At The Farm on Cortelyou, I was looking for something lite and meatless, but the salads sounded a little skimpy. I didn't want to recreate an experience at this forgettable place in Park Slope where the salad was basically a super-giant pile of spinach. So I ordered Chickpea Fritters. What?! I should really stop being surprised at myself, and at food in general. But in the past year or so I have developed a pretty stable relationship with chickpeas. I remember the first time I tasted hummus. I was at a place that, at the time, seemed incredibly fancy. Too fancy for me! I was fresh off the boat, so to speak, and what was probably a menu of tapas sounded completely foreign. My fancy friends convinced me to try a few things, and I remember being less than convinced that hummus was "good."
Cut to, oh I don't even know when! But somewhere along the way I started eating hummus. Was it the homemade variety at that little film shoot in a friend's apartment? Was it Hummus Place? Was it just a tub of Sabra? The world may never know. Either way, I have a fondness for the many flavors now.
It was probably Rachael Ray telling me that another name for chickpeas was garbanzo beans. Beans? Hell to the no. And even though I've neglected this blog for quite some time, I'm at least remembering to update the status of my bean eating. I'm happy to report that me and beans are getting along just fine. Baked beans, black beans, even some white beans in this frozen Green Giant dish and pinto beans in these frozen Amy's burritos. Also I'm eating lentils! Which I don't know if those count as beans, but like chickpeas, they are close enough and no longer scary.
Me and meat, though? It's rocky. I don't want chicken at all, and bacon is slightly offensive. But I think I would break my meat celibacy for a nice filet, or for any truly special beef or pork dish that is either made by or highly recommended by a trusted friend. But so far, my only major exception was the plate of meat served at Medieval Times. I guess it wasn't the best use of meat's Get Out of Jail Free card, but hey, I was turning 30 and it seemed appropriate.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Sunday, February 28, 2010
proud as a canadian, but without the bacon
I wonder if writing about food is like grocery shopping -- does it make a difference if you do it on an empty stomach? Today I'm writing from a fullness. It's been a lazy, lazy day and I haven't burned off half the calories I've consumed, I'm sure. For breakfast, I had my usual bowl of oatmeal. I buy the canister, get a good month's worth of breakfasts out of it. I pour some in a bowl, cover it with milk, heat it in the microwave for 2 minutes, then stir in honey, peanut butter and jelly. It is such deliciousness, and it keeps me full till lunch. But I didn't come here to talk about oatmeal. That will be another day, and I'll talk all about how I'd like to open an oatmeal restaurant. But today, I'm going to talk about beans.
I've long been a bean hater, and I can distinctly remember seven times in my life I have eaten them -- before now.
1. At my grandmother's table. My first non-cough-medicine-related gagging-on-food experience. I was promptly scolded. Some sort of multi-bean mixture.
2. At my aunt's table. Out of politeness. Grossed out. Lima beans.
3. From my mother's kitchen spoon. Interest in ketchup/mustard ingredient. Unimpressed. Baked bean, singular.
4. From the stone kitchen of a real, live Mexican woman who made tortillas from scratch. Long story. Delicious on the tortilla, acceptable because it didn't resemble beans. Refried.
5. From the kitchen of previously mentioned chef. I was feeling experimental, having become OK with tomatoes. Quite impressed. Baked beans.
6. From a steakhouse restaurant, soon after No. 5. Disgusted. Baked beans written off (again).
7. Actually a handful of occurrences lumped together. From Mexican restaurants, not minding if the rice touches the beans, but never finishing them.
And suddenly, I'm having a life-altering crossover. I'm reading "Eating Animals" by Jonathan Safran Foer. I'm not saying I'm becoming a holier-than-thou vegetarian, but I'm coming to terms with the realities of the meat industry, and opting to no longer participate. I've ignored it long enough, as has most of the world. Is it a phase? Is it comparable to quitting smoking? Will I have a meat relapse? Not likely, as I've discovered that fake chicken tastes exactly like the real thing, especially considering the "real" thing isn't even up to its own standard of taste anymore. But I digress, as they say.
Going veg-o, I'm going to have to introduce myself to some previously despised products. Pickles, no; olives, no. Beans? Certainly. It's already begun. Eggplant? Not yet convinced. Squash? Skeptical. Cauliflower? Cautiously.
I hear they're good for your heart ...
Harry's Burrito has some significant veg-o options. Oh no! The fake-meat steak burrito has refried beans!!! You know what? This is about expanding food horizons. I'll take the plunge and I won't even hold my nose. And? Magnifico! I can do this.
