The Greek festival, my favorite of the summer ethnic festivals (dare I say my favorite festival period?) was this past weekend. It was a very, very full weekend, but we managed to pack in a few hours to listen to bouzouki and eat spanakopida made by little old Greek ladies.
I love the little old Greek ladies, who get together and cook trays and trays and trays of this wonderful food to be sold at this festival. I could kiss them on both of their cheeks, tell them how much love I can taste in the food, applaud, and then maybe kidnap them and force them to show me how to make it all. But I don't. I just make mmmmhh and yummy sounds.
Actually, we ate ...
dolmades- grape leaves stuffed with rice and ground meat, cooked with olive oil and lemons
moussaka- eggplant casserole, comforty and wonderful
pastitsio- a baked noodle dish with ground beef and a creamy bechamel sauce
spanakopida- phyllo dough, feta and spinach, baked
tyropida- spanakopida without the spinach, basically
Mythos, a Greek beer-a not amazing, not terrible, summer drinking beer
saganaki-crazy fried cheese, not breaded; marinated, seared but not liquefied, hit with a flame inducing squirt of lemon and cooking wine, served with pita. Sounds Japanese.
You just can't get food like this the rest of the year. It's the little old Greek ladies or bust. That being said, if you get a hankering for dolmades, and the ones at the Olive Bar at Wegman's are not cutting it, I can recommend Peninsula Gateway. It's a little shop that doesn't quite know what it is, near the corner of 6th street and Peninsula Drive. It sells beer, pop, hot dogs and Greek food, apparently. I was pleased but puzzled. I do suggest you bring along a half lemon, because while the dolmades are lovely, they are not nearly lemony enough for my tastes.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Toddlers and stubborn potatoes
When does that baby/toddler switch officially happen? Is it when they turn one? When they start to walk? When they come home from highschool with a hickey?
For that matter, when does one cease to be a newlywed? Six months? A year? Two years? Until you stop calling each other Pooky in public?
Sigh. But I digress.
My baby had three cakes on her birthday:
1. A white cake, dyed pink, with mini chocolate chips and green icing, baked in a bowl... can you picture it? A watermellon cake!
2. A raspberry ganache cake. Chocolate cake, saturated with ganache, mixed with fresh raspberries, frosted with ganache. Oh, so chocolately rich and sinfully decadent.
3. A white cake with pink whipped cream frosting for smashing and smearing.
For lunch, we had pulled pork sandwiches with three barbecue sauces on the side, corn on the cob, green salad, potato salad with vinaigrette dressing and fruit. Those who don't eat pork had optional sliced turkey breast with wich to make their sand. (haha)
I made the pork with boston butt in the crock pot. First, I trimmed the silver skin and the worst of the fat. Yes, I know they say that's the source of the flavor, but trust me, it was plenty flavorful and moist. Then I liberally applied a spice rub of brown sugar, paprika, chili powder, cayenne pepper, salt and crushed black pepper. The pork was loaded into the crock, then covered with a mixture of half water, half apple cider vinegar. It then cooked, on low, for three years.
No, not really. More like 36 hours, although it spent the last 10 or so on "warm" instead of low. It was falling apart so much, we couldn't even flip the pieces of pork. I pretty much stirred it to "pull" the pork. Awesome.
The first sauce was store bought Kraft original, to give the grand parents and others a recognizable sauce. Then we made the passion fruit chipotle sauce (which has already been blogged about) and a Carolina style sauce. The latter was the hands-down favorite, and was a real cinch to make. Yellow mustard, cider vinegar, honey, a touch of hot sauce, soy (a last minute stand in for worchestire) and black pepper. It was tangy but not hot-spicy. My mom tried to save the left overs, but my snacking family devoured most of it picking at the pork all afternoon. Even Darling Husband, who generally eschews mustard sauces, enjoyed a little mixed in with his searing hot chipotle sauce.
By far the strangest thing to happen, though, was the Unboilable Potatoes. I bought red potatoes, then peeled and cubed them. I boiled them until fork tender. I admit, at this point, I was exhausted and may not have been as diligent as I should've been at testing the doneness. Likely they were undercooked. I say this because to say otherwise would suggest a vast shift in fundamental laws of the universe.
