Out there in the black mining hills of Dakota there lived a boy named Rocky Raccoon...

If you, like 'old Rocky, happen to be spending time in the Black Hills of South Dakota soon, allow me to tour you 'round some local highlights in the largest of the Black Hills communities, Rapid City.

It's quite a haul out that way, and ah reckon you'll hanker for the chuckwagon at some point. If you're of the three-course-with-wine persuasion, you might enjoy the vittles at French Culinary Institute graduate M J Adams' bistro restaurant, The Corn Exchange (Main St., diagonal from the Radisson). Adams features some delightful wines, a tempting assortment of small plates (don't pass up the terrine, if it's available), and entrees with local flair.

I tried the duck breast, the seared salmon and the bison steak and will heartily recommend the local bison. If you've only eaten tough old cuts better used for boot heels, you're in for a buttery treat. Although it's a might pricy by South Dakota standards, The Corn Exchange is a bargain for those suffering from big city sticker-shock.

If you're not sufficiently liquored up off Adams' wine list, you can dilly-dally down the street apiece to the Firehouse Brewery. I hear they make some lower-key grub, and pour a fair brew.

My Ma would also like to throw in a good word at this point for the Alpine Inn of Hill City, which offers a scrumptious German-style lunch, a quality steak & spud dinner and a tempting array of desserts, from strudel to thick dark chocolate decadence. Since Hill City's just a stone's throw from Rushmore and Crazy Horse, you were probably on your way up there anyhow.

Back in Rapid, I can recommend the Beanery (3rd btwn Main & St. Jo) for soups and sandwiches; BJ's Grinder King, a local favorite, for sandwiches and the best slices around (mom says "try the veggie"); La Costa on Omaha ($4.95 tex-mex lunch specials!) and the Mongolian BBQ up the hill on LaCrosse, where the veggies are fresh, the eats are cheap, and it's just all kinds of entertaining to watch your fellow diners engineering skyscraper stacks of noodles, snow peas, bean sprouts and beef slabs in their all-you-can-fit bowls.

While you're out that way, you can pick up the embroidered western shirt of your dreams at RCC Western Store in the Rushmore Mall, drool at the Calphalon and Wusthof at Someone's in the Kitchen, and then head back down the hill to troll through the tunes at Ernie November.

Don't forget to grab a bagel at Black Hills Bagels, if only to gaze at the hot neon bagel buckaroo and dream of a life tending cattle (or bagels) on the rolling grassy plains, breathing in the clean grassland air and losing yourself in the astral ocean over your broad-brimmed hat.

Holy cow juice, batman!

The Food Section let us in on the news that thanks to the wonders of modern technology, the ever-effervescent Wolfgang Puck soon plans to introduce self-heating canned lattés. Damn!

Forget getting your food in pill form a'la the Jetsons... the future is here and it's just gosh darn convenient, if not altogether environmentally friendly.

Read all about it: Self-Heating Single-serving Coffee

Since its inception in 1969, Sesame Street has been hearty seed for fertile young minds. From phonics and mathematics to Spanish and music appreciation, I personally owe that program a great debt. High up on the itemized receipt for that debt, I include "The Sesame Street Cookbook," published in 1971 by Pat Tornborg.

This fine cookbook — my first — introduced me to such approachable delights as Mr. Snuffle-upagus' "Snuffle-Loaf in a Spaghetti Nest" and "Twiddle-Burgers" as well as culinary experiments, such as Oscar's "Sardine and Orange Salad" and the Amazing Mumford's "A La Peanut Butter Soup." Thanks to $30,000 in culinary school debt, I now recognize the genius of the latter two, which were a bit intimidating when I first plowed through this book at the tender age of five.



The front and back pages introduce children to kitchen equipment and the importance of post-project clean-up. The 45 colorful pages within are colorful, entertaining and educational (on many fronts) and the recipes are simple, well-written and, for the most part, yummy.

I'll post one of my favorites, which is definately qualifies as yummy, but unfortunately has more sugar than many parents would dream of allowing their children these days.

