Food Flashbacks

Back in the early days of the blog, I used to write occasional posts under the heading "food flashback." They were stories about particular meals or ingredients or other food memories from my pre-blog life.

At the time, I was still pretty new to cooking. I started learning, in earnest, around 2002. I cooked a lot in the three years before starting to blog - but I was really just starting out. I might have had food memories in my past, but I hadn't developed any cooking memories just yet.

Tonight, I was cooking one of my old standbys, sausage and pasta in a sauce of cream, wine and mustard. Even though I only make it in the fall and winter, it's a recipe I know by heart, so I don't have to concentrate so much on what I'm doing. My hands just do it.

Since I wasn't overly focused on a recipe, my mind started to wander, thinking about all the times I've made the dish in the past. It first appeared in the September 2003 issue of Food and Wine - twelve years ago!

I remembered how the first time I made it, right after the issue came out, the sauce seemed weird as I was cooking - broken - and when I mixed it with the pasta, I was worried that it would be boring, or there wouldn't be enough. (But it was.) Cooper and I had just moved in together back then and I was cooking for him and for our friend Sam.

I remembered that right after our friends Steve and Sheila moved to Buffalo, they called me and asked for the recipe. They'd been the kind of friends we saw four times a week, eating so many meals together around the oval table in the open kitchen of our old house, which Cooper bought before we were dating, and where he lived, before we moved in together, with Sam and Steve's brother Bryan.

I remembered the year that I made it one too many times, and we were so sick of it by March (which is usually when I retire the recipe).

At dinner tonight, Dixon mentioned that we hadn't had the pasta in a while; we explained that I only make it seasonally.

I liked,though, that he remembers it. It means that we're still making those memories. With pasta, and with so many other good things to eat.

Flashback: Oysters in Paris

oysters
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

Cooper and I are going to Paris for a few days next month - it'll be his first visit to the city. I can't wait, of course. I've been thinking a lot lately about the last time I went to Paris, which was almost nine years ago and right around the same time I started this blog. I was with Cooper's sister, Missy, and his cousins Sarah (aka Sarah G.) and Gilly.

It was hilarious and ridiculous and so fun. Our last night there, we had a totally gluttonous meal that started with a ginormous seafood tower.

I'd eaten a lot of oysters before that night and I've eaten a lot since. But that's still one of my most memorable seafood experiences. This is what I wrote about it at the time:

Our last meal in Paris was a big one - we wanted to eat absolutely everything we hadn't yet had, and we almost did. Unfortunately, none of us ate any onion soup while there, but that was just about the only thing we missed.

Our meal started with some of the more exciting food we ate: fines de claires (oysters) with crevettes roses (shrimp) and bulots (what we think are periwinkles). The oysters were served with a delicious vinegar and shallot sauce that perfectly balances the salt and sweetness of the oysters. And the bulots, tiny snail-like creatures in little shells, were served with a homemade mayonnaise (that I tried and liked - convincing me that I do like mayonnaise, just not the store-bought type).

When the seafood was brought to our table, we were all more than a little overwhelmed - it came on large platters that made it look like a meal for forty. Somehow, though, our American appetites got us through it. After the first course, we had escargots, steak au poivre with potatoes dauphinoise, and a firm white fish. And dessert, too.

And ate nearly every bite of it.

So the next morning, as we ate our final croissants at the airport (fresh and delicious, despite the fact that we were at the airport) we all felt as though we'd done our stomachs justice in Paris. And though I did crave American food on the flight home...four days later I'm now ready to go back.

Flashback Tuesday: Duck 2013

I'm calling it. I'm giving up on"Vintage Tuesday." I'll keep posting on Tuesdays (or Wednesdays, it seems) and maybe some of those posts will be "vintage"...but I'm trying to be realistic here. A whole year of vintage posts just isn't happening. Even though I have at least a year's worth of vintage stuff in my house.

This week, instead, I've finally pulled together a short post about our trip to Duck last summer. Yes, it does feel cruel to think about the beach - and it was such a hot year at the beach, too - when we're about to get slammed with another snowstorm. But that's just human nature.

So, here it is - our beach week:

Links: Fat Canary, pork and chorizo burgers, Sunset Grille, Stack 'Em High Pancakes, Duck Donuts.

Restaurant Memories

Richard Gorelick's recent "where are they now" piece about old timey Baltimore restaurants sent me down a memory lane of my own. I've been to a handful of restaurants on the list, but the only one I went to as a child was Haussner's. Mmmmm....strawberry pie.