Once done, I threw them in a zip top bag and splashed a touch of vinegar on them to flavor. I planned to further assemble the salad the next morning. The next morning, however, when I went to toss the potatoes in with the shallot, egg and vinaigrette, I was shocked that my potatoes were basically raw. I dug them back out of the bowl and put into water to soften. They probably cooked a half hour before I had to hurry and get to my mother's for the party. On the way, I called and asked her to get a pot of water boiling to finish the damn things. They boiled a further forty minutes and STILL were very al dente and undercooked. I was about to toss them but Darling Husband persevered and in the end, we had barely cooked potato salad.
I have no idea what caused this, except that maybe the vinegar sealed the potato pieces somehow and prevented them from cooking? It's a reach.
Anyone else ever heard of Uncookable Potatoes?
For that matter, when does one cease to be a newlywed? Six months? A year? Two years? Until you stop calling each other Pooky in public?
Sigh. But I digress.
My baby had three cakes on her birthday:
1. A white cake, dyed pink, with mini chocolate chips and green icing, baked in a bowl... can you picture it? A watermellon cake!
2. A raspberry ganache cake. Chocolate cake, saturated with ganache, mixed with fresh raspberries, frosted with ganache. Oh, so chocolately rich and sinfully decadent.
3. A white cake with pink whipped cream frosting for smashing and smearing.
For lunch, we had pulled pork sandwiches with three barbecue sauces on the side, corn on the cob, green salad, potato salad with vinaigrette dressing and fruit. Those who don't eat pork had optional sliced turkey breast with wich to make their sand. (haha)
I made the pork with boston butt in the crock pot. First, I trimmed the silver skin and the worst of the fat. Yes, I know they say that's the source of the flavor, but trust me, it was plenty flavorful and moist. Then I liberally applied a spice rub of brown sugar, paprika, chili powder, cayenne pepper, salt and crushed black pepper. The pork was loaded into the crock, then covered with a mixture of half water, half apple cider vinegar. It then cooked, on low, for three years.
No, not really. More like 36 hours, although it spent the last 10 or so on "warm" instead of low. It was falling apart so much, we couldn't even flip the pieces of pork. I pretty much stirred it to "pull" the pork. Awesome.
The first sauce was store bought Kraft original, to give the grand parents and others a recognizable sauce. Then we made the passion fruit chipotle sauce (which has already been blogged about) and a Carolina style sauce. The latter was the hands-down favorite, and was a real cinch to make. Yellow mustard, cider vinegar, honey, a touch of hot sauce, soy (a last minute stand in for worchestire) and black pepper. It was tangy but not hot-spicy. My mom tried to save the left overs, but my snacking family devoured most of it picking at the pork all afternoon. Even Darling Husband, who generally eschews mustard sauces, enjoyed a little mixed in with his searing hot chipotle sauce.
By far the strangest thing to happen, though, was the Unboilable Potatoes. I bought red potatoes, then peeled and cubed them. I boiled them until fork tender. I admit, at this point, I was exhausted and may not have been as diligent as I should've been at testing the doneness. Likely they were undercooked. I say this because to say otherwise would suggest a vast shift in fundamental laws of the universe.
Once done, I threw them in a zip top bag and splashed a touch of vinegar on them to flavor. I planned to further assemble the salad the next morning. The next morning, however, when I went to toss the potatoes in with the shallot, egg and vinaigrette, I was shocked that my potatoes were basically raw. I dug them back out of the bowl and put into water to soften. They probably cooked a half hour before I had to hurry and get to my mother's for the party. On the way, I called and asked her to get a pot of water boiling to finish the damn things. They boiled a further forty minutes and STILL were very al dente and undercooked. I was about to toss them but Darling Husband persevered and in the end, we had barely cooked potato salad.
I have no idea what caused this, except that maybe the vinegar sealed the potato pieces somehow and prevented them from cooking? It's a reach.
Anyone else ever heard of Uncookable Potatoes?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Catering to the masses
Baby Girl's first birthday party is this weekend, and in between sobs I'm trying to get all the food ready in advance--but not so in advance that it's past its prime, of course. (This is, in case you have forgotten, in addition to my full time job and my full time momminess. I'm certainly not complaining, however, as my craziness is of my own creation. I am learning to embrace the different parts of my life and accept that they must--and do--harmonize.)
