Day 26: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Nonna

Ok, I admit it. I grew up in a jar sauce household. The only tomato sauce that ever passed these lips was made by dear old Aunt Millie (--------->) And, boy did we go through a lot of jars. Every week my mom would buy two or three. This was mainly because I dipped everything in tomato sauce. Chicken?  Only edible if dipped in tomato sauce. Steak? Same thing. Hamburgers... no first bite without a thin layer of sauce on top. Without tomato sauce, dinner would have been an endless fight, and I would have become protein-deficient. (For my even more picky sister, her magic food veil was applesauce. Our poor mother...)

I later learned... what I had been weaned on isn't real sauce. And there is nothing quite like a real Italian meal with homemade sauce. Thanks to many generous friends opening their homes and tables to me, I have had the privilege of tasting several different family recipes, every one of which was so good, I would eat it with a rusty spoon if that was the only available utensil.

But, a good sauce recipe is un affari famiglia. So when I decided to cast aside the inauthenticity of an American Irish Jew making sauce, I looked for a recipe that technically is in my family.... it just happens to be by marriage. My sister's husband's family is all about the homemade sauce. In fact, it was very important to my brother-in-law's mom (Linda) that she teach her new daughter-in-law (my sister) her sauce recipe. She passed along the family recipe several years ago, one Sunday afternoon in my sister's kitchen, about a year before she passed on. 

I called my sis and asked if she could email me what I was sure was going to be a very complicated recipe. No written recipe, she informed me. "Linda just taught me what to do by showing me, and now I can just do it." Wow. It was like... legend. 

My sister gave me verbal instructions on the phone and I wrote them down to the letter. Instead of a long list of ingredients I'd imagined, it was very simple: Crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, an onion, fresh basil, garlic, olive oil, S&P. All of those are the most versatile and tasty staples, and I could almost taste their alchemic combination. 

As with any good family recipe, there were a few secret tricks. After the crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and generous amounts of chopped basil are mixed together, the recipe calls for a whole large onion to be put right into the sauce. I cut the ends of a large whitey, peeled the skin, and submerged the onion, whole and raw, with skepticism. I let this simmer for about three hours on it's own. 

Next, I made the meatballs. This isn't part of Linda's recipe, so I just made my own basic meatball recipe, which isn't anything fancy: Ground sirloin, an egg, whole wheat seasoned bread crumbs, minced fresh onion and garlic, a half a cup of finely grated parmesan, italian spices and S&P. Knead, and ball... presto! I browned the balls lightly, and then plopped them in the sauce to cook through (meatballs in the sauce IS part of Linda's recipe to impart flavor.) 

After 4 hours of total simmering, the onion was not only fully cooked, but beginning to get floppy and fall apart. I could smell all of the onion-y flavor that it had released into the sauce. The last step for the final hour of cooking, also known as secret #2: thinly slice an entire head of garlic and sauté in generous amount of olive oil, and then combine the garlicky oil into the sauce. It was very important not to burn the garlic at this step, my sister told me. The aroma explosion of the garlic and olive oil was wonderful. The garlic almost melted in to the oil, just as my sister said it would, and then I poured the whole bubbling skillet into the crock to simmer for the last hour. 

il risultato finale

All in all, the recipe was simple to execute. I had to fight the urge to make it more complex, which is a knee-jerk reaction to my general mediocrity in the kitchen. What about some wine, I thought? Wine makes everything better. How about some parsley... parsley adds a verdant burst of flavor. Or some oregano. What about a Bay Leaf? Two tablespoons of sugar? A 1/4 cup of beef broth? I reined myself in, and had faith in the simplicity of the ingredients and the expertise of the recipe. After all, this was tradition, and you don't monkey with tradition. 

Results: The effort took the better part of a day. But the meal was simple and delicious. It was accompanied by a glass of Bordeaux, and dressed by more fresh parm. I served the bright red sauce over the healthy-schmealthy penne enriched with protein and omega 3s, which made me feel slightly better about my carb-heavy dinner. But the fresh sauce would have really shone over tender, homemade linguini. Maybe next blog post.  

Status: Success, with a lotta leftovers. And sending thanks up to Linda and her Nonna (recipe courtesy of her cucina) for passing the legend on to an extended branch of her family. 

