Wily Peaches and Errant Blossoms
Quote of the week:
"Mama said there'll be days like this,
There'll be days like this Mama said..."
The Shirelles, Mama Said
Tuesday morning, 7:13 a.m. I boarded the W train and sat next to a man wearing a long-sleeve mustard-yellow button-down shirt. I was holding a doughnut peach bought just the day before at the Farmer's Market. Rather pleased with myself for eating local produce, I bit in smugly. Juice squirted right out of that peach and onto the man's yellow shirt. I cringed about to apologize, but when I looked up from the dew drops on his sleeve, I saw he was completely engrossed in a book. He hadn't noticed! Great! No harm done!
My relief vanished, however, when I saw the dew drops turn into large dark spots. Oh god. How long until he looks up? Will he stay trapped in his book until his stop? Or my stop? What if his stop is first? What if he looks up at any moment and sees me, guilty peach in hand, juice glistening on my chin? I could feel the eyes of the passengers on the seat across boring into me accusingly.
And then...
I panicked.
And as the panic gripped me, the train slowed to a stop. The doors opened with a swish, "Broadway!" Only one stop away from where I got on the train. It didn't matter. I could wait for the next one. I had to act quickly, though. Horrified, I bolted from my seat, grabbing my bags clumsily, and walked through the doors just as they were starting to close. I felt the them clip my skirt as I stepped safely onto the platform.
I looked at the peach as the train moved out of the station. What if the man stopped reading long enough to catch my exit and was waiting down the line... waiting to demand that I pay for his shirt or his dry-cleaning bill or just to yell at me? It wouldn't matter that it was an accident or that fresh peach juice wouldn't stain. There might be... confrontation.
I shrugged and bit into the peach, slowly finishing it off while I waited for the next train. I would have to chance it, and really what were the chances unless he was completely crazy. He seemed pretty engrossed in that book. I laughed at myself and at the thought of all the people who bore witness to my crime. At least it was a local peach.
It wasn't until I almost became the middle of a bicyclist-car sandwich today that I realized, it wasn't just the peach incident. I was having one of those weeks... a string of days when circumstances just make life a little, well, difficult.
The peach wasn't the only way this difficulty manifested through gastronomy. In fact, my typing is nearly impaired by a huge blister on the outside of my left thumb, an injury left by a large drop of sizzling peanut oil that somehow migrated from the spatula to my hand.
The blister is a reminder to me that I only occasionally enjoy fried foods if they are made correctly, and that I do not and have not ever had a talent for frying food.
I am a little remorseful about wasting the object of my frying on such a fruitless attempt. I had a box of beautiful zucchini blossoms. Gorgeous white and yellow blossoms held by a green stem, effusing a sweet, delicious fragrance that was floral but clearly edible.
I scoured the web for recipes. I posted a note for help on Facebook. I was all set to make a zucchini blossom frittata, one of the few recipes online that was not fried. And then, I changed my mind. I was going to make cheese stuffed fried zucchini blossoms. I forgot all about how I lose interest in fried food after two bites. I forgot about how I always use only a little oil when the trick to frying is to use a lot of really hot oil and take the food out before it can actually soak up the oil. I ignored the fact that I am one person and I had at least 12 blossoms.
I should have called Mrs. O before I began. She has fried potatoes and plantains effortlessly without a hint of grease in the end product. But, I did not. I contemplated baking, but decided it was too hot to turn the oven on.
Per what I had read, I tried to pull the pistils out of the flowers, but that only resulted in broken petals. Since the green ends looked very prickly, I decided I would just cut the ends off with a pair of scissors and pull the whole thing off pistil and all. That worked really well.
Unfortunately, you can't stuff a blossom with two open ends and expect the cheese to stay in. The tops would fold in on themselves and stay tucked but not the bottoms. Alright then. No stuffing. Just frying.
I dredged and dipped and dredged again. With cracker-crusted fingers, I dropped the now pancake-flat flowers into the sizzling single layer of peanut oil in my non-stick skillet. The finished flowers were crusty, weighted brown blobs.
I took a bite and was immediately very sad that I had not made the frittata. Underneath the oily crust was a delicious flower, but the taste was muted. The fresh sage I had added to the egg wash was completely overpowered by the peanut oil. Another one of those days!
I suppose that not every week can be comfortable and delicious. At least I had a fabulous Thai dinner with LB and EB on Friday night at Lime Leaf on 72nd Street between Broadway and Columbus. The spices were fresh and balanced and the vegetables perfectly cooked.
Stay tuned for more adventures! If you seen the man in the yellow shirt, don't tell him it was me!
Quote of the week:
"Mama said there'll be days like this,
There'll be days like this Mama said..."