Tonight, after the little princess was in bed, I made a bbq sauce from scratch, prepped potatoes for potato salad, boiled said potatoes, made a killer spice rub, prepped pork for pulled pork, shucked corn, and what else? Oh yeah, and made dinner. :o) Darling Husband helped. I'm particularly thankful he carved the rotisserie chicken, as I really don't like hacking flesh from bone.
The best part of this endeavor is I don't have to worry about cleaning my house like a perfectionist at the same time as I cook all this food (much more than I'll need, I'm sure. Hope people like left-overs!) My wonderful parents are having the party at their house with their big, comfortable yard. My tiny, cramped, perfectly respectable city-type yard just wouldn't be as appropriate. All we have to do is show up with food and a baby.
Dinner tonight is mashed purple potatoes, which turn a lovely lavender, and rotisserie chicken over salad. So you see? Not a martyr after all. I do find that if I wash and tear all the lettuce first, then put in a large ziptop bag lined with a couple of paper towels, I can get the salad to last all week. I'm all about a quick salad! It's more work at first, but saves time and money later.
As a side note, when I was pregnant I went through a phase where I would crave salads. I distinctly remember getting out of bed and making a salad at 12:30 at night. I've been thinking of these times a lot, particularly in the what-was-I-doing-last-year-at-this-time sort of way. It's a very bitter sweet pass time, and I'm trying to curb it.
I have a "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" daily calender on my desk, and one of the days really stuck with me. It said, approximately, that dwelling too much on the past or worrying about the future takes away resources you need to deal with the present. You have enough to deal with and get through without handicapping yourself at the start. I liked that. I often try to remember that when I get bogged down in the what-if's and the could-have-beens and the if-only's and such. I can't change yesterday; I can't control tomorrow. I only have impact and influence on today.
And so concludes my moment of zen. Tomorrow is the evening of cakes, for I fear I've committed myself to three cakes for the event. Shhhh, don't tell my mom. She already worries I take on too much...
Tonight, after the little princess was in bed, I made a bbq sauce from scratch, prepped potatoes for potato salad, boiled said potatoes, made a killer spice rub, prepped pork for pulled pork, shucked corn, and what else? Oh yeah, and made dinner. :o) Darling Husband helped. I'm particularly thankful he carved the rotisserie chicken, as I really don't like hacking flesh from bone.
The best part of this endeavor is I don't have to worry about cleaning my house like a perfectionist at the same time as I cook all this food (much more than I'll need, I'm sure. Hope people like left-overs!) My wonderful parents are having the party at their house with their big, comfortable yard. My tiny, cramped, perfectly respectable city-type yard just wouldn't be as appropriate. All we have to do is show up with food and a baby.
Dinner tonight is mashed purple potatoes, which turn a lovely lavender, and rotisserie chicken over salad. So you see? Not a martyr after all. I do find that if I wash and tear all the lettuce first, then put in a large ziptop bag lined with a couple of paper towels, I can get the salad to last all week. I'm all about a quick salad! It's more work at first, but saves time and money later.
As a side note, when I was pregnant I went through a phase where I would crave salads. I distinctly remember getting out of bed and making a salad at 12:30 at night. I've been thinking of these times a lot, particularly in the what-was-I-doing-last-year-at-this-time sort of way. It's a very bitter sweet pass time, and I'm trying to curb it.
I have a "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" daily calender on my desk, and one of the days really stuck with me. It said, approximately, that dwelling too much on the past or worrying about the future takes away resources you need to deal with the present. You have enough to deal with and get through without handicapping yourself at the start. I liked that. I often try to remember that when I get bogged down in the what-if's and the could-have-beens and the if-only's and such. I can't change yesterday; I can't control tomorrow. I only have impact and influence on today.
And so concludes my moment of zen. Tomorrow is the evening of cakes, for I fear I've committed myself to three cakes for the event. Shhhh, don't tell my mom. She already worries I take on too much...
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Rappi, what are you?
There's a wonderful green vegetable on the shelf at our local Wegman's. It's name is something of a mystery... aliases include broccoli rabe, rappini, rappi, broccoli di rappa. Not to be confused with broccolini, which looks a bit similar but is actually something else. I'm pretty sure.