Rubber Duckie Floats (To Serve Two)

What you need:
1 pint of lemon sherbet
1/2 cup of crushed pineapple, drained (save the juice)
1 tablespoon of pineapple juice from the can
1 small bottle of ginger ale
2 whole pineapple rings

What you do:
Put 2 scoops of sherbet, the crushed pineapple, and 1 tablespoon of pineapple juice in a bowl. Mix them with an eggbeater. Pour the mixture into 2 tall soda glasses, and put 1 whole scoop of sherbet in each glass. Pour the ginger ale slowly into the glasses until the sodas become sudsy. Don't let the suds overflow. Hang a pineapple ring on each glass, and sserve the floats with a straw and a spoon.

I love food. I'm pretty darn fond of music. And I'm always pleased as all get-out when I can have both at the same time. You know... the two great tastes that taste great together, and the sum of the whole is greater than its parts and all that.

A person can always look to the blues or zydeco for some classic food tunes, but I've been wandering through the other genres aimlessly since Cibo Matto fizzled away.

Thankfully, in a piece of great news for anyone hungry for foodmusic, my friend, AD (one of the coolest people on the planet, and no, I haven't met all six billion of you, but you'll just have to trust me on this one), has made this groovy collection of Thanksmas recordings with his family. Totally fun tunes.

I know a lot of people who can barely endure brief visits with their families, and here's a happy bunch doing off-the-cuff composing to produce energetic little wonders about garlic mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, wild mushrooms and vegan eatin's.

They dish up the full meal deal, all the way through dessert. It's funny, though... an hour after I finishing the last track, I got hungry for more.

I consider myself an experimental eater, but I was definitely dubious when the specialty foods guy offered me the jar. Garlic Jelly? For real?

He insisted. Mentally waffling, cream-cheese schmeared bagel in hand, I paused, considered, and went for it.

Damn. My new favorite thing. I went back for more.

You can find recipes all over the web to make your own version of this apparently Southern treat.

Alternately, if you'd just like to give it a whirl and can't commit the energy, pick up a jar from Villy Exotic Products, which makes their Garlic Jam honey-sweet with earthy roasted garlic and a just a hint of turmeric.

And the added bonus? You'll never see vampires at your breakfast table again.

My week of soup obsession continues... But c'mon! You have to a food so satisfying it inspires song:

soupsong.com

I'm particularly in love with the Moby Dick reference to clam chowder (creamy New England-style, naturally) and this kickin' quote:

"A New England clam chowder, made as it should be, is a dish to preach about, to chant praises and sing hymns and burn incense before. To fight for. The Battle of Bunker Hill was fought for — or on — clam chowder; part of it at least, I am sure it was. It is as American as the Stars and Stripes, as patriotic as the national Anthem. it is 'Yankee Doodle in a kettle.'" — Joseph C. Lincoln

Image borrowed from the fascinating CIKARD Harvest Archive.

I love food science. It's such a great way to reduce stuff as sensual and pleasurable as food to something really dorky and academic.

Thus, this article, via TMN, is hilarious. Tastes Like Chicken

A wave of bitterly cold wind whipped along the East coast this morning, and I was surprised to find it somehow reverted me from cynical New Yorker to perky Minnesotan.

As if channeling another spirit, I heard my voice merrily greeting all the shivering souls along my path as I slung back my furry hood, unzipped my down parka and trotted down the street with a bare head and a happy heart. I was like Marge Gunderson on uppers.

Thankfully, warmly ensconced in my cubicle, Seasonal Affective Disorder resumed, hex faded, gloom descended and all is right with the world.

Nevertheless, the whole episode got me thinking about Minnesota winters and the warming power of hot drinks — in particular, those of the alcoholic variety. My default setting always falls to a simple cup of hot chocolate spiked with Irish cream whiskey, but there's a universe of other lovely options, from the Tom & Jerry (eggnog without brown liquor is just a sad, lonely cup of egg & cream) to sweetly spiced mulled wine.

You always suspected there was something disreputable behind all that "Minnesota Nice," didn't you?

One of my first dining experiences in Manhattan was at the ancient Fanelli Café in Soho. Surly waitress, slow service, uneven floors and tippy tables. But oh, the soup!

Later on, I discovered they sling soup during daylight hours in a little shack attached to the building. Savory soups, no waitstaff necessary. Just me and a little paper bowl of steaming bliss nestled between my mittens.