The Shirelles, Mama Said
Tuesday morning, 7:13 a.m. I boarded the W train and sat next to a man wearing a long-sleeve mustard-yellow button-down shirt. I was holding a doughnut peach bought just the day before at the Farmer's Market. Rather pleased with myself for eating local produce, I bit in smugly. Juice squirted right out of that peach and onto the man's yellow shirt. I cringed about to apologize, but when I looked up from the dew drops on his sleeve, I saw he was completely engrossed in a book. He hadn't noticed! Great! No harm done!
My relief vanished, however, when I saw the dew drops turn into large dark spots. Oh god. How long until he looks up? Will he stay trapped in his book until his stop? Or my stop? What if his stop is first? What if he looks up at any moment and sees me, guilty peach in hand, juice glistening on my chin? I could feel the eyes of the passengers on the seat across boring into me accusingly.
And then...
I panicked.
And as the panic gripped me, the train slowed to a stop. The doors opened with a swish, "Broadway!" Only one stop away from where I got on the train. It didn't matter. I could wait for the next one. I had to act quickly, though. Horrified, I bolted from my seat, grabbing my bags clumsily, and walked through the doors just as they were starting to close. I felt the them clip my skirt as I stepped safely onto the platform.
I looked at the peach as the train moved out of the station. What if the man stopped reading long enough to catch my exit and was waiting down the line... waiting to demand that I pay for his shirt or his dry-cleaning bill or just to yell at me? It wouldn't matter that it was an accident or that fresh peach juice wouldn't stain. There might be... confrontation.
I shrugged and bit into the peach, slowly finishing it off while I waited for the next train. I would have to chance it, and really what were the chances unless he was completely crazy. He seemed pretty engrossed in that book. I laughed at myself and at the thought of all the people who bore witness to my crime. At least it was a local peach.
It wasn't until I almost became the middle of a bicyclist-car sandwich today that I realized, it wasn't just the peach incident. I was having one of those weeks... a string of days when circumstances just make life a little, well, difficult.
The peach wasn't the only way this difficulty manifested through gastronomy. In fact, my typing is nearly impaired by a huge blister on the outside of my left thumb, an injury left by a large drop of sizzling peanut oil that somehow migrated from the spatula to my hand.
The blister is a reminder to me that I only occasionally enjoy fried foods if they are made correctly, and that I do not and have not ever had a talent for frying food.
I am a little remorseful about wasting the object of my frying on such a fruitless attempt. I had a box of beautiful zucchini blossoms. Gorgeous white and yellow blossoms held by a green stem, effusing a sweet, delicious fragrance that was floral but clearly edible.
I scoured the web for recipes. I posted a note for help on Facebook. I was all set to make a zucchini blossom frittata, one of the few recipes online that was not fried. And then, I changed my mind. I was going to make cheese stuffed fried zucchini blossoms. I forgot all about how I lose interest in fried food after two bites. I forgot about how I always use only a little oil when the trick to frying is to use a lot of really hot oil and take the food out before it can actually soak up the oil. I ignored the fact that I am one person and I had at least 12 blossoms.
I should have called Mrs. O before I began. She has fried potatoes and plantains effortlessly without a hint of grease in the end product. But, I did not. I contemplated baking, but decided it was too hot to turn the oven on.
Per what I had read, I tried to pull the pistils out of the flowers, but that only resulted in broken petals. Since the green ends looked very prickly, I decided I would just cut the ends off with a pair of scissors and pull the whole thing off pistil and all. That worked really well.
Unfortunately, you can't stuff a blossom with two open ends and expect the cheese to stay in. The tops would fold in on themselves and stay tucked but not the bottoms. Alright then. No stuffing. Just frying.
I dredged and dipped and dredged again. With cracker-crusted fingers, I dropped the now pancake-flat flowers into the sizzling single layer of peanut oil in my non-stick skillet. The finished flowers were crusty, weighted brown blobs.
I took a bite and was immediately very sad that I had not made the frittata. Underneath the oily crust was a delicious flower, but the taste was muted. The fresh sage I had added to the egg wash was completely overpowered by the peanut oil. Another one of those days!
I suppose that not every week can be comfortable and delicious. At least I had a fabulous Thai dinner with LB and EB on Friday night at Lime Leaf on 72nd Street between Broadway and Columbus. The spices were fresh and balanced and the vegetables perfectly cooked.
Stay tuned for more adventures! If you seen the man in the yellow shirt, don't tell him it was me!
As a boy, I can tell you that boys' shirts are made to be squirted upon by girls eating peaches. And first time frying anything is almost always a disaster.
ReplyDeleteAll the best stories end with "and then I ran." Love it!
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