For the most part, when I was a kid, we ate in Annapolis. I grew up in a family of restaurant loyalists. In the seventies, my parents and grandparents frequented Auberge de France. They had a special relationship with one waiter - Robert - who used to comment on Elizabeth Large's erstwhile blog (I wrote about it here).

Auberge was closed by the time I would've been invited to dinner there, but we had another - more kid-friendly - option for dinner: Busch's Chesapeake Inn.

Busch's was a big building, full of fish tanks and many rooms, on the eastbound side of route 50 just outside Annapolis. The lobby felt more like a hotel than a restaurant, with a big stone fireplace, loungey seating and a long counter instead of a hostess stand.

My grandparents ate there at least once a week - they had an account, back when you could do that. They talked about their regular waitress, Marie, like she was a part of the family. The restaurant was the site of more than one story that's made it into our family lore - like "that time Betty drank so much she went face-down in the mashed potatoes" (Betty was a great-aunt I never met; my dad and grandad had to carry her out and neither one was pleased about it. My dad still hasn't gotten over it - it's probably been forty years).

For kids, Busch's offered a special treat: draw a picture of an animal (any animal) on your menu and at the end of the meal, you'd get to reach into the treasure chest behind the lobby counter, and pull out a small drawstring bag packed full of candy - one Mary Jane (my all-time favorite), one Bit o'Honey, one caramel cream, one Goldberg's peanut chew (my mom's favorite) one butterscotch, one hard cinnamon candy and one piece of Bazooka Joe bubblegum. I might be missing a few brands, but you get the idea.

Busch's was known for its seafood, but as a kid, my standing order was the child's prime rib. Who else has prime rib on the kids' menu? I barely remember the crab cakes, but I have a lasting taste memory of the apple butter and port wine cheese, both of which were served with Club crackers as an appetizer.

By the time the restaurant closed, in 1999, I hadn't been there for a year or two. But wow would I love to go back there just for one day. One more kids' prime rib. One more cracker with apple butter. And - of course - one more Mary Jane.

Five Years Ago Today

I was leaving here:

And heading here:

From two nights in Nazare (and one big Portugal win over England, watched on a big screen in the town square), to one night in a beautiful pousada in Sintra.

In Nazare, we ate tons and tons of seafood, including an amazing seafood stew in a creamy, spicy tomato broth. In Sintra, before heading to a saint's festival that showcased the cheesiest rapper and outfits and carnival prizes (giant gold pirate ship? Yes, please!) available in Portugal, we found a quiet restaurant just outside the village where I had lamb in a ridiculously rich sauce. One of my favorite things about Portugal was the mix of cuisine. While it's not exactly heaven for vegetarians, the Portuguese are experts with both the seafood and all different types of meat (especially pig).

Makes me wish it was standard procedure to take a honeymoon every year.

Old School Thursday: Brave New World Edition

For a day officially dedicated to tradition and history – it’s National Chocolate Chip Day and the saint’s day for St. Isidore the Farmer, patron of agricultural workers, livestock and ranchers – today certainly is all about the Bright Modern Future.

It started in 1923, when Listerine was registered as a trademark, freshening breath and causing winces everywhere. Just a few years later, in 1930, United Airlines employed the first flight attendant, who served a meal (that was no doubt delicious) of chicken, fruit salad and rolls on a flight from San Francisco to Cheyenne, Wyoming (now that’s a leg known for it’s innovation). Precursor to the Jetsons, obviously.

Things got a little less sweet in 1989, when Hershey reduced the size of the Hershey bar, but didn’t cut the cost. Funny, 1989 is the summer I spent eating Hershey bars with abandon, mostly because I could savor them.

Today in 1991, shiny, futuristic Tokyo was infused with a bit of history, even as it was officially accepted as a culinary powerhouse: a branch of L’Ecole de Cordon Bleu opened there today.

And finally, in what was not so much a boon for the future as it was a blow to history, today marks the one year anniversary of the death of culinary historian Karen Hess, who wrote books celebrating the rich culinary tradition of America, like The Taste of America and Carolina Rice Kitchen: The African Connection.

Food & Memory

This is only tangentially about food (food is mentioned in the article, but it's not its focus), but it's so totally fascinating to me that I can't keep myself from blogging about it.

Neuroscientists are exploring a small group of (otherwise) regular people who have supercharged memories (via Ken Jennings). They're able to recall events - both personal and public - by date, from throughout their lives. Ask them when a particular thing happened, and they can give you the date. Ask them what happened on a specific date, and they'll tell you what was in the news that day, or what they did during the afternoon, or what they had for lunch (that's the food connection).