I always say "no beans" at Chipotle, but I was at Qdoba and the pickings were slim. I had managed to not die after eating a couple black beans in that McDonald's salad, and everyone says they're soooo good, why not have a few thrown in? If not for those little black buggers, the Qdoba would have been completely tasteless. So the next time I was at Chipotle, I said bring 'em on. I'm officially a convert, though I prefaced my request with "just a little bit." Tasty delight.
Enter grocery store, visit baked-bean aisle. Consider advice of both friend and talking dog from commercials. Purchase can of vegetarian Bush's baked beans. It's a family recipe, right? "Do it."
Verdict? Stay tuned. Perhaps I'll have them alongside a veggie burger with veggie cheese. Suddenly, that doesn't sound like freaky food -- it sounds like dinner.
I've long been a bean hater, and I can distinctly remember seven times in my life I have eaten them -- before now.
1. At my grandmother's table. My first non-cough-medicine-related gagging-on-food experience. I was promptly scolded. Some sort of multi-bean mixture.
2. At my aunt's table. Out of politeness. Grossed out. Lima beans.
3. From my mother's kitchen spoon. Interest in ketchup/mustard ingredient. Unimpressed. Baked bean, singular.
4. From the stone kitchen of a real, live Mexican woman who made tortillas from scratch. Long story. Delicious on the tortilla, acceptable because it didn't resemble beans. Refried.
5. From the kitchen of previously mentioned chef. I was feeling experimental, having become OK with tomatoes. Quite impressed. Baked beans.
6. From a steakhouse restaurant, soon after No. 5. Disgusted. Baked beans written off (again).
7. Actually a handful of occurrences lumped together. From Mexican restaurants, not minding if the rice touches the beans, but never finishing them.
And suddenly, I'm having a life-altering crossover. I'm reading "Eating Animals" by Jonathan Safran Foer. I'm not saying I'm becoming a holier-than-thou vegetarian, but I'm coming to terms with the realities of the meat industry, and opting to no longer participate. I've ignored it long enough, as has most of the world. Is it a phase? Is it comparable to quitting smoking? Will I have a meat relapse? Not likely, as I've discovered that fake chicken tastes exactly like the real thing, especially considering the "real" thing isn't even up to its own standard of taste anymore. But I digress, as they say.
Going veg-o, I'm going to have to introduce myself to some previously despised products. Pickles, no; olives, no. Beans? Certainly. It's already begun. Eggplant? Not yet convinced. Squash? Skeptical. Cauliflower? Cautiously.
I hear they're good for your heart ...
Harry's Burrito has some significant veg-o options. Oh no! The fake-meat steak burrito has refried beans!!! You know what? This is about expanding food horizons. I'll take the plunge and I won't even hold my nose. And? Magnifico! I can do this.
I always say "no beans" at Chipotle, but I was at Qdoba and the pickings were slim. I had managed to not die after eating a couple black beans in that McDonald's salad, and everyone says they're soooo good, why not have a few thrown in? If not for those little black buggers, the Qdoba would have been completely tasteless. So the next time I was at Chipotle, I said bring 'em on. I'm officially a convert, though I prefaced my request with "just a little bit." Tasty delight.
Enter grocery store, visit baked-bean aisle. Consider advice of both friend and talking dog from commercials. Purchase can of vegetarian Bush's baked beans. It's a family recipe, right? "Do it."
Verdict? Stay tuned. Perhaps I'll have them alongside a veggie burger with veggie cheese. Suddenly, that doesn't sound like freaky food -- it sounds like dinner.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
ode to the undisgusting alligator pear
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.
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, 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!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
it gets stuck in my teeth only when I eat it raw
It's been two months since I've written in this blog for two reasons: I can't decide which food to write about next, and I've just been plain busy. But, I feel a little inspiration today. I want to tackle a vegetable I've had a nice, prosperous relationship with for a good three years now.
Broccoli. I've hated it for most of my existence. Despised it. It smelled awful and was only good for one thing: representing trees in scale models. Until my early twenties, the only green vegetable I liked was celery. I was OK with the stalk because we used to smother it in peanut butter in school, adding raisins to the top and making little cars, with each raisin representing a family member (or maybe a band member?) along for the ride. I, of course, did not partake of the raisinage, but it's part of the fond memory anyway. My car was self-propelled. Or maybe it was an empty canoe drifting down a river ...
