October's Communion

October, at least in San Francisco, is a month of remembering: it marks the anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake, 20 years to be exact this past October 17th. In line with the commemoration, I've been thinking a lot about emergencies, especially about what would we eat in case of an emergency. I'm always careful to freeze a batch of whatever I cook, so that not only will I have ready-made food in case of lazyness, but so that in the case of food ever being scarce, my household will be able to sustain itself for at least a week, until other arrangements come through.

With that in mind, this month's Communion was about emergencies and the ways in which we cope, or not, with them. I think that for the first time in Communion's short life, both the menu and the theme walked the same lines, so we were pretty excited about not only sharing stories and tips about previous crises, but also for creating dishes that were the gourmet approximation of survival food.

This month's guest cook and helper was none other than my dearest Oscar Manuel Trujillo---dancer, performer, activist and bad-ass extraordinaire---who added his fierce touch to the decor, the pacing in between courses, and making this overworked cook chill out. Below is a surprisingly calm picture of Oscar and me taken from the dining room. (And a note about pictures: I've already claimed I'm a bad, sloppy, forgetful photographer, so the evidently better pictures in this post are by a fellow diner, NickSantan, who was kind enough to email me some of his textured glossy shots.)



Our first course was a "ramen" noodle soup, because, who hasn't had a ¢99 packet of soup when flat-broke? And, isn't being broke a crisis in it of itself? Our conversation navigated around our descriptions of what exactly entails a crisis, an emergency, or being in a pickle. It all depends on perspective and on how quick action is needed. At the same time, some of us asked questions of how our perception may be conditioned to see a situation graver than it is: last week was fleet week here in the Bay, and the Blue Angels were flying really low and really loud. Have we been trained to think of a terrorist attack as soon as we hear the too-close-for-comfort roar of a jetplane's engine? Why do we see an emergency when there isn't one?

And here is a pic of our first course, noodles in a vegetable broth with dino kale, before being carried to the table.

Our second course: anchovies and crackers (or flatbread, really) along with stories of being caught with our pants down (metaphorically.) We made a sautée of onions, garlic, thyme and rosemary in butter, very much in a Pissaladiere style, with anchovies, black olives and watercress. Sure, this sure beats having anchovies and saltines, but it's the thought that counts, no?



One story is of a 17-yr-old girl who threw a house party while her parent's were out of town. The party went on till the wee-hours of the morning, and she was careful to wake up early to clean up before having to pick up her father at the airport that afternoon. She expected beer bottles, cigarette butts and random trash, but what she found was a house robbed of all electronic equipment. She freaked out, not so much for having her house broken into while she slept, but because she now would have to confess to throwing a raging party the night before.

The third course: a chunky beef stew, like the ones you buy in a big can, only better. We browned a chuck roast, cut into one-inch cubes, in olive oil. As they rested in a bowl, we added diced onions, shallots and garlic until softened. Then, added diced carrots and potatoes for sweating. Add a bottle of good red wine (we used a Montirius Côtes du Rhône), and about two cups of beef stock. Bring to boil, reduce heat to low, and cook covered for about 2 hours, until the meat is super tender. I made this stew two days before Communion, and I gotta say, it was perfect. We served it with some homemade rosemary breadsticks and a full-bodied Anglianico.

I think everyone at the table was too busy chowing down, because no one remembered to take a picture. Below is what it looked like in the pot, before it reduced a few inches.

Conversation centered around what our survival modes look like. "Turn to stone" was one that resonated with me, not only because it implies separating panic and fear for the sake of being practical, but also because it captures how in the moment when one realizes the urgency, or the gravity, our hearts stop temporarily turning us into stone. Mine is more like denial, until I can't look away any longer, and others are more like improvisations.

For dessert, we served vanilla wafers, marshmallows and a drizzle of bittersweet chocolate. I put to test my new scorching equipment, and I have to say it was very rewarding. (Crème brûlée, here I come!) We shared tips onto how to deal, prepare and/or avoid any future predicaments: know CPR and the Heimlich maneuver; have a first aid kit handy, and if applicable, an earthquake kit; always keep $20 in your pocket, though some savings and health insurance wouldn't hurt, and best of all, give yourself permission to not do the right thing. But, despite how afraid we might be of a crisis, we are never to avoid bungee jumping, surfing, riding a bike, laughing really hard or falling in love.

Our fifth and final course was a poached pear with Camembert. The inspiration there was that perhaps, in the case of an emergency, the most likely fruit source will be canned fruit, kind of like the canned poached peaches I was addicted to when I was kid. And if there will be cheese (which I hope) it will most likely be a soft spreadable triangle, like the Laughing Cow. But since we are not in an emergency situation (yet) we might as well poach some ripe Bartlett pears with a super sweet gerwerstraminer, cloves and cinnamon; reduce the juices to a syrup, and drizzle it over the fruit and a slice of the creamy goodness.