So far, there are only two confirmed cases of hyperthymesia (that's what it's called) - a woman who's somewhat tortured by the condition (and who has a book coming out next month) and a mild-mannered man. There are fifty or so more subjects under study as potential cases.

The hypothesis is that these people's brains simply work in a different way from you and me, though that specific difference has yet to be pinpointed. However, they generally share some characteristics: They're left-handed, or show left-handed tendencies and they collect (horde?)things like TV Guides.

I have a good memory, especially for dates that are relevant to me, and I always chalked that up to the obsessive diary-keeping of my high school years. After reading this, it seems clear to me that my memory is nowhere near as fantastic as I fancy it. And also, that's fine. It's bad enough that I remember some of my more embarassing moments from eighth and ninth grade. I don't think I need them all.

But the food. Wouldn't it be cool to remember every single meal? Think of the perspective you'd have as a diner.

Last Night's Dinner: Er...Grilled Cheese Brunch (and a little bit of a food flashback)

About a year and a half ago, our friend Alicia suggested that a bunch of us have a once a month standing date for brunch. She volunteered to host it (though everybody would contribute something) and we decided on the last Sunday of each month.

Fast-forward a year and a half, and while our record has been a little spotty (we jettison the summer and holiday months - we're all just too busy), we're all still in love with the idea. From the very first brunch, when we got happily snowed in with our breakfast foods and mimosas, the brunch tradition has been marked with a certain kind of carefree Sunday-ness. The kind that you really only feel in college.

This spring, with a feisty (and gigantic) great dane puppy taking up residence at Mike and Alicia's, we decided to move the brunch to our house (anything to take advantage of the new kitchen). Yesterday was our inaugural event.

As a group, we decided to reprise a favorite theme from last year: the grilled cheese party. Originally inspired by an old issue of Domino, the party is just about the simplest thing ever. It's so easy for a host. We set out plates of meats and cheeses, a variety of breads, and some other random ingredients and accoutrements, like honey and mustard and apple slices and basil. With our grill pan and Jen and Bill's panini maker fired up, everybody's responsible for cooking their own. It's fun and is there anything better than melted cheese?

We have a handful of accompanying dishes, too - pastries and salad and fruit. Plus, yesterday I made a chunky tomato soup with a bit of basil puree to drizzle on top. Cooper, of course, complained that "tomato soup should be creamy" but I thought it was pretty delicious, even if it did involve blanching and peeling 15 roma tomatoes (and grilling and peeling numerous red peppers).

The recipe was courtesy of Jamie Oliver, one of his simple-and-good meals from The Naked Chef. It's his first book, and it was the very first cookbook I ever bought, purchased on my way home from work one night when Cooper and I had just started dating. After years and years of dining strictly on pretzels and guac or carryout sushi, my domestic side revealed itself. Next thing I knew, I was writing a food blog and rolling my eyes at storebought salad dressing. How far I've come.

Also a sign of how far I've come? When I went in search of a good tomato soup recipe, I opened Jamie's book to find a handwritten recipe for sauteed chicken with basil, red onion and sundried tomato. Really simple recipe, waaaay too many strong flavors. It was the first meal I ever made for Cooper.

I'd made a huge deal out of learning to cook and cooking for him. In preparation for my big night at the stove, I spent a week at work scouring the internet for a recipe I thought I could handle. For whatever reason, I thought that this assault on the taste buds sounded good. Then I took a day off work just to do the shopping and chopping. And it took me all day.

Then, when the time finally came to show off my stuff, I choked. Cooper ended up actually cooking the chicken. It's a story he loves to tell.

Anyway. I've come a long way, and the little trip down memory lane made me smile. But I'm digressing. The point of all of this is: grilled cheese brunch. Great party. Have one.

Perfect for Football Sundays: Brunswick Stew

I just got my weekly Epicurious recipe flash email and it was topped by the most season-appropriate recipe I can imagine: Brunswick stew.

Now, personally, I actually can't stand Brunswick stew. I'm not sure what it is about the flavor combination, but I've just never liked it much. But I still think it's absolutely perfect for a chilly late January football-laden Sunday.

My dad and brother are both huge Redskins fans, so growing up, every single fall and winter Sunday was devoted to the game. Watching my dad watch (and listen, since he turns the sound off the TV and listens to the announcers over an ancient shower radio) a football game today is pretty much exactly like it was to spy on him during football season in, say, 1983. The only real difference is the color of his hair. He's a slave to his sportsy rituals.

