David Lebovitz lives a food-lover’s dream in Paris. His site is full of personal stories, incredible recipes, impromptu foodie tours, and insight into the blogging world. His gorgeous photography will make you hungry for brown bread ice cream, salted butter caramels, and strawberries turned into frozen yogurt. And that’s just the beginning. With David you can pick your poison. Want candied bacon ice cream? You’re in luck – he’s posted a recipe for it. Too tame? How about a scoop of absinthe ice cream? With recipes like that, you can imagine that he has a great sense of humor – which, I promise you, he does. As the accomplished author of The Sweet Life in Paris, Ready for Dessert, The Great Book of Chocolate, and more (check out his online store to see all his titles) – I thought you would enjoy hearing his thoughts on food, travel, and cooking. 1. What advice to you have for someone just learning to cook “foreign” food? Get advice from the locals. When I moved to France, I had no …
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I moved to Paris when I was 13, just weeks after my brother died. He was a year and a half older than me. His death was sudden and I was a mess. Paris was not so much a new chapter, as an entirely new book in my life. I wasn’t yet ready for hope, but the distraction of a foreign country proved perfect. When I stepped off the plane I was tired. The air was thick and heavy and the cold stone of the surrounding buildings was grey, grey, grey. My French-speaking aunt greeted me with what else, but a cow’s tongue fresh from the meat market. She sliced it thinly and offered me a piece. “You must be hungry,” she said with a smile. I was taught to be polite and, so, politely, I declined. I blamed jet lag and fatigue but embarrassment took over. I went to bed and slept for 15 hours. Not even two weeks later, at a glamorous wedding, I faced my second food Adventure – the rarest piece of …
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THE SCENE Rather abruptly, Ava threw up. She was in her room, but we could hear her all the way in the kitchen. Keith called out in a panic: “Sash, could you … come here?” I excused myself from our guests, bracing for what I knew would be a gruesome sight. Little did I know… Blueberries. Were. Everywhere. Ava, strangely enough, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. She played with her baby doll while Keith and I scrubbed. Five minutes later I went back to the kitchen and assured Ruby and her husband, Nivantha, that things were totally fine. Of course the weren’t, but I what else was I supposed to say? That’s what hostesses who grab random strangers off the street do! Understandably, Ruby and her husband weren’t quite buying it and, out of politeness (and I’m sure a little self-preservation), they left. Finland was most definitely not to blame. Ava had systematically refused the mustard dill sauce and her cup of blueberry milk. She wouldn’t even look at the rutabaga. The only thing she had …
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Finns greet Easter with a goopy, black as tar dish called mämmi. If that’s not enough to entice you, let me see if I can adequately describe the flavor. It’s been described as a cross between Guinness and shoe paste. Even with such a distinct look and taste, mämmi is a tradition held seriously enough to warrant protection from the European Union. Making mämmi is no joke – first you mix rye flour with bitter orange peel, a hint of sweetener, and a few other ingredients. Boiling water gets mixed in and you slowly bake it in a warm oven. Slowly… as in for three hours. Then it has to be whipped until cool. Then it has to sit for a few days. I think there’s some repetition of steps in there somewhere. Finally, and most commonly, it gets served with a splash of cream and a bit of sugar. Phew. If grandma goes to the trouble to make you a batch of mämmi, you had better eat it with a smile – goup and …
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This past Saturday, while at a baby dance class – in between pretending to be a turtle and an elephant, I met a woman. Her name is Ruby and she’s half Finnish. To be fair, I had no idea she was Finnish and it isn’t why I started talking to her. Of course, once I found out her origins, I immediately took her home to cook with me. Mr Picky was okay with it – as long as he got to eat. While we cooked, Ruby told me lots of neat things about Finland (did you know they are one of the healthiest countries in the world?), but she didn’t tell me that it is home to the world’s largest ice castle. Or about Rudolph. You know, that cute glow-nosed creature from your childhood? Well, head to Finland and you just might meet him – on your plate. This arctic country has made an art out of reindeer stew, served piping hot with a bit of lingonberry jam on the side. Perhaps Ruby didn’t share …
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THE SCENE: I knew it was time but I secretly hoped to fail. “Can I help you?” the fishmonger asked. He was bright eyed and eager. His apron was starched. “I am making ceviche and need a very fresh piece of Mahi-Mahi.” Please, oh please, I thought, scanning the fish case. Please let him say they don’t have any. “We don’t carry sushi-grade fish,” he said, shaking his head. He looked genuinely disappointed. “Oh, ok. Well, thanks anyway” I turned on my heel, giving Ava a little wink. But, before I could step away, another voice called out – “You don’t need sushi-grade fish to make ceviche.” I cautiously looked back over my shoulder. His name tag said Josh. He was a little scruffier than the first guy, maybe a few years older, and he was definitely not wet behind the ears. I turned to face him. He repeated himself “You don’t need sushi-grade fish to make ceviche. You just need really fresh fish.” He picked up a slab of mahi mahi and brought it right up to his nose. …