It's no wonder, I suppose, that I'm obsessed with soups lately. The weather's turning nasty, so I'm turning to the world's most accessible comfort food. Hot or cold, thick or brothy, from homey stews to bean purées and consommes, nearly every culture makes a soup... and (thankfully) I haven't met one yet that I haven't liked.

In no particular order, my ten favorite winter soups:
1. Hot & Sour
2. Tomato Florentine
3. Butternut
4. Gumbo
5. Tortilla
6. Chili (Thick & Spicy)
7. Beer-Cheese
8. Dal
9. Chicken-Corn Chowder
10. Chicken & Spaetzle

This depiction of vegetables marching into the smirking cauldron of doom is one of the more tame drawings...

Le Delizie Della Mia Cucina by Romeo Salta (called "Pleasures of Italian Cooking" in the U.S. printing) is arguably the strangest book in my home. Published in Italy in 1962, this hardcover is a tour of that great food nation's classic dishes. Since I haven't had time to translate my way through its pages, I've thus far simply fallen in love with its many oddities.

Some of the more charming illustrations include the drunken beet vomiting in an alleyway, a crazed turban squash wandering a field with a heavy club, an angry scallion shaming a distraught yellow onion, and a sneering turnip overseer whipping a groveling slave beet.

As if the drawings weren't enough, Le Delizie also features dramatically styled full-color photography in which copper silverware sprouts up from a luxe ocean-side picnic and a rolling pin hovers threateningly above a delicious-looking pasta spread.

Most impressive are the pages and pages of wine, spirit and olive oil labels. Not just reproductions of labels, mind you, but actual labels pasted to the pages of the book. My favorite of these is probably the enormous Cinzano vermouth label on page 162 with its bold type and flashy gold foil details.

Because I'm so terribly sweet, I've painstakingly typed out this sample recipe — the contents of which mean something close to gibberish to me.

Trigle al Forno
8 triglie di misura media
3 o 4 cucchiai di olio di oliva
un cucchianio di aceto
una manciata di pressemolo tritato
il succo di mezzo limone
2 spicchi d'aglio
una cipolla
2 scalogini
un pizzico di timo
un pizzico di origano
una foglia di lauro
sale
pepe.

Scegliere triglie molto fresche. Pulirle estrarne le interiora; rimettervi dentro il fegato. Lavarle e non asciugarle.

Mondare e lavarle la cipolla, gli scalogni, il prezze-molo e l'aglio, tritare finemente ogni cosa. Spargere la metá di questo tritato sul fondo di un tegame da forno rettangolare che possa essere portato anche in tavola. Collocarvi sopra le triglie l'una accanto all'altra; spruzzarle di aceto, sale e pepe; aggiungere un pizzico di timo o di origano e un poco di lauro. Ricoprire poi le triglie con il resto del tritato e cospargerlo di 3 o 4 cucchiai di olio di oliva. Mettere al forno giá caldo e farle cuocre a fuoco medio per un quarto d'ora o venti minuti; e bagnarle piú volte. Un minuto o due prima di togliere i pesci dal forno spremervi sopra il succo di mezzo limone, smuovere bene la salsa dal fondo del tegame e servire caldissimo.

Per 4 persone.

Addendum:
Romeo Salta's book gets a bit more attention (and a few more image scans) at the beautiful Giornale Nuovo...

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

I don't believe Mr. Spock was referring to specifically to candy when he wondered at the universe's "infinite divirsity in infinite combinations," but it would have been appropriate commentary.

I've had plenty of German Kinder Eggs and weird gummi shapes, an assortment of oddball Japanese candies. I've tried rosewater and sesame-flavored sweets brought back from India, acid drops from England, and Polish bonbons in pretty packages from my neighborhood shops. Lately I've been addicted to the "White Rabbit" lychee taffies I find in Chinatown.

I kind of thought I'd seen it all... until this morning, when I discovered there's a whole new world of licorice beyond the dark and moody candy pipes of my youth. A coworker offered me a sample of Dutch "Dubble Zout," a salty dark licorice that promptly made me run for the nearest trash can. But it's apparently a favorite among licorice afficianados... Licorice International, sellers of "Black Licorice from Around the World" calls it a best seller.

Apricot and licorice. Halva and licorice. Salmiak and licorice. Honey and licorice. Mint and licorice. A legion of salty licorice candies that taste like mineral-infused blacktop. And a world of infinitly diverse people that love 'em.