While the menfolk testosterone it up in the living room, my mom hangs out in the kitchen, slowcooking something on the stove. The primary requirements for Sunday football dinner are that a) it's easy to eat whenever you get hungry (and in front of the TV); b) it fills up the house with a distinctly cozy winter smell; and c) it goes with biscuits. Which, in turn, go with butter and blackberry jam (preferably with seeds and, back in the day, preferably homemade by my paternal grandparents). Brunswick stew is in heavy Sunday rotation.

And by the way, my mom makes it with chicken, not the more traditional Brunswicky meat. That's right. Squirrel.

So while I don't really like the taste of Brunswick stew, I absolutely love the idea. Good choice, Epicurious. Good choice.

Food Flashback: Enduring Chocolate

I've been pregnant now for almost five months and I've experienced only one real craving (my excruciating desire to drink four glasses of red wine in one sitting doesn't count). Just after Valentine's Day, I developed an intense and constant need for chocolate. After a week or so (and two really big heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stovers - purchased at a convenient post-V Day 75% off), the craving subsided.

Until 15 minutes ago. All of a sudden, I wanted something chocolate with the sort of desperation I usually reserve for water or Diet Coke. That's when I remembered: we had two candy bars hidden in the dark recesses of our refrigerator. They were favors given after a friend's baby's baptism last October. But candy bars don't go bad in the refrigerator, right?

(The answer is: no, they don't. At least not these candy bars.)

But this post is not about the slightly gross fact that I just downed an eight month old Hershey bar. It's about what happened as soon as I opened the wrapper on the chocolate: pure regression. A food flashback in its purest form.

The summer after I was in eighth grade, my family took a very, very long vacation together. My mother, father, 11-year old brother, 5-year old sister and I flew from Maryland to Denver, where we rented an RV and spent the next three weeks driving all over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana (just for a night), Utah, Arizona and New Mexico. We saw countless natural wonders, watched Lane Frost perform in a rodeo in Cody, WY less than a month before he died, stayed in a crappy cabin at a nice resort in Jackson Hole, and ate enormous amounts of red meat.

I hated it. Every single second. I was thirteen and miserable and I'm not particularly outdoorsy anyway. I'm sure if I went on the exact same trip today, I'd have a much better time. Unfortunately for me, thirteen is not the greatest age to spend 21 days in a 30-foot space with your entire family. Or to have those days captured on film. The pictures of the trip that actually include me are...less than stellar (including the two my father had blown up to poster size). At least my sister looked cute in them, I guess.

Naturally, I made my displeasure known. Probably the only thing worse than being a 13-year-old on a big family trip is being the family of an ungrateful, miserable 13-year-old on that trip. The only time I didn't spend openly sulking was the time I spent reading...and eating candy bars.

For whatever reason, we ate a ton of candy bars on that trip. Everyplace we stopped, we'd each get one and I always, without fail, chose a Hershey bar. I'd very carefully unwrap the candy and neatly fold the wrapper into a little square (I unwrap presents like this, too - it drives my family crazy). Then I would methodically break the bar into its little rectangles, each of which I let slowly dissolve in my mouth at its own pace. It must have taken me 30 minutes to eat those few ounces of chocolate. Thirty minutes during which I pretended I was not in an RV with my family.

Today, I wasn't nearly so patient, but as I unwrapped the candy, something innate in me took over, and I broke the bar into its pieces without even thinking. Until that moment, I'd completely forgotten I'd even eaten Hershey bars almost every day for three straight weeks.

Somehow, the taste even felt like a reminder of a good memory. And it only took 17 years to get there.

Reclaiming My Heart & Mind & Stomach

As of last month, Food & Wine columnist Pete Wells wasn't exactly the darling of the food blogging world. His article on food blogs was, well, controversial at best. In my estimation, it wasn't the worst article ever, but it fell pretty far short of being truly good.

But big believer in redemption that I am, when the April F&W arrived last week, I turned immediately to Wells' "Always Hungry" column. This month, Wells delves into the world of wine and food tasting research, something that’s been of interest to me lately, too. He does a great job (as far as I can tell) describing the recent UC Davis study and reports on the findings with much less prejudice than the science press did. Maybe he's just more sensitive to the foodie side of the argument than science reporters are. At any rate, his brief study summary is solid and easy to grasp:

“If you’re worried about finding the bottle that will best complement the
raw-milk Pecorino you’re serving tomorrow night, the answer provided by sensory
science is: Stop fretting. They’re all equally good. Or, if you tend to look at
the dark side, equally bad.”