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Do you ever, in the midst of clipping your fingernails, start wondering about the meaning of life? Do you ever, while tweezing those stray hairs, start wondering “who am I, anyway?” Do you ever, while watching a movie, start thinking about what food your soul might be made up of? The other night we watched “Cold Souls,” an offbeat film about the possibility of removing the soul and freezing it until needed again. The main character (played by Paul Giamatti) extracts his soul only to find out it looks exactly like a chickpea. A chickpea. It made me laugh. Then, rather abruptly, I stopped laughing. “Wait a minute,” I thought “What food might mine be made of?” A flood of possibilities crossed my mind- basically my favorite foods – but none seemed suitable. Basalmic vinegar is too tart and runny, artichokes are too prickly at heart, garlic is too stinky. I simply couldn’t decide. Fiji’s Answer One look at Fiji’s flag and I could tell – they’ve already figured out their answer. But they didn’t …
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“Bula” my dear friends. That’s Fijian for “Hello, live life fully.” And I really mean it. I hope you take risks – get the courage to talk to your cute neighbor, be brave enough to speak up when someone is in need, and spread love with every action. Make an effort to look past the superficial. In the wake of the sunami, which set Fiji on red alert this weekend, Fijians certainly were not worried about what brand shoes they were wearing (if they ever worried about this at all). They were cherishing each moment – each second – with family and loved ones. Yes, wake up each morning and say “Bula.” Your conviction will be contagious. And eat some Fijian food while you’re at it. You’ll be delighted by the variety … Fan-curry-tastic Because she was a former British colony, British-ruled Indians came to Fiji and spread a love for all things curry. My eyes almost fell out when I read that they happen to love curried corned beef (you know, what with St. …
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THE SCENE Popcorn. The final frontier. I traced my fingers along the counter tops, navigating between a giant red bowl and a small plastic bag filled with popcorn kernels. I stopped when I reached the spot the microwave was supposed to be. About this time last year, early one Saturday morning, I had a minor meltdown (in my baby blue bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, no less). I was bleary eyed. My head hurt. All I wanted in the whole, wide world was a giant mug of hot chai tea with milk. I walked into the kitchen and literally couldn’t see the counters for the appliances. Stuff was everywhere. I could almost feel all 3.75 walls of my tiny windowless kitchen closing in on me. I started crying. All thoughts of tea forgotten, I hastily unplugged the microwave, my bread machine, and coffee maker. I began taking them, one by one, to the curb. (If I know how to do anything, it is how to be impulsive and overtaken by emotion.) Mr Picky stumbled into the …
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If one must eat meat raw it is surely best done in this way, for the sauce gives the impression of being hot enough to cook the meat right on the tongue. – Laurens Van Der Post (as quoted in Ethiopia, Cultures of the World by Steven Gish, Winnie Thai, and Zawiah Latif) Van Der Post is talking about an Ethiopian raw beef dish called kitfo (kit-foh). The sauce is made almost entirely of berberé – the crazy, smoke alarm hot spice blend we made recently – as well as lemon juice and a buttery-good mixture of sautéed peppers, onions, ginger, garlic, and cardamom. And, of course, raw beef. Now, for the moment of truth… would you eat it? Why or why not? Photo: Diádoco
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Coffee is said to have originated in Ethiopia. Today Ethiopian coffee ceremonies are common after large meals, even at restaurants. Women will roast beans in front of the guests. Then she’ll grind the beans, perfuming the room, and brew them in a clay coffee pot, or jebena. The coffee is served in small cups called si’ni. Diners have their choice of salt or sugar. Traditionally, every guest is offered 3 cupfuls- the same grounds being brewed each time, making each consecutive cup weaker. My Rendition At best, I was ill-prepared to perform an Ethiopian coffee ceremony. #1, I live in Tulsa, Oklahoma. #2, I lack every single piece of traditional Ethiopian coffee-making equipment there could possibly be. In fact, the only proper element I have is a bag of green coffee beans. Tilda’s parents brought them all the way over from Ethiopia, known as the birthplace of coffee. At least the coffee was right. I got to work, putting my college nickname “MacGyver” to good use. What follows are the results of a free-spirited, improvisational coffee …
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One of Miss Ava’s friends, Tilda, is from Ethiopia. While she’s not exactly talking yet (she turned one in December), her parents are talking and everything they’ve said about Ethiopia makes me hungry. They adopted Tilda last year and spent some time in the country getting to know the culture and, of course, the food. Here’s the summary: if you’re into spices, you’re in luck. They brought back bags of berberé seasoning – so much, in fact, that they didn’t think twice about giving me an entire cup of their precious stash. Almost everything is spiced with berberé seasoning [Recipe], especially the standard wat (stew) made from lamb [Recipe], chicken, lentils, or beans. Be sure to enjoy Wat with Injera [Recipe], teff pancakes that are used to scoop up the food instead of silverware. Now, for something that Tilda’s parents did not tell me – I got this little nugget from Andrew Zimmern. In his Ethiopian episode he shares that if you’re really lucky Ethiopians will offer you raw meat. Raw meat is a delicacy – the fresher …
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