Pumpkin pie test run

It’s almost November, which means it’s time to start with the Thanksgiving test runs. I only have a few weeks to come up with a menu and practice recipes for this year’s Hickory House Thanksgiving. The first test run would be pumpkin pie.

I made a pie crust a few days ago, thinking that I would have time to make it earlier in the week. But, I stuck the dough in the freezer and didn’t get back to it until three days later. I hoped it would be okay. It sat in the refrigerator to defrost as Scott and I were at the neighbor’s house eating hot dogs (these were the best and fanciest hot dogs ever, purchased from Whole Foods and with noticeable flecks of fennel), drinking Coronas, and playing with their adorable dog Lulu.

When we got back, the dough felt soft enough to be rolled. I cleared off the table, dusted it with flour, and started at the ball of dough with my wine bottle rolling pin. The dough didn’t want to flatten out and it cracked all along the edges. This crust would have issues. I worked as quickly as I could and as gently as I could to try to shape this mass of dough into a circle just slightly larger than my Pyrex pie pan. I had to cut and paste bits of dough to cover up the hole and to eliminate the cracks. And, my lack of crimping abilities was quite noticeable. When the dough was set and in place in its Pyrex pan, I stuck it in the freezer. After about twenty minute, it went into the oven to partially cook and I started working on the filling.

The pie filling would be pumpkin-y goodness. I started with a can of pumpkin, brown sugar, nutmeg, dried ginger, cinnamon, and a touch of salt, and gave it all a whirl in the blender. That then got moved into a saucepan over medium heat and cooked for a few minute. I whisked in some milk and cream, and brought it to a bare simmer. Then, four eggs got their spin in the blender, and then the pumpkin and cream mixture got slowly incorporated. The pumpkin, cream, and egg mixture went into the pie pan, and then into the oven some more.

The house smelled like Thanksgiving, and I would have to wait until the next day to taste my pie (damn that cooling time). I whipped up some cream and added some sugar (which turned out to be too much sugar), sliced myself up a piece of cooled pumpkin pie, and took a fork of it to my mouth. The pumpkin filling had a creamy, custard-like consistency and texture but the amount of spice was slightly overbearing. The ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon were battling with the flavor of the pumpkin, and that triumvirate seemed to be winning.

The crust itself was flakey and crisp. However, the portion of the crust that lined the bottom of the pie was noticeably very thin, barely providing any sort of foundation for the creamy filling. The crust to filling ratio was totally off. I must have been too enthusiastic with my rolling.

Adjustments would have to be made for the real Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. And, because I wasn’t proud enough of that pie to share with other and because the pie itself wasn’t non-edible, I would have to eat the pie myself, incorporating pie into every meal.

The wrong oyster company

I was nervous about how well I would be able to handle a drive up the windy roads of Highway One up to Marin and how my stomach would manage raw oysters after a night of drinking and dancing and a morning with a pounding headache. But Jeanne and Ross were coming from Modesto to get oysters with Scott and me, and I couldn’t disappoint them by saying that I was too hungover to make the trip. So, I sucked it up. I showered and had some coffee (I refrained from the aspirin since the last time I took it after a night of drinking left me with an afternoon of vomiting). The four of us packed up our snacks, drinks, and oyster tools and made our way across the Golden Gate Bridge and north to Marin.

Scott sat shot-gun as I was behind the wheel, trying to steer us safely in a car that wasn’t mine and trying to concentrate on not being queasy. Jeanne, Ross, and Scott all tried to grasp on to something as I weaved around the tight corners. I swore to them that I am a good driver while squealing, “Whee...where’s the road?”

We made our first stop at Point Reyes Station, heading straight for the Cowgirl Creamery. We picked up some cheese (a wheel of the creamily smooth Mt. Tam and a wedge of a goat cheese), some more drinks (an Orangina for me), and some steamed artichokes with a lemon mayonnaise sauce. After a photo-opp with a miniature-sized blue Datsun pickup truck, we were back on the road.