Perfect.

But pithiness is not what drew Wells back into my imaginary inner circle of food writers. No, what did it was his recounting a story told by Hildegard Heymann, the professor who runs the sensory science lab at UC Davis. She is responsible for the study that has so crisply determined that the relationship between food and wine is not necessarily mutually enhancing. But she’s no slave to science.

She tells a story of a fabulous Napa Valley Easter lunch she attended back in the 1980s. Famous and amazing wines served throughout…until dessert. With the final course, the hostess unapologetically served a $7 Gallo imitation Asti Spumante. Heymann describes the wine, saying, “It’s terrible, it’s sickeningly sweet, it has fake bubbles.” She loves it. It’s her favorite wine.

And this is where Pete Wells makes me melt. He showcases this story and closes his article with a handful of sentences that so accurately sum up everything I believe about the relationship between food and emotion:

“You could say that thinking plays an integral part in drinking. You’re not born
loving or hating Riesling – you have to learn. And learned flavors often drag a
bundle of emotional or intellectual associations along behind them.”

It’s very Clockwork Orange, and it’s part of what makes food and wine such a fascinating subject for me. I’ve long believed that the study of food is really the study of cultures (and individuals). And isn’t the study of modern culture largely an exploration of how science (intellectualism) and emotion crash into one another?

Wells concludes his article with an incredibly exciting prospect:

“Yes, we pay attention to the reports being fired off from our tongues and our
noses when we eat. But as that news bolts through the brain, it meets up with
our memories, our beliefs, our ideas. Sensory science can teach us a lot about
what happens in our mouths. But if Heymann’s theories about food and wine
pairing turn out to be right, they will reveal something just as interesting:
Science will show us where our mouths stop and our minds take over.”

And I am enthralled.

Food Flashback: Edinburgh, Scotland

(this post could also be called “The Most Scottish 24 Hours Ever”)

My first trip to Europe was of the whirlwind variety: four countries in sixteen days, nonstop sightseeing, drinking and eating, very little sleep. It wasn’t, however, your standard backpack-stuffed-with-dirty-clothes, hostel-sleeping, hungover, post-college affair.

In May 2001, I was 25 years old, nearing the end of an excruciatingly long career as a part-time MBA candidate (had to hone my love for spreadsheets somewhere). I’d suffered through countless finance and accounting classes, mind-numbing group projects, and more eating in the car while driving to class than anyone should ever have to face. Finally, I was about to graduate.

All those hours of commuting and reading and group work were about to pay off. Even before graduation, actually. I was going to Europe.

Every year, the Loyola part-time MBA program offers this amazing class: a sixteen day trip to Europe - three or four cities – visiting companies (and bars) in each. And, for this, we each received three credits. Amazing.

In 2001, the Study Tour cavalry was 25-strong: 22 students, a tour coordinator (also a professor), our professor and his wife. We tore our way through Europe, randomly meeting Bill Clinton in Stockholm, joining protests (and meeting Elle MacPherson, who was so gorgeous she glowed) in London, and celebrating the 35th anniversary of our professor and his wife in Paris.

And, finally, after countless hours in bars and cafes – and a few office buildings – and an extra-long delay at Charles de Gaulle, we limped, exhausted, hungover, and wearing dirty, Febrezed business suits, into the last few days of our trip, and into the Most Scottish 24 Hours Ever. We were in Edinburgh.

When we finally arrived in Scotland, sometime in the mid-afternoon, we were herded onto a tour bus – a routine that was so familiar to us by that point, we could have done it in our sleep. Before depositing us at our hotel, we were taken on a “cultural tour” of the city. We drove around the lovely old streets for a bit, dozing as our guide explained the historical significance of various buildings. The tour ended with a trip to the Edinburgh Castle, a well preserved monument to the days of William Wallace. We spent an hour or so wandering around, peeking in various rooms, admiring the view of the city and, of course, having our photos taken with the guards:


edinburgh castle
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

(Don’t I look showered? And well-rested? The night before, our last night in Paris, was the stuff legends are made of.)

And so began our total immersion in all things Scottish. Several hours later, after refreshing naps and much-needed showers, a core group of us congregated in the hotel lobby to get back out and explore the city. Exploration didn’t last long…before we even left the hotel, the concierge stopped us in our tracks with an announcement: there was a rugby game that evening.