Dang it, it brings a tear to my eye. Or maybe it's just watering from the lingering taste of ammonium chloride and licorice.

Best use of the internet to date.... the Bubblewrap Simulator.

Oh my god, it's heaven! I'll never be productive at work again.

Hanukkah (or Chanukkah, or Hanukka, Chanukah...) begins tonight at sundown, and while I'm not Jewish, through a marriage bonus (my dad's) I get to co-opt all the fun parts during the holidays. Whee!

So here's eight (get it?) solid reasons why the Hanukkah thing kinda rules:

1. The blue/silver color scheme is sooo much classier than that garish red/green Christmas thing.
2. It's a celebration of oil — how can you argue with a holiday based around fried foods? Mmm... latkes.
3. Competitive top-spinning for M&Ms beats watching the cat munch tinsel, hands down.
4. It's traditional to give money, which efficiently removes the exchange-counter middleman from your gift-giving cycle.
5. I'm amped to get my annual hanukkah toothbrush.
6. It's fun to say Macabee over and over. Try it: Macabee. Macabee. Macabee. See? Fun.
7. There's not much of a songbook, so you can save up your vocal stylings for karaoke after the menorah lights dwindle out.
8. Woo-hoo! Eight days of fire, fire, fire!

As I drifted to sleep last night, pondering fruitcakes, I had a minor ephiphany.(Yes, I know fixating on fruitcakes in bed is weird. Whatever. Just stick with me for a sec...)

The fruitcake is iconic. So much so, I'll bet there's a whole generation of people who've never actually tried one. They simply buy into the legends of fruitcake villainy as manifest truth. The fruitcake is such a physical manifestation of poor holiday judgement, it's become modern shorthand for failure.

Don't believe the hype. Fruitcakes — at least the universally loathed lumps that appear around the holidays — were once precious, anticipated, beloved... and delicious. They've acquired their current bad rep because the glory days of the fruitcake are bygone.

Real fruitcake takes time, love, and several weeks of patient, closely monitored steeping in fine fogs of brandy. Who's got time for that? So, in the interest of efficiency, the fragrant fruit and nut cakes of yore have been swapped for a nation of cloying knockoffs. Pity.

Lucky for me, my mom still takes the time to make fruitcake. Good fruitcake. Mmmm... Slice it thin and slather with creamy mascarpone. If you're virtuous and brave — but not as fortunate as me — you could endeavor to make your own.

There's still enough time before Christmas to restore the much-maligned holiday classic to a place of departed grandeur.

While other sweetshops skirt the issues altogther, Scharffen Berger's website hosts an array of (PR-steeped) essays addressing the myriad ethical concerns intertwined with the production of our beloved truffles and bonbons.

My favorite site this month:
Advent Calendar 2004: Leslie Harpold

Dec 2= Yay! Shortbread!

Ickle was captain, Pickle was crew,
And Tickle served coffee and mulligan stew...

It's dangerous to do just about anything these days, so it surprises me little that hanging a pickle on your christmas tree is considered "controversial" by some. Apparently the whole "German Tradition" aspect is bunk, as a variety of websites are anxious to point out.



Personally, I say "humbug" to the accuracy adherents and am proud to hang a blown glass pickle (as well as a variety of other pretty foods...) on my tree. It's bizarro. It's cheesy. It's fun. And that's kind of what christmas is all about in my book.

What's that? You're a stickler for authenticity? Do it old-school and make your own damn christmas pickles.

Jinkies, Molly! Watch out for nasty veg peelers!

My girl, Molly, reports in from the field (or kitchen, as it were) with documentation of her newest sweet laceration. This clean clip comes courtesy of a vegetable peeler. It's a month old and looks to be healing well. (We love that lace doily backgrounder, sweets!)

Perhaps as part of some cosmic joke, the photo happened to arrive right after I received this loaded note from a friend: "Are you enjoying the non-cooking lifestyle, or do you long for burns and tops of fingers being cut off?"

That's not strictly accurate, since I still do catering, but yes, one of the pleasures of kitchen life is indeed the constant threat of permanent disfigurement. Oh, flesh wounds, how I long for your cruel kisses!