Rappi is apparently a closer relative of the turnip, but has little florettes very reminiscent of broccoli tucked into its leaves. It can be a little inaccessible, but with a little tweaking, it's a wonderful side dish.
At Wegman's, rappi can be bought by the bunch or in a bag, presorted and chopped. If bought by the bag, it's ready to go. By the bunch, we wash and then chop into 1 inch sections, starting at the top and working our way down into the stem. As is common with greens, buy more than you think you will need because it will wilt down to almost nothing.
The key to curbing its bitterness (as with most greens) is to blanche in heavily salted water. This will make the color pop and take away much of the assertive, unpleasant, or (generously termed) acquired tastes. After blanching, drain and lightly wring to remove the moisture. Then saute in a pan with some olive oil, crushed red pepper flakes and fresh garlic.
Darling Husband made this lovely side dish to go with our couscous and chicken cordon bleu tonight. I halved chicken breasts horizontally, then butterflied the pieces and pounded them into large planks. Onto this I layered three very thin slices of brown sugar ham and one slice of swiss cheese. I rolled up my chicken top to bottom, like a jelly roll, and secured with a tooth pick. Into a pan with some olive oil, covered to promote even cooking, and left to get golden and happy. We were particularly fortunate as some of the sugars from the ham came out and caramelized a bit on the chicken.
It sounds much fancier than it is; it sounds harder than it is, too. Truthfully, I made the chicken in just a couple minutes while waiting for the AAA tow truck to arrive to apply first aide to the battery in our car. It helps that the chicken breasts were cleaned before being popped into sandwich bags and frozen in individual serving sizes. All I had to do was defrost in a bowl of water in the fridge overnight and boom, ready to go.
As a finished product, the sweetness and saltiness of the chicken cordon bleu was nicely mellowed by the slightly nutty couscous, which itself was livened by the garlicy rappi. A lovely meal, shared by my family around the table.
Rappi is apparently a closer relative of the turnip, but has little florettes very reminiscent of broccoli tucked into its leaves. It can be a little inaccessible, but with a little tweaking, it's a wonderful side dish.
At Wegman's, rappi can be bought by the bunch or in a bag, presorted and chopped. If bought by the bag, it's ready to go. By the bunch, we wash and then chop into 1 inch sections, starting at the top and working our way down into the stem. As is common with greens, buy more than you think you will need because it will wilt down to almost nothing.
The key to curbing its bitterness (as with most greens) is to blanche in heavily salted water. This will make the color pop and take away much of the assertive, unpleasant, or (generously termed) acquired tastes. After blanching, drain and lightly wring to remove the moisture. Then saute in a pan with some olive oil, crushed red pepper flakes and fresh garlic.
Darling Husband made this lovely side dish to go with our couscous and chicken cordon bleu tonight. I halved chicken breasts horizontally, then butterflied the pieces and pounded them into large planks. Onto this I layered three very thin slices of brown sugar ham and one slice of swiss cheese. I rolled up my chicken top to bottom, like a jelly roll, and secured with a tooth pick. Into a pan with some olive oil, covered to promote even cooking, and left to get golden and happy. We were particularly fortunate as some of the sugars from the ham came out and caramelized a bit on the chicken.
It sounds much fancier than it is; it sounds harder than it is, too. Truthfully, I made the chicken in just a couple minutes while waiting for the AAA tow truck to arrive to apply first aide to the battery in our car. It helps that the chicken breasts were cleaned before being popped into sandwich bags and frozen in individual serving sizes. All I had to do was defrost in a bowl of water in the fridge overnight and boom, ready to go.
As a finished product, the sweetness and saltiness of the chicken cordon bleu was nicely mellowed by the slightly nutty couscous, which itself was livened by the garlicy rappi. A lovely meal, shared by my family around the table.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Protein Acquisition Committee, Captain speaking
I used to go fishing with my grandfather when I was a little girl. He and my grandmother lived on a small lake near Mercer until I was 12, when they moved here to Erie next door to my parents. They had a boat and my sister and I would go water skiing, too.