Two taxis and an unfortunately long walk later, we found ourselves at Murrayfield, a large stadium that’s home to the Scotland national rugby team. Today, Scotland would be playing the Barbarians, a team made up of great rugby players from all over the world. The stars were mostly from New Zealand.


rugby ticket
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

We were surprised (and, good travelers that we were, disappointed) to learn that Murrayfield allowed no drinking outside of the beer garden, dashing our hopes to become drunk and unruly rugby hooligans, and to drink away our 13-day hangovers. Somehow, we muddled through, our attention held by the rough game and need for total concentration. As was expected, the Barbarians trounced Scotland, but it was a fun time, nonetheless.


rugby match
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

And could not have been more Scottish.

An hour later, we reconvened at the Three Sisters for a post-game pint or two (and, I believe, some snacks. I realize I’ve mentioned absolutely no food so far in this post.) We chose the bar on the recommendation of a friendly waiter at O’Sullivans in Paris. Patrick was a Scot, and had nothing but good things to say about his homeland. “A group like you,” he said, “is really going to enjoy Edinburgh.”

Naturally, he was right, and his recommendation of the Three Sisters was spot on. A big, rowdy, quintessentially Scottish pub, the Three Sisters is home to some of the friendlier people we met on the trip. We sat outside at big picnic tables until it got dark and chilly, when we moved inside to continue our revelry. All night long, other patrons, native Edinburghers, introduced themselves to us, making friends right away.

In fact, that’s how it was the entire time we spent in Scotland. In sharp contrast to the obnoxious cosmopolitan Londoners and the supremely difficult Parisians, the people we met in Edinburgh could not have been nicer. (To be fair, all of the Australians we met in London and everybody in Stockholm was super nice, as well.)

Around 11 pm, we had to call it a night: we had a big day starting early in the morning – the second half of The Most Scottish 24 Hours Ever.

After an early wake-up call followed by frantic primping and a hotel breakfast, we once again piled onto our trusty tour bus, this time, to take us to our first company visit of the day: McCann Erickson Scotland.

The next three hours, we snacked on pastries (yum) as we laughed our asses off learning about McCann’s research programs from the two amazingly charming, knowledgeable leaders of the Scotland office. We also learned where the SNL skit “If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap” was born. Our hosts were intentionally hilarious in their nationalistic cockiness – and they were serious, too.

By the time we broke for lunch, we were mostly too broken down to go very far – exhausted from laughing, and from the night before, and from all the nights before that. Three friends and I made our way down towards the water, where we found a pub where we could eat. We sunk into the hard wooden benches, Dido coming from the speakers and nearly putting us to sleep. Then we opened our menus.

This would be our first real meal in Scotland – and we were determined to do it up right. No chicken fingers or hamburgers for us (not to mention that these were the Mad Cow days): we wanted haggis.

Yes, haggis, that great Scottish classic that Robert Burns so memorably called the “Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race.” That mysterious combination of sheep’s stomach and pig’s parts that has the Scottish waxing poetic while the rest of the world nervously tries to calm their gag reflexes. Fabulous, famous haggis.

We ordered our haggis with tatties, the vaguely dirty sounding Scottish name for potatoes, though without tatties’ usual accompaniment, the also dirty-sounding nips (turnips).

And…it was delicious. At least, I thought so. Then again, I’m a big fan of scrapple, which is certainly a cousin of haggis’. The taste of haggis, salty and rich and meaty, takes a page right out of scrapple’s book. I loved it. Vastly outperforms all other members of the puddin’-race, as far as I’m concerned.

We topped our traditional meal off with a little dessert of warm sticky toffee pud which, as the name implies, is warm and sticky and toffee-like, but in pudding form (I suppose this is yet another member of the puddin’-race). Then we sat and stared at each other, eyes glazed over, still listening to Dido, for the twenty minutes we had left until our next company visit.

Our next company visit – the last company we’d visit on our trip. Our final school-related task, and the close to The Most Scottish 24 Hours Ever: The Scotch Malt Whiskey Society.

If you ever get the chance to visit Edinburgh, do everything you can to try to visit the Society (they also have clubs around the world, so you might be able to score a visit in your hometown.) The building was vintage Scotland: dark woods, leather armchairs, the smell of pipes. Our guide, a round, middle-aged lady with a sweet lilting voice and the sunniest disposition ever, walked us through not only the marketing and business organization of the club (as was her MBA-driven task), she also gave us a less on how Scotch is made, how to buy Scotch (only single malts will do), and how to distinguish one from another by taste.

