bath, shoving bath toys through the water, reciting: “A high-speed mixer works the yeast dough, then workers pull it off the machine into bins. From there, it goes into a hopper that extrudes the dough as a sheet. . . .” Not long after that, I found him shoving his favorite blanket into a drawer, slamming the drawer shut, then extracting the blanket and transferring it to a space beneath a footstool, all while providing this commentary: “Doughnuts used to be called ‘oily-cakes’ because they were deep-fried in pork fat. They were ball-shaped when Dutch pilgrims brought them to America. . . .”

“Beans, are you making doughnuts?” I asked.

“I am,” he said. “I am making doughnuts. . . . A high speed mixer works the yeast dough. . . .”

Was this the thin end of a wedge?

I thought so—if doughnuts could somehow become more than a mechanical process to Beans, that is. I ordered some books.

Children’s picture-book literature involving doughnuts is limited, but uniformly excellent. There’s
Arnie the Doughnut
, by Laurie Keller, about a young ring of dough “chocolate-covered with bright-colored candy sprinkles,” who is made through a series of numbered steps. Beans particularly enjoys step two: “Deep-fried,” which involves Arnie swimming in oil and saying, “I’m soaking in boiling grease but I LOVE IT!”

After Arnie meets his fellow doughnuts in a pastry case, a rude doughnut hole points at a jelly doughnut and shrieks, “Eeeooo! His brains are leaking out!” To which the doughnut replies, “It’s not brains, silly. It’s jelly!”

Arnie is nearly eaten by his purchaser, Mr. Bing, which horrifies Arnie, and so he phones his baker to warn him, at which point he is informed that doughnuts are, in fact, made to be eaten. Arnie can’t believe him.

“Are the other doughnuts aware of this arrangement?” he gasps.

There’s also
The Donut Chef
, by Bob Staake, which details the war between “two donut shops on one small street! For customers they did compete!” This competition first involves discounts and extra frosting, but it soon devolves into something else: “Some were square and some were starry, some looked just like calamari!”

Eventually, after all the peculiar shapes have been mastered, bizarre flavorings are brought to bear, until the day a small girl named Debbie Sue ventures in, looking for a plain glazed doughnut. There is none. “We’ve donuts laced with kiwi jam/And served inside an open clam!” Staake writes. “Donuts made with huckleberry /(Don’t be scared; they’re kind of hairy)/And donuts made from spiced rum pears/So popular with millionaires!”

I bristled the first time I read
The Donut Chef
. (Were children’s picture books really going to criticize molecular gastronomy? Really?) But over time it’s grown on me, especially when I hear Beans reciting the doughnut-positive messages in the book: “Then all the people sang in praise/Of simple donuts dipped in glaze!”

But my favorite doughnut book is a recent re-issue of 1973’s
Who Needs Donuts?
It’s an odd, psychedelic-looking pen-and-ink drawn book by Mark Alan Stamaty, a famous illustrator whose work has appeared in the likes of the
Village Voice
,
Slate
, and
New York Review of Books
. The book tells the story of a boy who can never get enough doughnuts, and so one day he rides his tricycle to the city to get his fill. He pairs up with a professional doughnut-gatherer. As he and his pal roam the city, they often cross paths with a bereft-looking woman.

“Who needs donuts when you’ve got love?” she asks.

The answer? The bereft old woman herself, of course. After an escaped bull pierces a giant vat of coffee that sits above her basement home, she risks drowning until the boy uses his many, many doughnuts to rescue her—by soaking up all the coffee.

Perhaps what I like so much about
Who Needs Donuts
is that, aside from imagining a world in which children are unafraid of the city, it features the only professional doughnut-gatherer I’ve ever run across—besides myself.

In many years of restaurant criticism, I’ve written about doughnuts repeatedly. I actually have a sort of road map in my mind of what I consider the best doughnuts in town: There’s Mel-O-Glaze, in south Minneapolis, home to the city’s best raised-glazed doughnuts, as well as the cake doughnuts that I prefer above all others. Sweet and rich, they’re almost like pound cake. Even if I’ve been to six other doughnut places first, I can always eat a whole doughnut when I get to Mel-O-Glaze, which is saying something.

Then there’s the Baker’s Wife’s, a mere 10 blocks north of Mel-O-Glaze. A lot of people argue that they make the best cake doughnuts in town, and I see that as a respectable opinion. They’re less sweet, crisper, and they seem even more old-fashioned than most plain cake doughnuts.

I also really like Wuollet’s, which has the area’s best selection of the usual suspects: Long Johns, bear claws, and the like. Then there are our other lovable local doughnut places: Sara Jane in Northeast, Rosemark in St. Paul, Granny Donut in West St. Paul, Denny’s Fifth Avenue Bakery in Bloomington, the Old Fashioned Donut Shoppe in New Hope.

On the way to Denny’s Fifth Avenue Bakery in Bloomington, I fed Beans lines from all the books: “‘Scuse me, Mister,’ said the tyke, ‘But where’s the donut that I like? It isn’t here, it isn’t there—You think it’s under that éclair?’”

We zipped down the construction canyon of I-35, between the dinosaur-sized diggers, oblivious to their dusty menace, for the topic of doughnuts was just that riveting. Denny’s Fifth Avenue feels like it has been lifted whole from the 1970s; it’s all Jimmy Carter bicentennial blue and naugahyde brown, slick, vinyl-touched, and awkward. Beans stood in front of the pastry case like a pro. There they all were, the Long Johns, the cream-filled, the jelly. Arnie had prepared him well for this moment.

“Is that brains leaking out?” Beans asked, rhetorically. “Nah, it’s just jelly.”

I got a dozen, and he got one just like Arnie, chocolate-covered, with bright-colored candy sprinkles. I placed it on a piece of wax paper and set it on his lap as he sat in his car seat. There it rested for the drive home. I fed him lines from the books all the way home: “Do you doughnuts know you’re going to be eaten?” I asked. “Yes, we’re delicious!” he replied. “Try us for yourself!”

When we arrived at home, I looked at the doughnut carefully. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed untouched. But there was one small blemish on the icing’s surface, as if a thumb had smudged it, or a little mouse had, perhaps, taken a lick.

A few days later, we went to Wuollet’s. The one on Hennepin Avenue that always has a pleasant mix of dog-walkers from Lake of the Isles, anti-coffeeshop rebel teens doing homework, and construction workers and tradesmen. We got a box of the assorted doughnuts. I particularly enjoyed the raised yeast one frosted with chocolate. It had a deep real-cocoa taste. However, even to my wishful eye, I knew that the sprinkle-topped doughnut I got for Beans was completely untouched. I coined a name for such perfectly lovely doughnuts that went unsampled: They were Holders. Beans liked holding them. In fact, he liked them so much that he would spend 24 hours holding on to them, moving them from plate to bag repeatedly. But if any icing got on his hands, he’d demand: “Mom, can you clean it up?”