Oh yeah, so broccoli. I can actually thank Angie for convincing me that this food was OK to eat. She hasn't convinced me on collard greens, but according to her that's only because she hasn't had the opportunity to make them for me herself. So one random day in the Auburn Ruby Tuesday, I said "yes" to a buttery little tree and was amazed. What a fantastic and healthy alternative to french fries! Yes, I'll order this and feel better about myself, even though I'm about to begin the most significant weight gain of my life so far. Ahem. After a few successful experiences with the steamed veggie in restaurants, I became brazen enough to purchase the little frozen pouch of buttery broccoli spears you heat in the microwave. Splendid! I'm so proud.
Enter family and Outback Steakhouse. I order a filet (thanks, Dad) and a side of broccoli. No one flinches. The meal comes, and I eat the broccoli. No one takes a second glance. I yell with my mind: "Hey! It's me! Ginny! Eating broccoli!!! Doesn't this strike you as odd?! I don't even eat gravy! Or nuts! Or any vegetable other than a carrot!" Finally the meal draws to a close and I point out the blatant ridiculousness of this discrepancy to my mother. I basically get a "That's nice, dear." It's sadly uneventful until my younger brother snatches the last piece of bright, tender greenery from my plate and defiles it in a tiny vat of ketchup. I gasp and become angry. I'm hurt. I'm shamed. I'm unable to eat the precious sprig. It's covered in blood and Daniel just laughs. Oh, the humanity!
Tonight I looked in my cupboard and shook my head at the last package of ramen. Top Ramen. Beef flavor. I'm a bit of a ramen snob. I know how I like to eat it, and I know which brand I like. It's not Top Ramen beef flavor. It's Maruchan roast-chicken flavor. That's it. Top Ramen noodles just get so ... noodley. Squishy and soft and water-logged. Not pleasant. (I guess I like my ramen a little al-dente.) So I figured if I was ever going to eat it, it would be tonight. But I needed something to go with it.
I don't have any salad, but I have some broccoli in the fridge. I've never cooked broccoli for myself except the microwave variety, but I've seen my mom boil it and thought, "Damn, that's way too easy. I could do that." So tonight I took that broccoli and I chopped it with the Dana Carvey song in my head and I threw it in some boiling water. Then I inhaled. Then I remembered why cooking broccoli is a bad idea. When I got back up off the floor, I stirred the broccoli with a spatula and taste-tested the ramen. Yep, still nasty. I poked at the broccoli for a good, I don't know, 10-12 minutes, and finally decided it was ready. I dropped it on a plate and smothered it in butter, salt and pepper, and delighted in the most unsavory-smelling thing I have ever allowed into my mouth. It just tastes so freaking GOOD. And then I dumped the second half of the beefy noodles into the trash and ate a chocolate-covered pretzel.
Sweet broccoli dreams, everyone. Let's hope it doesn't make us gassy.
Broccoli. I've hated it for most of my existence. Despised it. It smelled awful and was only good for one thing: representing trees in scale models. Until my early twenties, the only green vegetable I liked was celery. I was OK with the stalk because we used to smother it in peanut butter in school, adding raisins to the top and making little cars, with each raisin representing a family member (or maybe a band member?) along for the ride. I, of course, did not partake of the raisinage, but it's part of the fond memory anyway. My car was self-propelled. Or maybe it was an empty canoe drifting down a river ...
Oh yeah, so broccoli. I can actually thank Angie for convincing me that this food was OK to eat. She hasn't convinced me on collard greens, but according to her that's only because she hasn't had the opportunity to make them for me herself. So one random day in the Auburn Ruby Tuesday, I said "yes" to a buttery little tree and was amazed. What a fantastic and healthy alternative to french fries! Yes, I'll order this and feel better about myself, even though I'm about to begin the most significant weight gain of my life so far. Ahem. After a few successful experiences with the steamed veggie in restaurants, I became brazen enough to purchase the little frozen pouch of buttery broccoli spears you heat in the microwave. Splendid! I'm so proud.
Enter family and Outback Steakhouse. I order a filet (thanks, Dad) and a side of broccoli. No one flinches. The meal comes, and I eat the broccoli. No one takes a second glance. I yell with my mind: "Hey! It's me! Ginny! Eating broccoli!!! Doesn't this strike you as odd?! I don't even eat gravy! Or nuts! Or any vegetable other than a carrot!" Finally the meal draws to a close and I point out the blatant ridiculousness of this discrepancy to my mother. I basically get a "That's nice, dear." It's sadly uneventful until my younger brother snatches the last piece of bright, tender greenery from my plate and defiles it in a tiny vat of ketchup. I gasp and become angry. I'm hurt. I'm shamed. I'm unable to eat the precious sprig. It's covered in blood and Daniel just laughs. Oh, the humanity!