We left that day, after having tasted four of Scotland’s best whiskeys, a little bit toastier inside and a lot more knowledgeable. The booklet she gave us, called “What do you nose?” outlined the five stages of tasting Scotch Whiskey, which are not unlike the steps involved in tasting wine. At the time, the whiskey was too strong for me, and still today, I can only take a few sips of Scotch before I’ve had too much. But still, those two hours were quintessentially Scottish, and couldn’t have been more enjoyable.

And so ended the most Scottish 24 Hours Ever. Over the next two days, we scrambled to do as much as we could in our final hours together in Europe, hiking for better views of the Firth of Forth (not me), lounging in parks (me), shopping (also me) and, of course, eating and drinking.

Once on the plane back to the US, I could finally relax, and hope that I’d be back again. Because, after all, if it’s not Scottish, it’s crap.

Food Flashback: Nazare, Portugal

salt cod
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

(Warning: this is a super long post. It's also first in what I think will be a series of posts about great meals I've had.)

We had a hard time deciding where to go on our honeymoon. The night Cooper put the ring on my finger, we started planning, trying to narrow down our choices. The world is a big place and we both love to travel, though our travel styles are vastly different. Cooper would be happy with a backpack and hostels. I hate to think of myself as high maintenance, but I appreciate the benefits of a private room and bathroom.

We could agree, though, that we should try to go somewhere neither of us had ever been – that eliminated tons of cool places like Spain, Costa Rica and Australia and New Zealand. A friend’s wedding – this one in Wisconsin – two weeks after ours gave us a time limit. We didn’t want to spend too much of that time on a plane – that eliminated Thailand and anyplace in its immediate vicinity. And we didn’t want to go to an island. Most of our friends spent their honeymoons in the Caribbean. Every one of them had a great time. But it just wasn’t right for us.

About six months before the wedding, we were down to the wire. We needed to settle on a place so we could start making our “real” plans. Plane tickets and hotel rooms. Our indecision was starting to leave us frantic – neither one of us wanted to end up celebrating our marriage with nothing more than a long weekend somewhere close. Just as we were heading to a sad honeymoon by default, I happened to read an article in Food & Wine about African restaurants in Lisbon.

Thumbing through the magazine one night, with one eye on the TV and without really reading, photos of Lisbon and the Portuguese beach caught my eye. “What about Portugal?” I asked Cooper, sort of nonchalantly (at this point, every potential spot was considered nonchalantly – after deciding against ¾ of the world, neither one of us wanted to get too attached to any particular place, in case the other vetoed it.)

Just as laid back, Cooper considered the idea for all of three seconds then nodded his head. “Portugal sounds good.” So Portugal it was. We kicked into high planning gear.

We’d fly in and out of Lisbon, but travel during our time in the country. We thought we’d find a hotel in Porto for the first few days of our trip and a place in Lisbon for the last few days, but leave the days in between open, booking a rental car for the three days in between cities. This was a great compromise. I’m all about the itinerary – the more lists, the happier I am. And Cooper is exactly the opposite. He’d be happy sleeping on park benches if we needed to.

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That’s how we found ourselves, four days into our honeymoon, driving tiny, windy roads around a mountain, into the beach and fishing village of Nazare. Right on the Atlantic, Nazare is a tiny town full of black-clad widows, boards of salting cod and, at times, pilgrims walking on their knees to the shrine to the Virgin Mary housed on the jagged cliff that looms over the town. When we arrived, at the end of June, the weather was sunny and perfect, but tourist season hadn’t yet blasted into high gear. The town was nearly empty, and absolutely perfect.

As it happened, our honeymoon coincided with the Euro 2004, a Europe-wide soccer (sorry, football) tournament taking place in Porto and Lisbon. The big cities were packed with uber-nationalistic soccer hooligans, all of whom we found very friendly and as highly, um, spirited as advertised.


swedes and danes in porto
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

Nazare boasted its faire share of soccer tourists, too, all dressed in their team colors, but without the face paint and crazy headwear that was de rigeur in Porto. The town was full of Danes and Dutch, but all were relatively calm, as their teams weren’t playing the night we arrived. No, the night we arrived, the big game was between Portugal and England.

I don’t think there’s any American equivalent to the brand of pure, almost sweet nationalistic passion the Euro 2004 inspires. As soon as we set foot in this tiny town, normally a laid-back beach resort, we could feel the energy bubbling. Upon arrival, we checked into the Hotel Mare, a nice, but inexpensive, hotel on the main square. From our balcony, we could see both the beach and the big screen on which the entire town and its tourists would watch that evening’s game.


view from hotel mare
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

We made quick work of exploring Nazare, napping on the beach (with my orange bathing suit, I’m sure everyone thought I was Dutch), then walking around the little square and up and down the main strip, which ran from cliff to cliff along the beach.


cliff in nazare
Originally uploaded by Kit Pollard.