Day 25: Never have I ever... juice fasted

Spring cleaning is a great feeling. Out with the old, in with the new. I decided that this year, I need a slightly bigger refresh than cleaning out the closet and dusting behind the couch. The long winter made me feel downright sluggish, like, on a cellular level. So I decided to try a juice cleanse (a.k.a. a juice fast), which is rumored to be a detoxifying wonder.  I have wanted to test it out for a while now. 

Background: Fasting is a practice that almost every major world religion incorporates in some way or another. Jews fast on Yom Kippur and Tisha B'Av. Catholics offer the symbolic fast for Lent. Hindus fast on certain days of the month or week, and Ghandi utilized fasting as expression of "suffering love" in modern Hinduism. Fasting is the Third Pillar of Islam, and requires Muslims to fast from sun up to sundown for the entire month of Ramadan. The Bahá'í faith also incorporates a month of daylight fasting (Àla'). The only notable exception is Buddhism, which only encourages the day's meals fall between sunrise and noon, but doesn't call it fasting, it's just considered the most optimal time to fuel up. Holistic healers and nutritionists have long been advocating fasts of varying degrees for all sorts of ailments and cleansing effects. And fasting has many symbols and practicalities in both religious and modern life: Repentance, remembrance of suffering, simplicity, renewal, cleansing. No matter how you look at it, humans have been exploring the concept and effects of fasting for thousands of years. Having never even so much as skipped lunch, I'm a bit curious. And people who swear by it, they really swear by it.

My approach: I looked into the Master Cleanse and two pre-packaged juice cleanses, one called Blueprint Cleanse and one called Cooler Cleanse. The Master cleanse is just too intense for me right now, at 4-5 days of nothing by water with fresh lemon, cayenne pepper, and maple syrup. Ummm, I'm just not there yet. BluePrint Cleanse and Cooler Cleanse are 2-5 day programs of pre-packaged fresh juices made in NYC and delivered right to your door, to the tune of $60 a day. Thought tempting for the convenience factor... $60 a day to not eat? You've got to be kidding me. But, I don't own a juicer. Luckily, thanks to the fact that I live near plenty of health food stores and juice bars, I just decided to do my own thang. (I pretty much used the same juice combos found in the Cooler Cleanse, which looked the best to me.) 

Preparation: Before a juice cleanse, one is supposed to "eat clean" and rest up for the days preceding the detox. No refined carbs, no meat, no sugar, no alcohol, lots of a fruits and veggies. You know, how we should eat all the time, anyway. Yeaaahhhh. I didn't do that. On Friday, I went out to a deliciously decadent Italian meal, had far too many drinks, and went to bed at 3am. On Saturday, I had a near-squeaky clean breakfast and lunch, and then thanks to a packed day of family visits, I ended up eating a Whopper Junior at 5PM on the road with my nephews (ewwww, I know) and then two squares of L&B red-pie sicilian pizza at 9PM. Nutritious. 

Day 1: Sunday. I set out to do a two day cleanse. (Baby steps.) I woke up, and guzzled some water to start the day. For "brunch" at around noon, I headed to the local organic restaurant and ordered the Energy Rocket: 16 ounces of the juice of fresh greens, celery, apples and a shot of wheat grass. A tall glass of bright green liquid arrived, and it tasted grassy and a little sweet. But this bevy ain't a chugger. The strongly verdant flavor requires that one sip the juice very slowly, which is exactly what all juice fast blogs suggest anyway. Even with my patient consumption, I had the distinct feeling of "swimmy stomach" after the meal, and definitely wasn't feeling my best... a little nauseous, tired, drained. My body wanted more nutrition. I denied the pangs, and came home to rest until my only mandatory obligation of the day, a three-hour long Treble business meeting. I was not looking forward to that tedium on an empty stomach, and was feeling cranky. The blogs also told me the first day was the hardest. I can understand why. 

On my way to the subway at 3PM, I stopped at the local health market Pelandra, which also has a juice bar, and ordered the Brooklyn Sunrise: beet, carrot and orange juice with fresh ginger, but I subbed in apple for orange because I read that avoiding the acidic juices was best. This juice was delicious but thick and foamy, and again, required slow sipping. At the health food I also bought some raw organic cashews. I read that a very small quantity of nuts on the first day can really help if you're in a downward spiral. I wasn't hungry at all through the business meeting, and stayed in a relatively good mood, though I did have to endure watching the other ladies munch on Crumbs cupcakes, peanut M&Ms (my favorite), chips, pretzels and who knows what else. I couldn't even look. I drank my juice and chomped three nuts to make it through. Will power, will power, will power. 

