Jesse cooked; Aliza tried to cook

Last you heard from us, we were busy ringing in 5769 with some epic Boloco.

For the sake of this blog, let's call 5769 "the lost year." What with the whirlwind (nay tornadic) lifestyle of my first year teaching, it was a culinary (and otherwise) blur. From my survival to this point today, I can deduce that we must have eaten food. Probably at regular intervals. Jesse cooked. I looked. I recall even sometimes making rice.

Today, out of the fog (at least metaphorically, though still deeply entrenched in the San Francisco weather patterns), I am proud to say that my teaching skills have improved significantly enough to have time to write. And, more importantly, my cooking skills have improved insignificantly enough to still make this interesting.

A few key cooking attempts and not-complete-failures of 5769:

1. I made cookies for my students for Halloween. Having successfully baked chocolate chip cookies many a time, I thought, "Ha! This should not be so bad! They will be so happy!" But just like grading papers for 130 students, baking cookies for as many young hungermachines was a problem of scale. What is easy when you're dealing with 30 or 40 is painful in the triple digits. The cookies came out ok, though I had to borrow baking materials from my neighbors and it took several hours just to rotate in the baking pans. It took students about 5 seconds to eat them, 4 seconds to show gratitude, and 1 second to return to pre-cookie-reception state. Sort of like when they read the comments on their papers that took my hours to write. MORAL OF STORY: In your first year of teaching, nothing is fun. Not even baking cookies.

2. I made cauliflower cakes. I always enjoyed them when my grandmother would make them when I was a kid, so when I purchased a beautiful cauliflower at the farmer's market, I emailed her for the recipe. She kindly sent the recipe, (with a warning that it would be easier if I could just watch her make it) and I did my best to follow it. My favorite part is when you change the water you're cooking it in to avoid getting gas from eating them. One might think, cauliflower! Healthy! Right? Well you can't spell caulIfLOwer without oil. A lot of it. The cauliflower looked like this before I sucked all health benefits out of them:


Then they looked like this when I was done:Tasty, eh? Eh. (This picture was the best of the batches...) I think I'll stick with Grandma Nelly making them, and cover my eyes when I watch how much oil goes in.
MORAL OF STORY: When your Grandmother says it might be better to watch her do it first, believe her. Or, don't destroy a perfectly good cauliflower.

3. So the other day I was making an omelet for myself. I was spatula-ing it with my right hand and holding a piece of gouda cheese in my left hand, waiting to put the cheese in the egg. With some poor spatulation, I managed to destroy the shape of the egg, and make it unfit to put in a piece of cheese. Thinking quickly on my feet, the omelet became scrambled eggs and I just ate the piece of cheese while the eggs finished cooking. MORAL OF STORY: It's all the same in your stomach, right?

BUT NOW IT IS THE NEW YEAR! Time to start fresh! I began Rosh Hashana by successfully cutting an apple and dipping it in honey.




oh, and I also made kugel:

Haha Jesse! Now you look! And, last night, I COOKED DINNER FOR MARIANNE AND DAVID. AND IT WAS EDIBLE. (Though they cooked the cous cous while I showered).

5770--Change is gonna come, IN MY KITCHEN!

A tradition alive

Tradition, tradition! Tradition!
Tradition, tradition! Tradition!

[TEVYE & PAPAS]
Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?
And who has the right, as master of the house,
To have the final word at home?

The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.

[GOLDE & MAMAS]
Who must know the way to make a proper home,
A quiet home, a kosher home?
Who must raise the family and run the home,
So Papa's free to read the holy books?

The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!

[ALIZA]
Who, every week, would eat much Boloco,
Running on the cobblestone to the "Buffalo"?
And who broke her fast, for the last two years,
On this wrap of rice-y, spicy yum?

Alizaaaa, Aliza! Tradition!
Alizaaaa, Aliza! Tradition!

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While I have developed a nasty addiction to the pork buns at China House on Park Street*, a mezuzzah does not rest too far from the main kitchen of JesseCooks;AlizaLooks. Since yesterday was Yom Kippur, Jesse and I fasted. If you knew me in my past life in Cambridge, you would know that my previous food addiction was the Buffalo wraps at Boloco. I ate at least one every week. They consisted of a tortilla wrap, chopped chicken, white rice, spicy buffalo sauce and chunky blue cheese dressing. This tasty goodness wrapped in aluminum foil was my beacon of light when studies got tough. Or even if studies were easy. Or even if I had already gorged myself in the dining hall.

When I left the east, I claimed to miss my family and friends. But really, I missed Boloco.

To make it even worse, I had added it onto the ancient Jewish tradition of breaking fast. Instead of munching on bagels and lox at sundown, I would bolt to Boloco and let the spicy juices run slowly (okay, quickly) into my empty, repented stomach. I didn't know what I was going to do yesterday!!!