The drive didn’t look familiar to me but Scott said we were going the right way. After driving for a few more minutes and being very convinced that the path we were on was not the usual path I take to get oysters, we pulled over and referenced the map. Scott showed me where he was directing us and I showed him where I thought we were going. Our locations were on opposite sides of the Tomales Bay. We were both thinking of oyster farms on a bay but we were thinking of different bays and different farms. Oh, well. We decided to go to Scott’s oyster farm since we wouldn’t have to journey around a body of water to get there. We turned off Sir Francis Drake and headed onto a very narrow dirt path, casting clouds of dust along our way. I wondered where Scott was taking us but soon enough we found a parking lot and made our way out of the car.

This looked nothing like the Tomales Bay Oyster Company nor the Hog Island one. I wasn’t sure what to do but the sign told us that we were at Drakes Bay Oyster Company, certified by Marin Organic. After scoping out the place and our different oyster options, we ordered four dozen small oysters and took them to go. We got back into the car and drove to what somehow got referred to the “end of the world.” On the map, this “end of the world” spot appeared to be the western most point of California, but we could’ve been wrong.

When we finally got there though, it did seem like we were on the edge of the earth, or at least of California’s western coast. We unloaded the trunk, made a little hike up towards the lighthouse, and set up shop on one of the two picnic tables. We unpacked our picnic amongst the tourists who had come to enjoy the view on this ridiculously gorgeous and warm day. I felt bad that were drinking beers, gorging on creamy cheeses and crusty bread, and eating oysters as the people around us were huffing and puffing after a climb to the lighthouse, but I didn’t feel bad enough to offer them any of our food and drink. And, it was beautiful out there, dining with the entire Pacific Ocean in view and with the warm sun on my face. I couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon, even if I still was hungover.

Oakland burger

I’d been eyeing that In-N-Out off the Hegenberger exit on the 880 for at least a year now. Every time I go to the Oakland Airport, that In-N-Out taunts me, standing there in all its meaty glory knowing that I don’t have time to stop off for a burger since I barely have time to make a mad dash through the security check with shoe laces still untied. But, today was different. As Simron and I headed off the freeway at the Hegenberger exit, I was determined to have lunch at that In-N-Out, and, that determination paid off.

We were going to Oakland for a training session at the Oakland Airport Hilton, an odd place for a financial workshop and an even more oddly laid-out hotel. After three hours of sitting in a freezing conference room being lectured on the intricacies of the federal financial aid process, we (really, all of us, bosses and all) were ready to ditch those FAFSA worksheets and head for the warmth of meat patties wedged between grilled onions, thousand island sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, and fluffy white buns. The second we were released for lunch, we hurried to the car, zoomed out of the parking lot, and made a bee-line straight for the In-N-Out.

We maneuvered our way around the crowded parking lot with a line of thirty cars waiting for the drive-through. I wondered where all these people were coming from since there isn’t much in terms of businesses or homes near the airport. We squeezed inside the In-n-Out white building, and I stepped up the counter, “Could I have a Number 1 animal-style with extra pickles, please?” It’s a well-rehearsed line, one whose origin dates back to my high school days, when I went to a school that was situated across from the twentieth In-N-Out to be in existence (the first one is located in the nearby city of Baldwin Park).

This Oakland burger was just as good as all those that I’ve had on homecoming trips to LA. The lettuce was crispy, the grilled onions were the perfect color of translucent bronze, the bun had just the slightest bit of crunch around the edges, the cheese melted into everything, and the meat was, eh, okay (the meat patties aren’t anything to write home about, but I think it’s the combination of all the other burger elements that makes an In-N-Out burger so good). I inhaled my burger, pushed those bits of meat into my mouth with those crisp French fries, and tried not to choke as I sipped my Lemon-Up.

Sitting there outside on those round tables covered by those red umbrellas on a warm day like today made me feel, just for the slightest moment, that I was in LA again. Too bad that bit of daydreaming reminiscence was brought to a halt when the reality of two and half more hours of financial aid fun was awaiting me.

Hipster park

My friend Bill apparently has been on a hipster eating tour of San Francisco restaurants. And, this time around, with me as his companion, he crossed Luna Park off his list.

So, first off, what makes Luna Park a hipster restaurant? Let’s discuss.