After the meeting, some of the girls were going out for drinks. I wanted to go! I agreed to join with my large canister of lemon water, just to be social. On the way there, I said "maybe I'll just say 'fuck it' and stop this stupid fast and get a beer!" I was dangerously close to quitting. Though my friends were highly supportive of this option, I decided to reward myself with a little self discipline, turned around, and hit the 5 train home. 

When I did get home, I was starving. I mean, I really wanted food. And the entire apartment building smelled like fried chicken. I was quickly back to wrestling with my inner quitter, but instead, I headed back to Siggy's for my last juice of the day. The wafting aromas of Fascati's pizza next door to Siggy's was just plain...cruel. I went in and ordered a carrot, celery, cucumber juice, with one apple and one beet for sweetness. This time I got to watch the juice guy make the juice, and I was happy to see an entire bucket of veggies going into the machine to produce my little cup of liquid. Like seriously, a mop-the-kitchen-floor-sized-bucket. Hello, nutrition. I finished my juice feeling OK; the hunger subsided. As per fasting instructions, I downed two tablespoons of olive oil just before bed, and said buh-bye to Day 1. I made it. 

Except............... Day 1 didn't want to end so quickly. It was going down fighting. I had no luck falling asleep; I was hungry, and my body knew it. There was no food coma to lull me into sweet slumber. I tossed and turned...and thought about all the children who go to bed hungry most nights...and how hard it must be for them to go to school the next day tired... and how I really need to do something more to help....and maybe I could get a job working for the Food Bank of New York City.... I hear they are a really great organization... and doesn't that celebrity chef Madison Cowan work with them? My mind raced. And my stomach made strange, low grumbles. At some point, one or both of them gave up, and I slept. But not soundly. 

Day 2: I woke up in fitful starts in the early morning. I felt headachy. Blegh. I was able to go back to sleep for a bit, and then finally got up to begin my quest for today's big juice feat: Homemade almond milk. I looked for it in stores and juice bars, but it's impossible to find fresh almond milk. The pre-packaged brands all have preservatives of some kind, and that seems to go against the very idea of this two day torture-fest. So I bought a big bag of organic raw almonds, and soaked them overnight. In the morning, they were squishy, fleshy teardrops, and the skins popped off with ease. After shelling almonds for 30 solid minutes, I put 1.5 cups of naked nuts in the blender and covered with purified water. I pulsed until they were chopped, and then beat until they were blended evenly. I added in more water, some cinnamon and honey, and blended until the liquid was creamy, frothy, and thick. Next, I strained the liquid through cheesecloth and squeezed all the milk out in batches, leaving only the dry almond pulp behind. The milk was now crisp, nutty and delicious, and I enjoyed 16 ounces of homemade almond milk for my first drink of the day. Delicious. No preservatives. 

This "juice" was far more nutritious and held off the hunger like whoa. I was fine until the afternoon, when I had to go teach a music class in the afternoon. At 3PM, I downed the next juice of the day, a fresh coconut water. It was very sweet and left a weird taste in my mouth. But it felt nourishing and hydrating at the same time. 

Throughout Day 2, I can sum up how I felt in one word: stupid. As promised, Day 2 of the juice cleanse was much easier than Day 1 in terms of overall energy and food cravings, but my brain was simply not functioning properly. When I typed, I was mixing up words like 'their' and 'there', 'you're' and 'your', and making other completely idiotic pet-peeve grammatical mistakes. In class, I was having trouble with musical rhythms. My short-term memory was foggy. I left my phone at home by accident, and I parked my car on the street and forgot to check the parking regulations. Where was my head at? 

I came home feeling uninspired about the juice fast. My body didn't feel any different, but my mind sure did, and I didn't like it. Considering a job interview was scheduled for the next day, I started worrying about whether I'd sleep OK, and how quickly would my brain refuel itself? And at dinnertime, I got really hungry again. So, I decided that 46 hours without food was quite enough, and I got a healthy dinner of a spinach & strawberry salad, and filet of sole with asparagus and leeks. Food tasted so good. You are supposed to break a fast, even a short one with just a small amount of food, but I just went for the full meal. I read that after even a short fast, your body will feel sluggish and heavy after your first meal... and that's exactly how I felt. Like I just needed to lay down. But I definitely slept much better after a real dinner!