When I imagine my grandfather fishing, I picture him standing on the dock in his dark blue trousers and light blue, short sleeve, button down shirt. He's slowly reeling in his line, and the cigarette hanging from his lips has a long ash trail like an elephant's tiny tusk. My Pappy was not a talkative man, but his stories were legendary in my mind. As we fished, I don't remember much of the conversation, or even if there was much, but I do know he gave me lots of tips, He told me about when to jerk the rod to set the hook, how to keep the tip down when reeling in, how to keep the tension on the line when reeling in the fish, and a hundred other things I've now forgotten. I used fluorescent yellow plastic lures, shaped sort of like a question mark, and caught mainly blue gills. Or, rather, caught mostly nothing, but missed lots of nibbles. (One time the fish actually ripped my plastic lure--Pappy laughed and laughed!)
Learning to cast was the hard part. I spent hours in the yard just off the back porch, next to the garden where my grandmother grew cucumbers with very dark, thick skin and white thorns that looked like grains of salt. Depress the button with your thumb and hold it. Bring the rod back over your shoulder. Flick the rod forward, letting go with your thumb at just the right moment so that the lure flies through the air, playing out the line behind it like a speed-demon spider. Try not to hook the tree or your own ear. Try not to let your thumb slip off too soon and have the lure plunk to the ground prematurely.
My grandfather passed away when I was a freshman in highschool. I haven't been fishing in more than 15 years, but the muscle memory was there for me this weekend, fishing with family at a cabin on one of the NY finger lakes. I was a little rusty at first, but soon caught on when Darling Husband's grandfather sat down on the dock with me to be my fishing coach. Mostly this involved baiting my line with worms (my plastic question marks, bought at WalMart at the same time as my fishing license, drew mostly disdain from the fish--the worms had them practically fighting to bite my hook) and removing the fish from the line. That, and a lyrical, "there you go!" when he could tell the fish took the bait, laughing as I hauled in my three inch bass and sunfish bigger than my hand, alike. The little ones were thrown back with a little wave from me, and the big ones were put into an underwater net. One of the cousins had asked we do a fish fry.
Being on the Protein Acquisition Committee was a big deal for me. I was providing a meal! It's like growing your own tomatoes for sauce, but much faster.
Incidentally, the "Protein Acquisition Committee" actually comes from a scene in a book I read, which can be paraphrased as follows: A group is stuck on a desert island. One man turns to the group and says, "Right. Ned, you look for wood for a fire. Gene, you see if you can find fresh water. Linda, you try to make a shelter for us. Natalie, look for any edible plants." "But what will you do," one of them asks. "Me? I'm the Protein Acquisition Committee." Pause. "You're going to go fishing, aren't you?"
Right off the bat, I caught the biggest fish of the keep. I was very proud. That, combined with the fact that I caught 7 fish with the same worm, earned me the title of captain or queen of the P.A.C.
I was very glad I didn't have to dispatch and fillet said protein. I would have done it, and I even read up on the most humane way (including studying anatomy charts to be sure to hit the fish just right in the brain). But it turns out that Darling Husband's grandfather had brought his filleting equipment and board, and was just as happy to do it. We beer battered the (admittedly tiny) fillets and had them for lunch (with burgers, because there wasn't enough to feed 10 hungry people). They were delicious.
When I imagine my grandfather fishing, I picture him standing on the dock in his dark blue trousers and light blue, short sleeve, button down shirt. He's slowly reeling in his line, and the cigarette hanging from his lips has a long ash trail like an elephant's tiny tusk. My Pappy was not a talkative man, but his stories were legendary in my mind. As we fished, I don't remember much of the conversation, or even if there was much, but I do know he gave me lots of tips, He told me about when to jerk the rod to set the hook, how to keep the tip down when reeling in, how to keep the tension on the line when reeling in the fish, and a hundred other things I've now forgotten. I used fluorescent yellow plastic lures, shaped sort of like a question mark, and caught mainly blue gills. Or, rather, caught mostly nothing, but missed lots of nibbles. (One time the fish actually ripped my plastic lure--Pappy laughed and laughed!)
Learning to cast was the hard part. I spent hours in the yard just off the back porch, next to the garden where my grandmother grew cucumbers with very dark, thick skin and white thorns that looked like grains of salt. Depress the button with your thumb and hold it. Bring the rod back over your shoulder. Flick the rod forward, letting go with your thumb at just the right moment so that the lure flies through the air, playing out the line behind it like a speed-demon spider. Try not to hook the tree or your own ear. Try not to let your thumb slip off too soon and have the lure plunk to the ground prematurely.
