When guacamole was gross, sushi was sickening and yogurt was yucky. "What is that green mess that looks like it's already been eaten? Food should not be that color." Yes, those were the sentiments of pre-adventurous me. I scoffed at sweet potatoes and shuddered at squash. OK, so I still do that last one, but there are a few regions of hell that haven't yet frozen over.
The year was 2007, and I was particularly trusting of a certain chef's palate. Said chef convinced me not to mind mushrooms, but not quite to see the point of peas. One day he insisted I inspect and dissect a glop of guac at our local Mexican feasting facility. This green goop sported soft chunks of avocado, and didn't resemble runny refuse, so I gave it a go. Lo' and behold, I found smooth texture and spice, yet a cooling sensation. And thus I became a believer. And then a curious waitress.
I started paying attention to how the sous chefs gently twisted and sliced and spread crescents of lime-colored lusciousness atop dishes I'd deemed inedible. Regardless of what the avocado accompanied, I watched with wonder the ubiquity of uses. Yesterday on a sandwich, today on a salad, tomorrow churned up with red peppers.
Two years later, I fancy myself fancy when I feed on this cute, festive fruit. I spy it and squeeze it, I buy it -- can I freeze it? I chop it and eat it with ease. I create guacamole with tomato and peppers, or slice it across bread with basil. In restaurants it ravishes sushi with salmon; indeed I'll lean toward whatever meal features this giant, fresh berry. Unless, of course, it involves olives or beans.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
My only nut was peanut ...
... and sometimes not even that. No pulpy orange juice, no chunky tomato sauce, no crunchy peanut butter. All that has changed. Somehow, a move to New York stimulated a move toward a less creamy existence. I'm sure it's symbolic of facing obstacles, pulverizing the competition and experiencing new things. Unless it just means I'm widening my palate. Either way, I'm broadening my horizons in more ways than one.
I spent a quarter of a century resisting cashews, pecans, walnuts and (I shudder to think) almonds. Peanuts, however, were delicious in many forms. Salted, honey roasted, in the shell, whipped into a paste and spread on a sandwich, or stuffed into a chocolate candy. Peanut butter had such a special place in my heart, for most of those years I wouldn't even tarnish its good name by associating it with any jelly or jam. I remember being sent to school with peanut-butter sandwiches so thick I couldn't even eat the centers. I'd top apple slices with the brown stuff, and it even helped me enjoy a stick or two of celery. But crunchy peanut butter? Unspeakable. In my mind, peanuts and peanut butter were separate entities, not to be entwined.
The first of the outsider nuts I consumed was the macadamia. When I worked at Subway, cookies frequently called to me. At some point I was convinced the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie was an acceptable thing to eat. Granted, I would never have eaten such a nut by itself, without the sugary context, but it was step one in a process that would take nearly a decade to complete. Step two came much later, even after years of picking walnuts out of brownies and snubbing pecan pies. When I started eating The Salad, my mother one day suggested throwing in some garlic-flavored sliced almonds. Texture excitement is one reason I enjoy that salad so much, so I figured I'd give it a go. Of course, a little extra crunch was exactly what The Salad needed to reach perfection.
Piles of baked-on sugar were again the catalyst I needed for trying some other new nuts. I experienced the salad phenomenon again at a Red Robin restaurant, where I enjoyed a salad that featured candied walnuts. Throwing my old prejudices out the window, I fell in love. Then this winter, my roommate's grandmother sent over a bagful of her "famous" candied nuts. I still don't know exactly how you candy a nut, and it certainly isn't a lovely-looking result, but what a flavor. I opened the bag and my mind, and meticulously tasted one at a time each of a candied pecan, walnut and almond. It was amazingly difficult to not finish off that bag all at once.
So I was standing in the peanut-butter aisle at my local PathMark one day last month, examining my options. Creamy, natural, crunchy, honey-roasted ... It hit me. I wouldn't fear the crunch. I'd go for it. All the way. Extra chunky. I knew I loved it before I even had it paid for. How could I have been so blind? Nutty equals crunchy, and crunchy equals delicious! Suddenly I'm welcoming handfuls of knobby little brown things from every can and bag within reach. And I even give some jelly to that lonely peanut-butter in the bread.
Stay tuned for how I tackled tomatoes, but don't expect to hear me raving about pulp anytime soon. Also, take notice of how I'll be incorporating my blogs with my Twitter account soon!
I spent a quarter of a century resisting cashews, pecans, walnuts and (I shudder to think) almonds. Peanuts, however, were delicious in many forms. Salted, honey roasted, in the shell, whipped into a paste and spread on a sandwich, or stuffed into a chocolate candy. Peanut butter had such a special place in my heart, for most of those years I wouldn't even tarnish its good name by associating it with any jelly or jam. I remember being sent to school with peanut-butter sandwiches so thick I couldn't even eat the centers. I'd top apple slices with the brown stuff, and it even helped me enjoy a stick or two of celery. But crunchy peanut butter? Unspeakable. In my mind, peanuts and peanut butter were separate entities, not to be entwined.
The first of the outsider nuts I consumed was the macadamia. When I worked at Subway, cookies frequently called to me. At some point I was convinced the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie was an acceptable thing to eat. Granted, I would never have eaten such a nut by itself, without the sugary context, but it was step one in a process that would take nearly a decade to complete. Step two came much later, even after years of picking walnuts out of brownies and snubbing pecan pies. When I started eating The Salad, my mother one day suggested throwing in some garlic-flavored sliced almonds. Texture excitement is one reason I enjoy that salad so much, so I figured I'd give it a go. Of course, a little extra crunch was exactly what The Salad needed to reach perfection.
Piles of baked-on sugar were again the catalyst I needed for trying some other new nuts. I experienced the salad phenomenon again at a Red Robin restaurant, where I enjoyed a salad that featured candied walnuts. Throwing my old prejudices out the window, I fell in love. Then this winter, my roommate's grandmother sent over a bagful of her "famous" candied nuts. I still don't know exactly how you candy a nut, and it certainly isn't a lovely-looking result, but what a flavor. I opened the bag and my mind, and meticulously tasted one at a time each of a candied pecan, walnut and almond. It was amazingly difficult to not finish off that bag all at once.
So I was standing in the peanut-butter aisle at my local PathMark one day last month, examining my options. Creamy, natural, crunchy, honey-roasted ... It hit me. I wouldn't fear the crunch. I'd go for it. All the way. Extra chunky. I knew I loved it before I even had it paid for. How could I have been so blind? Nutty equals crunchy, and crunchy equals delicious! Suddenly I'm welcoming handfuls of knobby little brown things from every can and bag within reach. And I even give some jelly to that lonely peanut-butter in the bread.
Stay tuned for how I tackled tomatoes, but don't expect to hear me raving about pulp anytime soon. Also, take notice of how I'll be incorporating my blogs with my Twitter account soon!
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