Tonight I looked in my cupboard and shook my head at the last package of ramen. Top Ramen. Beef flavor. I'm a bit of a ramen snob. I know how I like to eat it, and I know which brand I like. It's not Top Ramen beef flavor. It's Maruchan roast-chicken flavor. That's it. Top Ramen noodles just get so ... noodley. Squishy and soft and water-logged. Not pleasant. (I guess I like my ramen a little al-dente.) So I figured if I was ever going to eat it, it would be tonight. But I needed something to go with it.
I don't have any salad, but I have some broccoli in the fridge. I've never cooked broccoli for myself except the microwave variety, but I've seen my mom boil it and thought, "Damn, that's way too easy. I could do that." So tonight I took that broccoli and I chopped it with the Dana Carvey song in my head and I threw it in some boiling water. Then I inhaled. Then I remembered why cooking broccoli is a bad idea. When I got back up off the floor, I stirred the broccoli with a spatula and taste-tested the ramen. Yep, still nasty. I poked at the broccoli for a good, I don't know, 10-12 minutes, and finally decided it was ready. I dropped it on a plate and smothered it in butter, salt and pepper, and delighted in the most unsavory-smelling thing I have ever allowed into my mouth. It just tastes so freaking GOOD. And then I dumped the second half of the beefy noodles into the trash and ate a chocolate-covered pretzel.
Sweet broccoli dreams, everyone. Let's hope it doesn't make us gassy.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Raisin vs. Craisin
I wanted to start this blog with a sweeping introductory post, but I decided that would be kind of boring. So I'll just say briefly that I'm going to explore in detail my culinary pursuits -- which have been branching out oh-so gradually over the past year -- and then move on to the first of many highly specific analyses of consumption.
This once-finicky eater is now enjoying things like (gasp!) sushi, tomatoes and broccoli. I'm trying new things all the time, some of which I unexpectedly love and others I swallow and say "OK...." The pinnacle of my food expansion is the miraculous salad I eat quite frequently. Lettuce (must be spring mix or baby romaine), grape tomatoes, celery, carrots, bell pepper, green onion, broccoli, radish, almond, Craisin, tuna and dressing (preferably asiago peppercorn). Ingredients can vary, but those are the staples. Tonight, I was low on Craisins, so I tossed in a dried-fruit mix my sister sent to me this week after her children refused to eat them. Hence, I give you: the battle of Raisin vs. Craisin.
I have never eaten raisins. I know they are just dried-up grapes, but I have never found them enticing. All my life they have done nothing but ruin otherwise delectable cookies and cereals and chicken salads and cinnamon breads. Sure, there were Temptations-like cartoon singers who tried to make raisins cool, but have you ever seen a raisin that looked as pretty and shiny as one of those guys? I haven't. Raisins look like bugs. They're black and wrinkly, just ugly little boogers. My niece eats them to stay "regular." Even the Sunmaid girl can't convince me that "grapes and sunshine" are a good combination.
Enter the Craisin. I first met Craisins in trail mix in high school. Craisins were pretty. The color was appealing, the flavor sweet and delicious. They made the trail mix look better, and the look of a food is half its enjoyability. Craisins made a recurrence in the aforementioned salad via my mother. I fell madly in love with them, and having that salad each night for dinner simply became an excuse to eat Craisins. Just when you think you've added too many Craisins, add some more. Then I met white-chocolate Craisin oatmeal cookie. Hello, cookie, how I adore you!
Ginny, meet Waldorf salad. The cafe upstairs from where I work serves two salads: Caesar and Waldorf. The Waldorf salad contains apples, chicken, croutons and a mixture of sunflower seeds, Craisins and golden raisins. I'm to assume the latter comes from green grapes. They look a thousand times more appetizing than regular raisins, but still not quite as appealing as Craisins. However, they look friendly enough to eat without a second thought on my part. (Other foods I ate because they seemed friendly? Sour cream & onion chips, and asparagus.)
So there I stand, in my kitchen, examining the contents of the little red box full of dried fruit. Cranberries, lovely. Apricots, interesting. What's that other orange thing? Who knows, but it looks OK. Raisins? Ugh. They look like smashed black beetles. Rotting gum on the bottom of a shoe. Beaver dung. I decide to throw caution to the wind, and pour half the contents of the little box onto my salad. I am consumed with raisin thoughts as I eat. I pretend to hide them from myself under lettuce leaves and drowned in Kraft Free Honey Mustard. Still, I know they're there. I can taste them. It's an odd sensation, and I feel I'm betraying some unwritten law of my life. Thou shalt not consume the forbidden dried fruit!