Around 7, we were starting to get very hungry, having only eaten pastries (delicious though they were) and a small snack all day. Making our way down a little alley, just next to the main square, we happened upon a trio of restaurants.

The restaurateurs were obviously friendly competitors – we watched a woman run from one kitchen to the other, carrying a bag of dry ingredients. Each had a small outside eating area, as well as tables inside, surrounded by charming, old-school Portuguese decor. Lots of blue and white pottery and pretty linens. Everything was perfect, perfect, perfect. Now, all we had to do was decide where to eat.

Possibly our greatest weakness as a couple is in making decisions about where to eat. This time proved especially difficult as all three restaurants looked just about identical. None were very busy – it was early and the game would be on soon, keeping tourists in the square. All smelled great.

Finally, after a bunch of hemming and hawing that probably looked ridiculous, we chose a spot and settled in. Unfortunately, this was before I was in the habit of photographing everything and everyplace I ate, so I don’t have any pictures. But I do have great memories.

We sat outside and, on the recommendation of Paolo, our friend from the hotel, ordered the local dish arroz con maricela for two (the linked recipe might be right-ish). Fortunately, I was wearing a black shirt…though I ended up with a napkin tucked in like a bib anyway. Arroz con maricela is sort of like a paella – it appeared on the table as a huge bowl of rice with small clams, crabs and lobster in a spicy red broth – rich with flavor and exactly what we’d hoped it would be. And so fresh. We even got mallets for the crab (it was just the inside part of the crab where the backfin is – but still with the cartilage). We couldn’t help but think it was a good thing we’re from Maryland, so we knew what to do with the mallets.

We took our time with our dinner, trying to eavesdrop on the Germans at the next table (unsuccessfully, as we don’t speak German) and drinking a good bottle of white wine. We ate for an hour, but ass much as we wanted to finish our dinner, there was no way. There was just too much.

As we ate, the game started and as we watched the TV at the restaurant, we listened to the cheers from the square. As soccer-ignorant as we are, we knew this was a big one: we saw Beckham on the screen. Even I know what Becks means. Over the next hour, the sun went down and the people of Nazare got increasingly excited. Every time Portugal scored (twice total), crazed, flag-waving fans ran through the streets and through our alley. We could hear the crowd in the square roaring, especially as it got later.

When we finished our wine and gave up on our dinner, we ordered coffee and settled in for the rest of the game. A few French teenagers came in behind us and sat down to order. They didn’t seem to care about the game like we did. At this point, it was a nail biter. At the end of the second half, Portugal and England were tied 2-2. That means shootout! It couldn’t get much more exciting.

We finished our coffee and ordered a few beers. It started to rain, so we moved closer to the inside, under an awning, but we weren’t about to leave. The crowd was just as excited in the square – they weren’t upset by the rain at all.

Beckham kicked first in the shootout. This could go either way. Clearly England wants to psyche out the Portuguese players by putting their powerhouse up front. He shoots…

And he chokes – completely. His shot is totally off. Huge psychological victory for the Portuguese – we could hear the whole town shaking with cheers. After Beckham’s blunder (which I’ve since read about in international papers), the shootout ended in a tie and went to sudden death. Which the Portuguese won. To say the crowd went crazy would be an understatement. The cheers must have been audible for miles around.

As soon as the game was over, we paid our tab and hauled ourselves to the square as quickly as our overstuffed bodies would allow. We spent the next few hours drinking Super Bocks and celebrating with the people of Nazare, explaining over and over again that we were American, not English, so we were thrilled by the victory. A Portuguese singer took over the stage in front of the big screen and began to sing songs about Portugal. Somehow, we joined in, though our Portuguese leaves a lot to be desired.

We ended the night on the balcony of our hotel room, drinking a bottle of wine and, somehow, eating more pastries. And watching, just watching, the festivities below. Even the few British tourists we’d met that night couldn’t remain immune to the sheer, unadulterated joy of the people of Nazare.

That night, exhausted, stuffed and tipsy, listening to the cheers below, we talked about buying a place in Nazare. That didn’t materialize, of course, and wouldn’t really be terribly practical (who needs a transatlantic flight to go to the beach?) But if you’d asked me that night, I’d have told you that I could’ve stayed in Nazare, eating seafood and watching football, forever.