Stumbling from Scratch

Carrot Chronicles, part deux

I give you another recipe in an effort to use more, waste less, and eat healthy. It’s a pasta made with peppers, carrot tops, carrots and egg plant. I used olive oil and salt at the end for taste. 

I know I’m in the minority, but my favorite thing about cooking is prep-work–the washing, slicing, cutting, chopping, the peeling, crushing, dicing, and cook-dancing. It’s one of the few ways my brain ACTUALLY stops thinking. After a 9-hour day of intellectual and sensory stimulation, that vital organ can focus solely on the mechanical motions of my santoku blade rocking back-and-forth right-to-left.

Prepping for a meal has always been a favorite part of cooking for me.

Before embarking on this Italian adventure, I learned a few things from the commercial cooking school I volunteered at back in Minneapolis. One of these was organization. Things over flame burn. If you’re heating up oil while chopping onions (and anything like me), it will end in destruction. I like being prepared, which is why I always prep and put things into cutesy containers that hold the ingredients in the order they should enter the pot. This mostly makes my life easier when I’m making upwards of four to eight dishes at a time. Needless to say, it helps if you have the containers for easy prep. 

Fear not because I have possibly one of the easiest solutions for your chopping woes. If you eat eggs, you have egg cartons, right? Those can be used as prep containers before you toss them to your recycling bin. They’ve saved me excess washing of dishes on multiple occasions–from chopped garlic to crushed pepper and sliced zucchini. Best part? They make great prep trays if you’re going to a party. Put your ingredients snugly in each divot, close the lid, and voila–instant party aperitivo hero.  Use them as dip trays too. Just be sure not to overfill.

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You won't be single after trying this date cake. Baking on a diet–challenge accepted.

Trying to satisfy your sweet tooth while training for a submission competition/rank review and a half-marathon seems impossible. Your gut tells you to eat a cupcake. Your conscience tells you to ignore the craving and replace it with 15 kick-out pushups and a tall glass of water. Your heart says satisfy both.

It’s no surprise that I chose the latter by creating a muffin/bread recipe that is…

Morocco brought out a cooking-spirit in me that I couldn’t harbor inside any longer. My obsession with couscous and tangines grew with each mile that the plane put between me and Fes. I sit here in my apartment, and I can still smell the combination of donkey manure, argan oil, and animal hide.

Coincidently, I’m hungry. Here’s a way to transform your bell peppers into bowls. First, I prepared the…

This year was the first I spent without my family for the feast of thanks. It’s the one holiday where I’m responsible for all things culinary – with the exception of the “turkey.” With this perturbing homesickness poking me as the holiday approached, I was hoping for something that would cure my ailment. As if the turkey fairies heard my plea, a fellow masters student named Henna said she wanted to host Thanksgiving two weeks before Turkey Day.

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Henna, one of the masters students, proudly displays Cinzia.

Cinzia was tied and prepped the night before.

Matteo (right) investigates Cinzia

Maya and Megumi open bottles of wine to start the celebration

I jumped at the chance to participate. Suddenly, we had a 16.75-pound turkey named Cinzia, 25 enthusiastic international attendees, a menu to match our diversity, and enough wine to fuel a small army contingent with drunkenness.

It’s not about the turkey, the stuffing, or the mashed potatoes. It’s not about the beer, wine, or prosecco. It’s not even about the overindulgence and sensory overload of the sights, smells, and sounds that pass through the night – from the pungent turkey broth to the smokey-sweet smell of Nebbiolo. It is about the moment – the celebration we have with the people around us in this strange bubble of unreality. Because, in what other world but fantasy would you combine 25 individuals from 10 different countries to study food, journalism, and the sociology that encompass the two?

That nauseating sinking feeling dissipated as the wine was poured more and more freely with abundant glee. Jokes were shared; swear words in foreign tongues exchanged, and each of us left stuffed with food and memories.

The comfort in knowing you’re not alone is a human one, but I think it goes deeper than that. It’s a sort of bandage that heals the loneliness – the self-awareness in knowing that all of us are feeling that sinking feeling at some point. After all, most of us are in this foreign land trying to cope with all elements of living abroad – from learning patience to surviving without knowing Italian.

I walked home alone, but satisfied. The night ended at 12:45 a.m. with a call to my blood family as I sent a mental thank you to my adopted one here.

For my parents*, experimentation starts in the laboratory with pipets, petri dishes, and centrifuges. Mine starts by opening the fridge and cupboards to figure out what to do with over-ripe bananas, almost-mush peaches, a badly-in-need-of-pruning basil plant, and a lushly-overgrown mint plant.

Their science aims to cure disease and create innovative medicine. My “science” aims to cure broken…

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6FIvdUt68k)