Status: I feel pretty lame that I almost made it two whole days and then gave up at the tail end of the fast, when all I had to do was suck down one more juice and go to bed early. But I can't say I was mega-impressed with the juice fast results anyway. I mean, sure, it took will power. And that felt good. And I did feel "lighter", that's undeniable. But the experience wasn't transformative at all. Something tells me I'd need at least 3 full days, if not more, and with a lot more self discipline to get any palpable sense of detox. 

Results: FAIL. But I tried. 

Side note: People have really strong reactions when you say you're juice fasting. Most people said "That's stupid, stop that,"or "Seriously?? WHY?!?!" Though a handful of folks were curious, and had considered the process themselves. If you're considering it, I suggest trying a short fast, and making sure that you're either not working over a weekend or long weekend. Clear your social schedule because you won't feel much like going out. And definitely don't drink the olive oil. It did nothing, except make me want to vom. 

Day 16: Never have I ever... sample the fruits of a real Indian market

Another belated post.  Why is 30 days so long, but also so fun?

After a tasty Indian lunch last weekend, we popped over to the Indian market conveniently located next door. I didn't know exactly what to expect, having never been to one before. We went in search of prepared/frozen Indian vegetable dishes, on recommendation from the parental units. But what else would I see? Fresh goat meat? Curry in bulk?

As soon as I walked in, I was in an Indian market half frenzy/half trance. It was awesome. Big barrels with new and interesting dry beans and grains. Indiscernible flavors of cookies with adorable smiling Indian children on the box. Exotic soda flavors. A huge display of incense (that I embarrassingly mistook for candy. brightly colored boxes!) And my personal playground: the produce section. I loved walking up and down the aisles examining all of these edible plants that I had never seen before. The shapes and colors were fantastic. Roots, legumes, leaves, and fruits... I had no idea how any of them tasted. How are they prepared? Had I ever eaten it before without knowing what it looked like in it's raw, whole form? I was so curious.

I selected a vegetable medley that spoke to me. The ones with most interesting skins and textures and colors. There were literally dozens I wanted to try... every single one! But I reined myself in, leaving with a harvest of six: toori, karela, tindori, white muli, parval and chayot. 

The next day, I googled each one. All are technically fruit, save for the white muli which is a root. (though chayot and toori are "gourds" which still falls into the fruit classification.) 

 Clockwise from top center: white muli, karela, chayot, parval, tindori, toori. 

Tindori and Parval. Both looked a lot like miniature cucumbers; Tindori looks quite similar to cornichons, but smoother, and parval looks like a baby garden cucumber. Short and fat and smooth. Raw, they have a lower water content as cucumbers, and both tasted like a young zucchini. 
Toori. Also known as the ridged gourd, this fruit is popular in African, Arabic, and Asian lands, and looks a lot like the offspring of a zucchini and a starfruit. The skin was very thick and rough, and so I used a peeler to take off the most rigid part: the ridges themselves. I left the balance of the skin on. Raw, it tasted like a mealy zucchini. 
Karela. Also known as bitter melon. This was the most interesting to examine, as it looked like a warted up pod or freeze-dried sea creature. My google research yielded two interesting factoids: 1. It's touted in ayurvedic cooking/medicine and supposedly works wonders for controlling blood sugar for diabetics, is known to balance various skin ailments such as acne and psoriasis, as well as being regarded as an antiviral, anticancer, antimalarial, and even antiscabies. What can't this plant do?! 2. I also learned that if you cut into a karela and eat the red seeds, this is anecdotally linked "Brain Fever", which is Victorian-era speak for meningitis or other viral infections that affect the brain. These two factoids contradict each other, I know. I cut my karela open and found... red seeds indeed. Oh well. Brain fever here I come. Raw, this thing tasted like ass. Bitter ass. Nothing melon-y about it. 
White Muli. This big guy is the parsnip's secret twin, in terms of looks. Would it taste like one too? Nope. It's the Danny Devito of twins, tasting like a biting and spicy radish over a verdant and earthy parsnip. 
Chayot. It looked a little like a mango or other tropically delcious fruit. It's bright chartreuse hue was appealing, but it's form odd. At the bottom there was a navel that looked like a toothless old man pursing a big lip-less mouth. Inside, there was one large seed, and I found the cut form to be much more aesthetically pleasing than the whole. Raw, it tasted incredibly bland. Just the general flavor of plant.