Jesse swooped in an saved the day. We went to the supermarket and he purchased tortilla wraps, chicken, white rice, spicy buffalo sauce and chunky blue cheese dressing. And JESSE MADE ME THE BUFFALO TO BREAK MY FAST. He even wrapped it in aluminum foil so I could relive my boisterous Boloco days.

It was perfect. Well, near perfect. The tortilla wrap had a funky spice flavor which reminded me that this wasn't indeed the real deal. But it was so good that I actually cried. I plan to make Jesse cook this for me once a week, so I can keep up my Boloco appetite for my trip to Cambridge in November.

*For my birthday next month, I have requested 22 of these pork buns, each with a candle in it. If this materializes, I will be one fat, happy lady.

Amy Cooks, Aliza Looks (and chops tomatoes)

Jesse has been doing a lot of cooking lately, and I am very sorry that we have been providing our blog readers with rather meager rations. But I promise, we have been eating. As things have gotten busier (at least for me), I have taken to relying on the ol' Trader Joe's frozen foods. It is embarrassing and the high sodium content causes bloating, which is also embarrassing. So I am proud to announce that I actually did something in the kitchen that involved fresh food.

I went over to Amy's house on Tuesday so we could watch the presidential debate in terror. Mainly terror because the fact that people could even consider McCain is scary. JesseCooks;AlizaLooks Officially endorses Obama (though Jesse might be the only person in his profession who is a democrat).

But anyway, food. Amy had a whole variety of fresh foods from a farmer's market. Also, Michael had grown tomatoes at his house and they were ripe, so we were putting them in the salad. I mainly looked as Amy cut basil, cut mozzarella, cooked eggplant, put said eggplant into an amazing eggplant yogurt dip, cut avocado, and placed avocado in amazing salad with fresh pomengranate seeds and apples and lettuce and other goodies. However, I wasn't a total bum, mooching off of my friend-cum-vegetarian chef extraordinaire.

I CHOPPED TOMATOES.

Tomato:















They were even small tomatoes so it was sort of hard.

As the voters of the heartland gave us heartburn, this meal soothed our stomachs and souls.

to follow up the epic french onion soup...

we went to the most disgusting diner ever this morning for brunch. Jesse had been telling me about this AWESOME Greek diner just across the bridge from Alameda in Oakland. It was not so awesome. As we pulled up, he tried to modify his comments, claiming "it was only good when I went at 3am when I was drunk and looking for a new house in May"

It was not good at 12pm when we were not drunk and already had a house in September.

A Tale of Two French Onion Soups

It was the best of soups, it was the worst of soups, it was the soup of wisdom, it was the soup of foolishness, it was the soup of belief, it was the soup of incredulity, it was the soup of Light, it was the soup of Darkness, it was the soup of hope, it was the soup of despair, we had soup before us, we had more soup before us, we were all going direct to soup....

In my nearly 22 years, there have been two important episodes that involve French Onion soup. Perhaps not so coincidentally, they are my first encounter with la soupe à l'oignon and my last, which occurred about an hour ago. For chronology's sake in la grande histoire de la soupe à l'oignon, I will begin with the former.

Let us travel way back, dear reader, to the olden streets of London in 1998. While the chimney sweeps swept and the cobblers cobbed, a young Aliza sat for dinner with her grandparents in the London Hilton. The story has been retold many a time, and each time the quantity of French onion soup consumed has grown. But alas, I get ahead of myself. As Aliza dined with Grandpa Paul and Grandma Nelly, she ordered something that was not of much importance and has disappeared as the sands of time have fallen. But it was Grandpa Paul, knowing not how his choice from the menu would alter the course of history, who requested that the server satiate him with a bowl of French Onion Soup.

The bowl of soup arrived along with the other forgotten victuals. Grandpa Paul began to sink his spoon through the viscous cheese when young Aliza's eyes lifted from her plate, and gazed upon the gooey fromage (though she had not yet learned that mot francais). She grew curious. What wonders loomed below that yellow layer of dairy? If a spoon were to dive beneath it, with what splendors might it return? Perhaps Grandpa Paul knew of Aliza's curiosity, or perhaps he was just being kind. Regardless, it is at this very moment in history that he made his infamous error.

He asked, "Aliza, would you like to try the French Onion soup?"

In some versions of the story, young Aliza begins with hesitation with a single taste. She pauses and returns to her food. Then asks for another taste and another. In other accounts, she grabs the crock from Grandpa Paul's plate, blistering her little fingers and tongue as she pours the soup into her mouth, cheesy goo and all. Grandma Nelly screams, "No! Don't do that! You will burn your mouth!" but Aliza pays no heed, and swallows the soup in a matter of seconds, while fearful diners look on, disgusted with what is before them but unable to turn away. No matter what incarnation of the tale you may have heard whispered in the back alleys behind restaurants where the mice nibble on leftover crumbs, the ending is always the same. Young Aliza commandeered Grandpa Paul's soup, leaving him nary a drop, and went on to order it at restaurants with great regularity.