1. Location: Luna Park is located right at the epicenter of the San Francisco hipster kingdom on Valencia at 18th.

2. Clientele: The people who eat at Luna Park tend to be on the young-ish side and don the requisite hipster attire. Let’s take for example Bill’s and my outfits. Him: A red button-down collared shirt (but not like the type you’d wear with a tie to a business meeting), dark jeans, Converse All Stars, and a black leather wrist band. Her: Short brown skirt over black tights, fitted black tee-shirt, cute flats, and chunky plastic-framed glasses.

3. Atmosphere: The dim lighting in Luna Park makes it hard to see the person who’s sitting across from you, which is good for first dates. The unnecessarily loud music of the indie-rock persuasion makes it hard to hear the person who’s sitting across from you, which may also be good on first dates. The red walls eerily make you feel like you’re in The Shining. And, for a cute touch, the women’s bathroom sign is an arty-looking piece rather than the usual triangular-bodied white figure.

4. Waitstaff: Not only do the waiters and waitresses of Luna Park exude an “I couldn’t care less” attitude, they also demonstrate it by lounging around chatting as guests walk through the door hoping to be seated and also as they wait for their order to be placed. The waitstaff is also uniformed in the ways of the hipster. The boys, of whom I am known to be fond, are displayed in dark non-loose jeans, black tee-shirts, shaggy mop of hair, prominent and non-sleazy facial hair, thick plastic-framed glasses, and tattoos.

5. Food and drink: The dinner menu is nothing fancy but boasts some well-made comforts--pork cutlet with mashed potatoes, baby back ribs, and macaroni and cheese. And, Pabst Blue Ribbon (“in a can!”) can be purchased for $3.

As Bill and I were properly attired, we were set to walk through the red curtains and enter the dimly lit lounge that is Luna Park. We started with the goat cheese fondue with grilled bread chunks and green apple. The cheese had the texture of the bright orange version that tops the nachos of some of the neighborhood taquerias, but it was a tasty addition to those toasty cubes of bread and a salty, creamy counterpoint to the crunchy, sharp tang of the apple slices.

I ordered the grilled salmon with black lentils and a salad of mandarin orange slices, kalamata olives, cherry tomatoes, and watercress. The salmon was nicely cooked with a crispy skin and a velvety rare interior. It, however, was heavily seasoned with salt and pepper (and not much else), which wasn’t the most pleasant experience. The black lentils were also a little more salty than suits my preference, but they were tender and a satisfactory accompaniment to the fish. The salad was the highlight of my plate, with refreshingly clean and fresh flavors.

For dessert, Bill and I shared the bourbon pecan chocolate cake with mint chip ice cream. It was my choice of dessert, and I chose it because it seemed to the most interesting combination of flavors. I should have known to stick with the classics, such as the crème brulee. The cake we had was okay but nothing spectacular. It was quite dense though, taking a good amount of arm work trying to cut my spoon through the slice. I could have eaten the mint chip ice cream all night long though.

To drink, because you can’t have a hipster meal without drinks, neither Bill nor I ordered the $3 PBRs. I had a glass of the It’s Okay Rose, and it wasn’t only because of the name, although that was a huge draw. It was because the season when it’s still socially acceptable to drink roses is soon coming to an end. My rose was more red than most, but it had a fruity and clean flavor.

We headed across the street to the Elbo Room afterward for more drinks: two vodka tonics with extra limes for me and two PBRs at $1 a piece for Bill. There we were, two twenty-somethings drinking vodka tonics and PBRs on a Monday night—it couldn’t get more hipster than that.

Citizen brunch

I don’t know why I don’t go to Citizen Cake more often. It’s 4.5 blocks away from my house, so it’s within a more than reasonable walking distance. It has delicious food and even more delectable desserts, so the edibles alone would be worth the short journey. I think it might have something to do with the crowd who eats there. This afternoon, when I met Winnie for Saturday brunch (even though we had seen each other just two hours earlier), this seemed even more pronounced.

As we were waiting outside for our table, dozens of people wearing suits, crisply ironed shirts, and shiny pointed and heeled shoes were coming through the Citizen Cake doors. I was wearing my favorite pair of dirt-and-grease-stained jeans cuffed up at the bottom with a tank top and striped 80’s-looking polo shirt, and Winnie, who just came back from a run, was wearing some gaucho pants and a tank top. We both were feeling a little self-conscious.