My grandfather passed away when I was a freshman in highschool. I haven't been fishing in more than 15 years, but the muscle memory was there for me this weekend, fishing with family at a cabin on one of the NY finger lakes. I was a little rusty at first, but soon caught on when Darling Husband's grandfather sat down on the dock with me to be my fishing coach. Mostly this involved baiting my line with worms (my plastic question marks, bought at WalMart at the same time as my fishing license, drew mostly disdain from the fish--the worms had them practically fighting to bite my hook) and removing the fish from the line. That, and a lyrical, "there you go!" when he could tell the fish took the bait, laughing as I hauled in my three inch bass and sunfish bigger than my hand, alike. The little ones were thrown back with a little wave from me, and the big ones were put into an underwater net. One of the cousins had asked we do a fish fry.
Being on the Protein Acquisition Committee was a big deal for me. I was providing a meal! It's like growing your own tomatoes for sauce, but much faster.
Incidentally, the "Protein Acquisition Committee" actually comes from a scene in a book I read, which can be paraphrased as follows: A group is stuck on a desert island. One man turns to the group and says, "Right. Ned, you look for wood for a fire. Gene, you see if you can find fresh water. Linda, you try to make a shelter for us. Natalie, look for any edible plants." "But what will you do," one of them asks. "Me? I'm the Protein Acquisition Committee." Pause. "You're going to go fishing, aren't you?"
Right off the bat, I caught the biggest fish of the keep. I was very proud. That, combined with the fact that I caught 7 fish with the same worm, earned me the title of captain or queen of the P.A.C.
I was very glad I didn't have to dispatch and fillet said protein. I would have done it, and I even read up on the most humane way (including studying anatomy charts to be sure to hit the fish just right in the brain). But it turns out that Darling Husband's grandfather had brought his filleting equipment and board, and was just as happy to do it. We beer battered the (admittedly tiny) fillets and had them for lunch (with burgers, because there wasn't enough to feed 10 hungry people). They were delicious.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Hot dip
There's something wildly decadent about picnic or pot luck hot dips. You'd never make them just for yourself, to nibble of an afternoon or for dinner. Yet they're irresistible in the right setting. Below is a list of the hot dips I had available to me today:
Chicken wing dip
Pizza dip
Taco dip
Salsa Sausage Queso
I personally make a mean reuben dip, which is practically guaranteed to turn even reuben-haters into fans. I'll post approximate recipes soon, but for now, I have a happy, full tummy and need to sleep off all this cheese...
Chicken wing dip
Pizza dip
Taco dip
Salsa Sausage Queso
I personally make a mean reuben dip, which is practically guaranteed to turn even reuben-haters into fans. I'll post approximate recipes soon, but for now, I have a happy, full tummy and need to sleep off all this cheese...
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Picnic food, carney food and sunshine
The most sinful thing I can think of just now is deep fried oreos. We first had them at the Three River's Arts Festival a few years ago. The oreos are dipped in batter, sort of like a funnel cake batter or a donut batter, and deep fried. The cookie is softened to a cake-like center, while the creme melts completely and is absorbed into the surroundings. This place dusted the innocuous looking packets of chocolate decadence with powdered sugar. They're hot and chewy and dry all at once, an explosion of comforting flavors.
Darling Husband and I were discussing them the other day, then coincidentally ran into a deep fried oreo vendor at the Erie Festival of the Arts. These ones were not dusted in sugar, and seemed less melty than the previous, but were still scrumptious. What a fun little surprise.
Of course, you always find yummy (if overpriced) food at these festivals. Run by middle aged people seemingly impervious to the volcanic heat of fryers on asphalt in the July sun, (themselves assisted by their giggly teenaged children) these stalls are a tower of flashy canvas signs stretched over metal pipe frames. They often have samples of their wares sitting out for people to see for themselves if this is the stall from which they will buy their sausage in a bun.