Maybe it's because I was raised eating green grapes. Maybe it's because grapes have always had the mysterious seedless/seeded distinctions. Maybe it's because raisins don't have funny guys standing in a bog telling me how sweet they are. Maybe it's because they appear so vastly different from grapes that I see them as another species altogether -- one that is simply and inexplicably detestable. However, I will fight the good fight. I hereby vow to not pick out the raisins from the dried fruit mix as I pour it onto my salads in the coming weeks. I do this solely on the principle that it would be ridiculous to discriminate against this wrinkly absurdity in the presence of its (obviously) superior cousin, the luscious Craisin. However, I reserve the right to decline raisin-infested carbohydrates for both the foreseeable and unforeseeable futures.
This once-finicky eater is now enjoying things like (gasp!) sushi, tomatoes and broccoli. I'm trying new things all the time, some of which I unexpectedly love and others I swallow and say "OK...." The pinnacle of my food expansion is the miraculous salad I eat quite frequently. Lettuce (must be spring mix or baby romaine), grape tomatoes, celery, carrots, bell pepper, green onion, broccoli, radish, almond, Craisin, tuna and dressing (preferably asiago peppercorn). Ingredients can vary, but those are the staples. Tonight, I was low on Craisins, so I tossed in a dried-fruit mix my sister sent to me this week after her children refused to eat them. Hence, I give you: the battle of Raisin vs. Craisin.
I have never eaten raisins. I know they are just dried-up grapes, but I have never found them enticing. All my life they have done nothing but ruin otherwise delectable cookies and cereals and chicken salads and cinnamon breads. Sure, there were Temptations-like cartoon singers who tried to make raisins cool, but have you ever seen a raisin that looked as pretty and shiny as one of those guys? I haven't. Raisins look like bugs. They're black and wrinkly, just ugly little boogers. My niece eats them to stay "regular." Even the Sunmaid girl can't convince me that "grapes and sunshine" are a good combination.
Enter the Craisin. I first met Craisins in trail mix in high school. Craisins were pretty. The color was appealing, the flavor sweet and delicious. They made the trail mix look better, and the look of a food is half its enjoyability. Craisins made a recurrence in the aforementioned salad via my mother. I fell madly in love with them, and having that salad each night for dinner simply became an excuse to eat Craisins. Just when you think you've added too many Craisins, add some more. Then I met white-chocolate Craisin oatmeal cookie. Hello, cookie, how I adore you!
Ginny, meet Waldorf salad. The cafe upstairs from where I work serves two salads: Caesar and Waldorf. The Waldorf salad contains apples, chicken, croutons and a mixture of sunflower seeds, Craisins and golden raisins. I'm to assume the latter comes from green grapes. They look a thousand times more appetizing than regular raisins, but still not quite as appealing as Craisins. However, they look friendly enough to eat without a second thought on my part. (Other foods I ate because they seemed friendly? Sour cream & onion chips, and asparagus.)
So there I stand, in my kitchen, examining the contents of the little red box full of dried fruit. Cranberries, lovely. Apricots, interesting. What's that other orange thing? Who knows, but it looks OK. Raisins? Ugh. They look like smashed black beetles. Rotting gum on the bottom of a shoe. Beaver dung. I decide to throw caution to the wind, and pour half the contents of the little box onto my salad. I am consumed with raisin thoughts as I eat. I pretend to hide them from myself under lettuce leaves and drowned in Kraft Free Honey Mustard. Still, I know they're there. I can taste them. It's an odd sensation, and I feel I'm betraying some unwritten law of my life. Thou shalt not consume the forbidden dried fruit!
Maybe it's because I was raised eating green grapes. Maybe it's because grapes have always had the mysterious seedless/seeded distinctions. Maybe it's because raisins don't have funny guys standing in a bog telling me how sweet they are. Maybe it's because they appear so vastly different from grapes that I see them as another species altogether -- one that is simply and inexplicably detestable. However, I will fight the good fight. I hereby vow to not pick out the raisins from the dried fruit mix as I pour it onto my salads in the coming weeks. I do this solely on the principle that it would be ridiculous to discriminate against this wrinkly absurdity in the presence of its (obviously) superior cousin, the luscious Craisin. However, I reserve the right to decline raisin-infested carbohydrates for both the foreseeable and unforeseeable futures.
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