Tonight marked the great second coming of French onion soup. It shouldn't have happened, which makes the experience all the more surprising and wonderful. A rare heat wave hit Alameda, and our un-air conditioned apartment was unprepared to house us comfortably. As we sat before the fan and sweat, and all we could think of was the solace of lemon sorbet (a new favorite in this dwelling.) Though it was surely not a day to even think of French onion soup, an apparition came to Jesse. The ghost of Food Network past floated before his sweaty brow, and suddenly he became possessed by the spirit of the French Onion.

He started to shake, and I became afraid. "Il est necessaire que je prepare la soupe à l'oignon!" he shrieked as his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to convulse. As soon as it has come, the ghostly possession ended and Jesse came to. "Why do you look so terrified?" he asked me, not realizing the spectacle I had just witnessed. I recounted what had just passed, and he said, "Yea, I could totally go for making some French onion soup." I warned of the sweltering heat. "Eh, it'll be okay" he replied, unfazed.

And so it was.

We journeyed to Ikea to acquire the proper crocks (and also purchased a new dish set after we realized a few days ago that the reason we kept burning ourselves when we microwaved food was because our dishes from the 1970s are not Microwave safe). The spirit o the French Onion guided us through the crowded and cluttered aisles. Miracle of miracles, we had all of the necessary ingredients. (Not such a miracle, actually, since Jesse had seen a show about French onion soup on the Food Network a few days ago and purchased all of the ingredients on a recent trip to the supermarket).

The cooking began. First Jesse sauteed the onions in butter, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and garlic. Soon he added a half cup of 2004 Judd Hill Petite Syrah that we acquired on a recent trip to Napa. With a dash of sugar to help the onions caramelize, he brought it to boil and let it simmer for ten minutes. He then added beef broth, let it boil and then let it simmer. Meanwhile, Aliza looked. Jesse also soaked two chicken breasts in a garlic and herb sauce, and made rice (that Aliza measured!) He cut up Ciabatta bread and toasted it in the oven with a bit of olive oil.

As Aliza eagerly set the table, she was unable to wait for this soup. Jesse put the soup, bread and Fontina cheese in our new Ikea crock pots and put them in the oven, while he also tended to the tender chicken breasts. Aliza sat at the table, her eyes as big as Ikea.

Finally, their rendezvous with French Onion fate arrived. 90 degree heat notwithstanding, they dined. And oh how they dined. The intense, rich flavors of the soup enveloped their tongues. They could taste the dash of balsamic vinegar, the half cup of Napa spirits. They washed the soup down with that very same wine. They tried to cool down to no avail. But it didn't matter. The soup was just so good. Ice cubes on forehead, they pushed on. Spoonful after spoonful, I recalled my first spoonful of French onion soup in London those many years ago. Nay, I recalled every spoonful off French onion soup that all man has tasted for all time. Jesse is truly an amazing chef.

It is a far, far better thing I eat than I have ever eaten. It is a far, far better food coma I go to than I have ever known.

Spicy Stir-fry with unknown meat

Well it was getting late the other night, and aliza was complaining that she needed to eat or she might die, so I opened the fridge for a look. I found a steak that aliza had purchased on her first attempt at grocery shopping. Now we all know that I like and eat a lot of steak, but this particular cut of meat I had never heard of. This made me a little sceptical, so I figured I would mask the quality with spicyness. I also had some rice noodles, and spicy schezuan sauce laying around.

Ingrediants:
1.5 lbs of unknown quality meat
1 bottle spicy schezuan sauce
Frozen brocclie, carrot, peapod mix
1 pkg rice noodles
salt/pepper
large quantity of garlic powder
larger quantity of chili pepper powder

Prepare rice noodles according to package. Cube the unkown quality meat. Cover in garlic power and chili powder. Add a little salt and lots of fresh black pepper. Stir fry for 4 min, adding in a little spicy schezuan sauce. Add in healty items, stir fry 4-5 min. Add in rice noodles, sitr fry for 2 min. Then watch alizas face as it turns bright red while she is eating it.
Pics to follow

Also all of you who voted against me, are no longer invited to our house for dinner.

Alain Bernard Toast

by The Apprentice

In celebration of our addiction to the swimming events at the Olympics, and more specifically, the French swimming moose Alain Bernard, Jesse made French toast this morning. We had leftover sour dough bread from yesterday's Vindaloooooo (that we had used to temper the Sorano pepper spiciness), so this morning it metamorphosed into French toast. My copious amounts of real maple syrup have not yet arrived in the various UPS packages that are currently everywhere from Seacaucus to Oakland, so we used "Pancake Syrup." A sweet chill went down my bones that I was betraying my love for the real stuff, but at least there was 2% REAL MAPLE SYRUP in it. Also, the pancake syrup has been expired for a year. We bought it when we went camping at Assateague Island two summers ago, and recently rediscovered it.

Recipe as follows:

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