Many of these vendors sell sausage and pepper sandwiches, also cheese steaks, chicken on a stick, mountains of fries or fried potato chips, blooming onions, fried rice, funnel cakes, lemonade--what Darling Husband and I affectionately call "carney food." We've recently been seeing more pita/gyro options as well. This year we tried a pita stuffed with trendy mixed salad greens, grilled shrimp, feta cheese, tomatoes, dried cranberries, cucumbers and a creamy yogurt based dressing. Or was it a vidalia onion dressing? Either way, creamy. The whole sandwich was quite refreshing.
Coming up is the Greek Festival, which is my hands-down favorite of the summer. The food is made by all these little old Greek ladies from the church, and is so incredible that I was really concerned last year that I would go into labor and miss it. I made people promise to bring me spanikopita and moussaka to the hospital if that were the case. Fortunately, I was able to go myself (big as a house, hot as anything, being beat up by a scrunched baby girl and beset by contractions, but loving it).
Summer food, though, is such a thrill for me. Maybe it's the associations with relaxing, long, sunshine filled evenings. Summer is a time of get togethers and friends, of relaxed curfews and bedtimes, of not having to wear a coat or shoes, of going to the beach and the zoo and the park and lots and lots of picnics. I love picnics. I love to eat outside, regardless of the occasion: in a restaurant, on the porch, in a pavilion, whatever. Coffee on a sunny summer morning, taken on the porch. Ahhh, I feel relaxed just thinking these things.
The grill, a summer powerhouse, gives distinctive and wonderful flavor to everything. Almost everything tastes better grilled! Meats, veggies, fruits... we do corn, chicken wings, pizza, even clams. And of course, the ubiquitous classics (oldies but goodies-they stick around for a reason!) the burgers and hot dogs.
This weekend promises picnics galore, as everyone celebrates our country's Independence in different ways. For my part, I adore fireworks. Especially with a tummy full of picnic food.
Darling Husband and I were discussing them the other day, then coincidentally ran into a deep fried oreo vendor at the Erie Festival of the Arts. These ones were not dusted in sugar, and seemed less melty than the previous, but were still scrumptious. What a fun little surprise.
Of course, you always find yummy (if overpriced) food at these festivals. Run by middle aged people seemingly impervious to the volcanic heat of fryers on asphalt in the July sun, (themselves assisted by their giggly teenaged children) these stalls are a tower of flashy canvas signs stretched over metal pipe frames. They often have samples of their wares sitting out for people to see for themselves if this is the stall from which they will buy their sausage in a bun.
Many of these vendors sell sausage and pepper sandwiches, also cheese steaks, chicken on a stick, mountains of fries or fried potato chips, blooming onions, fried rice, funnel cakes, lemonade--what Darling Husband and I affectionately call "carney food." We've recently been seeing more pita/gyro options as well. This year we tried a pita stuffed with trendy mixed salad greens, grilled shrimp, feta cheese, tomatoes, dried cranberries, cucumbers and a creamy yogurt based dressing. Or was it a vidalia onion dressing? Either way, creamy. The whole sandwich was quite refreshing.
Coming up is the Greek Festival, which is my hands-down favorite of the summer. The food is made by all these little old Greek ladies from the church, and is so incredible that I was really concerned last year that I would go into labor and miss it. I made people promise to bring me spanikopita and moussaka to the hospital if that were the case. Fortunately, I was able to go myself (big as a house, hot as anything, being beat up by a scrunched baby girl and beset by contractions, but loving it).
Summer food, though, is such a thrill for me. Maybe it's the associations with relaxing, long, sunshine filled evenings. Summer is a time of get togethers and friends, of relaxed curfews and bedtimes, of not having to wear a coat or shoes, of going to the beach and the zoo and the park and lots and lots of picnics. I love picnics. I love to eat outside, regardless of the occasion: in a restaurant, on the porch, in a pavilion, whatever. Coffee on a sunny summer morning, taken on the porch. Ahhh, I feel relaxed just thinking these things.
The grill, a summer powerhouse, gives distinctive and wonderful flavor to everything. Almost everything tastes better grilled! Meats, veggies, fruits... we do corn, chicken wings, pizza, even clams. And of course, the ubiquitous classics (oldies but goodies-they stick around for a reason!) the burgers and hot dogs.
This weekend promises picnics galore, as everyone celebrates our country's Independence in different ways. For my part, I adore fireworks. Especially with a tummy full of picnic food.
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