I sliced, diced and chopped each one and then sprinkled with salt. I then sauteed with olive oil, salt, pepper, a little chili powder, red pepper, and turmeric. Basic spices to enhance flavor, but not overpower. 

Cooked veggies, nom nom

Results: Cooked, the chayote was the tastiest of the group, now having a fresh and easy flavor. White muli retained it's radish-like flavor and now was just cooked radish. Parval, toori and tindori were still bad zucchinis, with parval as a slight favorite due to it's crisp texture. Karela was just as unpalatable cooked as it was raw, and I spit it out each time I tried to consume it.  It was great fun to experiment with these foreign fruits and vegetables, and to imagine how second-nature the preparation of these items are to so many millions of women in the world. And to me, they are an exotic kitchen adventure. Perhaps our most banal of produce staples, like mushrooms or celery or carrots, are alien plants to many peoples of the world? They eat these dirty, odorous fungi that is grown in horse manure! And these weird green stalks that taste kind of bitter, with chewy strings inside! And then there are these beautifully orange spikes...

Status: SUCCESS! 

Day 15: Never have I ever... eaten Goat (Indian food fun part 1)

I'll try any meat once. I've had venison, lamb, kangaroo, rattlesnake, ostrich. But I would never try goat, despite being emphatically told it was delicious by several palates that I trust well. 

Something about eating goat just doesn't sit right with me. I think it has to do with the fact that when I was growing up, my childhood best friend's family had several sheep and a goat. We would head down to the barn to feed and play with the animals in their large pasture, and Gretchen, the goat, had a lot of personality. Sometimes Gretchen was a friend, sometimes a foe, but I liked her. And now, I find it weird to think of eating an animal with that much personality. I know, I know, I will happily scarf down chickens and cows and pigs and ducks, and I know they may have winning personalities as well. But what can I say.... every time I see a plate of curry goat, full of bones and meat, I envision that I'm consuming spindly little goat legs, better meant for climbing meadowy hills! (yes, I know that usually legs are never eaten...) 

But at Indian lunch yesterday, I tried the curry goat, indeed. The meat was succulent and tasted more like beef or veal than lamb. It wasn't gamey at all. But it was hard to truly discern the meat's virgin taste through the thick veil of curry and coconut flavor in the sauce. 

Results: I came, I ate. It was good. I can certainly understand why many people of all cultures enjoy goat meat. Perhaps if my Gretchen-guilt subsides, I'll enjoy a goat dish again in the future.

Status: Success! 

Day 11: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Bubbe

I recently received a request from my roomie to make matzoh ball soup. Or matzo ball soup, or matzah ball soup, depending on how you spell it. Now, I really should know a thing or two about matzoh ball soup, seeing as though half of my family (and half of my heritage) is Jewish. But the truth is, I've only had it once, tasting a friend's order at a diner. And I thought the balls were kind of.... meh. I much prefer slippery, slurp-able noodles. But, honoring such requests make for a happy home, and I like to try new things. So Matzoh Monday it is! (well, I think it was a Wednesday. Whatever.) 

I should mention that the request wasn't for any old matzoh ball soup. It was for his mother's recipe. The request every woman dreads: Please live up to my infallible Mother's famous signature dish. I felt destined to fail. As I began the recipe, he said "I don't know about this.... you have 29 years of Debbie's Matzoh Magic to live up to." Great. 

She had graciously sent her recipe, but unfortunately we went shopping without it in hand, and guessed at a few ingredients. Right away I realized I couldn't follow it exactly. First of all, I had bought boneless chicken thighs instead of a whole chicken. Second, her recipe only called for water and no stock (the whole chicken would soon turn the water into stock). But without the chicken innards, I knew a flavorful broth would require a boxed stock. Cheating? Maybe. But nothing is worse than bland soup. 

I also browned the chicken thighs first, my own little additional step in the recipe. Then, I covered the thighs with half water/half stock, and added heaps of chopped carrots, celery, and onion. Then it was let to simmmmmmmmmmmmmer... for about two hours. 