But, we got seated amongst the older crowd who looked as if they were on their way to an afternoon at the symphony, and perused the menu. I decided on the shitake mushroom, Fontina cheese, and arugula omelet with a side of bacon (I don’t usually order bacon but I eyed the bacon heading toward the man next to us and it looked heavenly). And Winnie had the Dutch baby, which I didn’t now is a puffed up pancake.

My fluffy yellow crescent mound was topped with some leafy greens, and on a separate smaller plate came three strips of thick, crisp pig meat. The mushrooms of the omelet tasted very distinctly and strongly of shitake mushroom, which has a much more powerful flavor than that of the bland button, and I was surprised by its intensity. It, quite honestly, overpowered the other flavors of the Fontina and the arugula, which were both playing second fiddle to the shitake. And, though the egg was light and fluffy as a good omelet should be, the richness of all the butter that was used made the final few bits a challenge to eat.

My bacon, on the other hand, had no such problem going into my mouth. The strips on my plate tasted just as good as I thought them to be. They were crisp, meaty, and salty. And eating them with my bare fingers left just the slightest shine of grease on my tips. How I wished bacon didn’t have such a Midwestern obesity stigma to it.

And, the bit of Winnie’s Dutch baby that I had tasted like a warm apple pie, although Winnie assured my that there were no apples to speak of in her dish.

We left Citizen Cake delightfully full, but not so full as to pass up getting a scoop of plum sorbet on our way out, which was a refreshing finish to the heavy eggs and pork.

Oh, and Elizabeth Falker and her Citizen Cake cooking team will be battling Cat Cora on Iron Chef Sunday, October 29th. Go San Francisco!

Project dinner

For the past several weeks, if it’s a Wednesday evening I’m sure to be found sitting on my couch in front of the television. I would say that I’m not one who watches much television, but I’ve been noticing lately that I’ve been sitting and staring at a black box for more hours of a day than I’d like to admit. And, my recent obsession has been Project Runway, the real-life competition where 16 fashion designers duke it out to see whose designs and sewing skills have the edge to beat out their competitors.

This Wednesday was the season finale, the grand showdown where the four remaining designers would show their collection at New York’s Fashion Week. And, for this momentous event, we had to have an equally momentous dinner, which obviously meant fried chicken and mac ‘n’ cheese.

The last time we made fried chicken in this house, Jeanne did it so I had no idea how it came about. But this time, I was frying solo. When I got home from work, I prepped the chicken pieces and soaked them in buttermilk with some salt, pepper, and Tapatio for seasoning. I dunked my hands into the pot of chicken and buttermilk to make sure everything was coated, and didn’t realize how numbingly cold chicken and buttermilk could be. I stuck the whole pot in the refrigerator as I made the cheesy casserole.

After cooking the macaroni to a super al dente, I poured in the mixture of evaporated milk, eggs, dry mustard, and more Tapatio, along with about half the grated cheese. After that got mixed in and melted together, I poured in the rest of the evaporated milk and the rest of the cheese. When its cheesy goodness looked like it had melted, I seasoned with salt, pepper, a little more dry mustard, and a little more Tapatio. It then got poured into a baking pan and topped with bread crumbs and more cheese (I had forgotten the butter on this batch too, making the top crust a little more bread crumbly). It then got put in the oven to get a nice golden brown crust but it got a little more brown than I would have liked. Scott had to remind me that the mac ‘n’ cheese was still in the oven, and he did so just in time since another few minutes in the oven would have been a catastrophe. Ryan spent the next few minutes scrapping off the darkened bits of cheese and bread crumbs.

As for the frying the chicken, I started by first scooping out cups of Crisco into my cast iron skillet and watching that heat up. Then, in went the buttermilk-soaked and floured-dredged chicken pieces skin down. As I put in piece after piece, I noticed how the level of melted Crisco was climbing very closely to the top of the pan and decided to ladle out some of the liquid Crisco. Mmm…how appetizing that bowl of melted fat looked. Ten minutes on one side, ten minutes on another, and the chicken was fried to a dark tan deliciousness.

Scott sautéed some spinach and made some brownies from a box. Prasad brought over some chips. And Ryan came with pink lemonade. We were ready to sit in front of the television for hours and to scoff and marvel at the designs.