But if we were in an emergency, what would be the first thing we'd reach for? A pair of shoes, a picture, or nothing at all because we'd be too stunned to choose. If there is anything emergencies do, is put life into perspective: what is really important and what is inconsequential, or transitory. Our survival, and of those around us, is what matters. But how is survival linked to happiness? Are they a one-way street? And, as the picture below shows a pseudo-equation to the survival/happiness paradigm, there is another. Yes, emergencies are unpredictable, unavoidable.

Does that mean they are dangerous? Or can they be a blessing too?



Next Communion is Tuesday, November 24th, featuring a very special guest cook!

Lessons on patience, and pizza.

Regardless of how intimidated I have been with yeast, pizza dough was one of the first things I tried when I started cooking. I must have been about 17 or 18 years old, when I was either trying to impress a boy my freshman year of college or trying to prove to my mother that I could handle myself once I moved out of her roof. It just doesn't get any easier than pizza, or rather, pizza just has that quality of making amateur cooks feel welcome. How could you ever mess pizza up? The very first recipe I used was from my mom's Betty Crocker cookbook from 1979, but since then, I've gathered that pizza dough recipes are pretty standard: about a cup of warm water for a tablespoon of dry active yeast; stir in a teaspoon of sugar and a tablespoon of oil and wait about five minutes until foamy. Add about two-plus cups of all-purpose flour, teaspoon of salt, and if desired, other add-ins (ground white pepper, dried rosemary, paprika.) Mix, then knead until it forms a smooth, elastic, cohesive ball. Cover with saran wrap and a towel and let rise. Piece of cake, right?

Well, for this impatient cook over here, not really. After I leave the dough to rise for the first hour, I'm usually pretty hungry. So, I roll the dough out, place it onto a pizza tray and go to town with fixings. 20 minutes later, I'm enjoying a pretty satisfying meal.

What I've been learning lately is the superior quality, airyness and texture of a pizza dough that was let to rise for a significantly longer amount of time. If one has the will to wait, the results can be marvelous. (This lesson of patience, though it started with pizza dough, has permeated onto other facets of my life, so let's see what happens, no?)

For reasons involving this month's Communion, I am playing with pizza dough and rehearsing several versions for a flatbread dish. I took the old tried-and-true Betty Crocker recipe and a newer one from the Bon Appétit Cookbook. They were pretty much the same, except Bon Appétit asked for olive oil, instead of vegetable oil. I let both batches rise for one hour; punched dough several times, and let rise for another hour; rolled out onto pizza stone, and let rise for another hour. Though I rolled the dough pretty thin, it rose to an airy thinness, and I was delighted with my efforts to wait.

I wanted seafood based toppings, and since I had two kinds of dough rising, I decided to rehearse two visions of flatbread:

One, a sautée of fennel, red onion, shallot, garlic, parsley, with sardines and lemon zest. Over medium heat, sautée thinly sliced onions, shallots and garlic in olive oil and a 1/4 of a stick of butter. When translucent, add about half of a fennel bulb, sliced. Season with salt, pepper, a bit of dried oregano and a dash of red wine vinegar. Reduce heat to low and stir occasionally until fennel is soft.



The other, a Pissaladiére-esque slow sautée of onions, garlic, butter, thyme, rosemary with anchovies. In a 475 degree oven, place an oven-safe sautée pan with half a stick of butter until melted. Add thinly sliced onions, along with several springs of rosemary, thyme, bay leaf. Sprinkle salt and pepper, and a dash of olive oil. Return pan to the oven and stir every once in a while for about an hour. In the end, the onions are soft and translucent, but still holding their ringed shape.



The crusts were rolled out and placed onto baking surfaces to raise for an hour longer. The fennel sautée was spread onto the Betty Crocker dough. On went canned sardines with some of their oil, a sprinkle of chopped fresh parsley and some grated lemon zest. The Pissaladiére was spread onto the Bon Appétit dough along with canned anchovies. (Note to remove the stalks of thyme and rosemary before.) Both went into a 425 oven and took about the same amount of time, around 15 minutes, until the crust had a golden hint.

Let the flatbread rest when out of the oven, and sprinkle chopped thyme onto the Pissaladiére, and chopped parsley onto the sardine flatbread. Here is where my impatience took a hold of me again: Once the flatbread was out of the oven, I dug right in. I was wolfing down my first slice when I realized: shouldn't I take a picture before it's all gone?



Bad, bad cook (and photographer.) Good eater, tho.