In the meantime, I began to make my first matzoh balls. I bought whole-wheat matzoh meal, partly because it's healthier, and partly because that's all the store had in stock. In the middle of February, without any matzoh-mongering holidays in the near future or recent past, I guess it isn't a top-seller? The recipe distinctly said that I should mix the matzoh balls in "a non-metal bowl". This perplexed me. Why a non-metal bowl? I googled it. Apparently there is some debate over whether yeast reacts with metal, giving dough a funny taste. However, I'm pretty sure that the whole point of matzoh meal is that there is no yeast, as it's ground-up unleavened bread made of flour and water. But regardless, I didn't want to monkey with the rules, and so I pulled out my Grandma Marie's orange milkglass mixing bowl circa 1935. It's such a classic. 

I mixed eggs, water, oil, baking powder, salt, pepper and matzoh meal until it became a glue-like paste. After a good chill in the fridge, I shaped the paste into ping-pong sized balls and dropped them into boiling water to cook on low for 30 minutes. 

By now, the soup smelled delicious. The chicken had completely broken apart into strings and small chunks, and the veggies were perfectly tender. I ladled the soup out first, then placed 1-2 cooked matzoh balls in each bowl, as per the recipe's instructions. I wondered if I could have just plopped the cooked matzoh balls right into the soup all at once, but it was insisted upon that the two items needed to be stored separately until they were to be consumed. Because that's the way it has to be, and always has been, forever. 

Results: It was delicious!! I can't pretend this was some great feat. It was chicken soup and some dough balls. And my slight adjustments were (surprisingly) noted as welcome changes, as they made the soup slightly healthier by way of whole wheat and less chicken fat. 

My opinion of matzoh balls remains the same: meh. But I was just relieved that I didn't mess up 29 years of magic. 

Status: Success! 

Day 9: Never have I ever... tasted the Jewel of the Sea

Mushrooms. Cilantro. Blue Cheese. Oysters. Filed under "foods you love, or foods you hate." There is no middle ground with these dealmakers and dealbreakers. Have you ever noticed that no one is ever so-so about cilantro? People have opinions about cilantro. 

And I had opinions about oysters. Completely unfounded opinions, because, until yesterday, I had never tried one. But I held firm in my opinion: they are gross. Who wants to eat something that looks like a pack-a-day smoker coughed into a barnacle? 

Let it be known that this wall doesn't extend to any other type of seafood. J'adore les fruits de mer! And I have always watched my entire family eat, offer, and glorify oysters. It's the jewel of the sea! A wonderful delicacy. I'm sure you will love it, it's like nothing else you've had. No deal. They just don't get me. It wasn't until a recent outing with three friends where I watched them happily slurping down oysters that I thought "Gee, maybe I am missing out here." 

Last night, I went out for drinks with friends. We enjoyed fancypants cocktails at Raines Law Room, an establishment where you must ring a doorbell to enter, and patrons pull a small metal ball-chain next to a velvet banquet to call the waitress. The motion feels like turning on an antique lamp, except the light is an attractive waitress who asks you whether you prefer a cocktail that is refreshing, bitter, or herbaceous. This sophisticated Gatsby-esque hideaway was the perfect primer for my great leap into the high-class world of oysters. After several drinks, we headed to the nearby Blue Water Grill, the upscale seafood palace. Unfortunately, we had a little too much fun ringing for the waitress, and it had gotten late. Blue Water Grill was closing, and taking the integrity of my blog with it. I asked the waiters if they knew of anywhere nearby that served oysters and might be open. Without hesitation, one replied "Yes, across the street, the Coffee Shop Bar." 

Oh. The Coffee Shop Bar. This is not a place known for seafood. It is known as a late night dining spot to the pretty and the pretty drunk.

We ordered half a dozen oysters and I ordered a glass of white wine. (You know, just in case.) The plate arrived minutes later, and my partner-in-crime noted that the oysters looked a little funny. Great. Now I'm really excited. We raised the open shells with an air-cheers, and I placed the fleshy, watery lump in my mouth. The flavor was underwhelming. It tasted like sea. But the texture overrode any flavor distinction anyway. It was like swallowing a slimy dead slug. I tried a second oyster to give it another go. Yep, slug again. 