Hamburger help me

Scott and I just had dinner. We had Hamburger Helper Beef Stroganoff. I hadn't had Hamburger Helper in probably more than a decade at least. I don't know what we were thinking when we bought it--maybe that it would be funny. But, as we were eating it, we weren't completely disgusted.

On the side was an organic spring mix green salad, which I dressed with Annie's Organic Goddess dressing.

Birthday homecoming

I can’t remember the last time I spent time in Los Angeles in the month of October. Actually, I take that back. It must have been October of 1998. That’s the October before I graduated from high school and the October before I moved to Berkeley and never moved back. That October birthday was probably also the last birthday I celebrated with my parents.

I went back to LA again this weekend. I had originally planned the trip to see Olivia, who is newly pregnant. And, as it happened, my birthday fell just a few days before I was to land at LAX. My mom would undoubtedly, at the very least, want to have a birthday cake along with the obligatory posed photos. And, Eleanor, who flew down to LA too, would have to endure this and my family for the weekend.

Here’s a brief rundown of the weekend:

Thursday
-Yet another meal at Oakland International Airport: a fried chicken strip sandwich with French fries.
-Vietnamese rice noodles with eggrolls, shrimp skewers, and grilled pork with a lemon fish sauce in a restaurant full of students (probably from UCLA) a few blocks away from Jeanne’s apartment in West LA.

Friday
-Breakfast at The Corner Bakery: a soggy Panini filled with scrambled egg and ham.
-Afternoon tea at the Huntington Library Tea Room: raspberry tea, finger sandwiches, scones, cucumber salad, fruit, and desserts.
-Dinner with the family, Asian dinner banquet style in Monterey Park: cold meat appetizer plate; scallops with asparagus; lobster; fried shrimp covered in preserved egg; golden shark fin soup; fried rice; abalone and sea cucumber with sautéed mustard greens; Peking duck; beef and butternut squash; mango pudding.
-Birthday cake with obligatory photos.
-Drinks and karaoke at the Silver Mug: two vodka tonics with extra lime, “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” “We Belong,” “Rebel Rebel”

Saturday
-Breakfast at the parent’s house: pork and preserved duck egg rice porridge.
-Afternoon at the Santa Anita Race Track: two Heinekens, an overly cheesy sausage pizza, $20 lost on the ponies.
-Pre-dinner snack: two fish tacos from Wahoo’s.
-Dinner at the parent’s house, minus the parents: fish stomach soup; boiled chicken; mushrooms and sea cucumber; fried noodles; fried fish; bok choy; stir-fried green beans; shrimp with walnuts and mayonnaise-y sauce.

Sunday
-Dim sum at Happy Harbor Restaurant: the usual dim sum delicacies, plus exploding steam buns with sweet yellow filling.
-Afternoon snack / lunch: warm bubble milk tea and spicy popcorn chicken.
-Dinner in Koreatown: Seafood tofu soup.
-Drinks and karaoke at The Smog Cutter: Two vodka tonics with extra lime, “I Want You to Want Me,” “We Belong,” “A Little Prayer,” “Dancing Queen.”

Birthday morning cupcake

I hadn't written in a while, and I'm not exactly sure why. Life, essays to edit, grad school preparation has gotten the better of me, apparently.

But yesterday was my 25th birthday. I wasn't planning on doing anything on the commemorating day of my birth. Birthday dinner would happen in a week and a half, and I would be going home to LA to visit my family and pregnant sister, so I'd celebrate there too. But Scott didn't think not doing anything on the actual day of my birth was right. So, he remedied that.

I woke up as usual and took my usual morning shower. What was not usual was the knock on my bedrdoom door. It was Scott, in his boxer shorts with sleep still in his eyes and a plate carrying a cupcake with a lighted candle in his hand. Still in my robe with wet hair dripping, I asked in usual Susan fashion, "Do we have to sing or can I just blow it out?" We didn't sing and I had a cupcake for breakfast as I walked to the bus stop.

Maybe the new 25 year-old Susan, hopefully wiser and more responsible than her former self, will be able to make more of a blog commitment. I feel like I say that every six weeks though.