Results: Two oysters consumed. The flavor was fine, actually. There wasn't much about that to dislike. And now I know definitively that a) oysters don't make me sick, and b) if I'm ever in the position where oysters are being served, I am good to go. But I didn't really enjoy consumption, and from the way people go crazy for these little suckers, I'm clearly still not getting something. My oyster-loving friend Chris who accompanied me insists that this was a terrible introduction to oysters. He's probably right. I intend to treat myself to oysters from Aquagrill, Pearl, or the famed Grand Central Oyster Bar sometime in the next few weeks. I'm not too proud for a blog redaction. 

Status: Success! 

Day 3: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Babka

Every good Polish grandmother makes her own pierogis. Whipping up hundreds for every family occasion is probably just another Thursday afternoon for Babka. But let me tell you... this is one laborious Polish delight. 

Quick backstory... 

I'm not the best chef among us. I love to cook, especially for others. There's nothing better than preparing a meal for someone you love to enjoy. It's even better when they don't spit out the food. As a budding chef, I've had some hits, I've had some misses. My family tends to remember the misses. If I offer to contribute a dish to a family function, I'm prepared for giggles. Back home in Brooklyn, a recent Boeuf Bourguignon effort was met with this question: "Um, Carrie, is 'bourguignon' French for 'leather'?"

So for all of you gourmands out there, don't laugh too hard at my modest culinary pursuits. Or I'll invite you over for dinner. 

Ok, back to yesterday's challenge: Make pierogis... from scratch. Serve to family for dinner. 

Since this isn't a culinary blog, I'll skip the actual recipe. But here's the basic gist: 

1. Make dough

2. Make filling

3. Shape pierogis

4. Boil and/or sauté

Seems simple, eh? Well, it's not. First off, making proper dough is never easy. And I had no idea what the consistency of pierogi dough should feel like, having never made it before. It seemed remarkably gluey to me. I had visions of my family futilely gnawing on rubbery shells of dough with forced smiles. So I mixed a little extra sour cream into the dough, and crossed my fingers. (I didn't know that pierogi dough has sour cream in it, the reason for the dough's unique zing.) After an eternity of messy kneading, I wrapped the dough ball in wax paper and stuck it in the fridge.

Making the filling was more idiot-proof, but equally time-consuming. The potatoes had to be peeled (the absolute worst kitchen task in my opinion), and then boiled. The onions had to be diced and then sauteed until translucent. The two then had to be mashed together until smooth. With no lubricant like butter or milk, much elbow grease was required. I added generous amounts of salt, pepper, chives and fresh parsley for seasoning. Finally, I mixed in about 8 oz of grated sharp cheddar. 

Next up was the pierogi construction--the really long part. The sticky dough had to be rolled thin and cut into circles. Due to the dough's shrinky-dink effect, the cut circles needed to be re-rolled to thin. Then, I placed a spoonful of filling on a dough circle, carefully wet the edge (by dipping my finger into a cup of water), and closed up the Polish Hot Pocket. However, pierogis require a sturdier seal, so I took a scallop-edged cookie-cutter and pressed the round side of each half moon. Otherwise the potato filling would escape when boiled. Then, I repeated that process for the next three hours, until 40 large raw pierogis emerged. 

Pierogis are cooked by either boiling or sauteing; I chose to boil. When I saw the doughy masses begin to float to the top of the water (the fully-cooked signal), I was thrilled. The dish at least passed this first test: they float! 

I served the pierogis hot, with sauteed onions, apple sauce, and of course, sour cream. The meal was rounded out by deliciously simple fresh beets. (I bought the beets with the intention of making borscht, but when the darn pierogis consumed my entire afternoon, I had to scrap that plan.) 

The family dug in. No one was spitting it out! 4 adults and 2 children ate about half of the monster batch, and we froze the rest. The dough wasn't rubbery at all (phew!) and the classic applesauce/onion/sour cream combo really let the flavorful pierogis shine. 

My parents had never had pierogis before (what?!!), and actually seemed to like them. Of course my father, who can't imagine a world without meat, commented "they're delicious, but would be improved with some bacon bits, the real kind, not that fake crap in the cupboard."

Results: Delicious pierogis and a sated family. But time investment+cost of ingredients vs. quality of product yielded makes it a no-brainer: I will return to buying Mrs. T's pierogis in the freezer section of my local grocer. 

Status: Success! (and leftovers)