Lobster Tale

“Now, people ask me, what rituals can we have today? My answer is, what are you doing? What is important in your life? What is important, they say, is having dinner with their friends. That is a ritual.” – Joseph Campbell

It’s a given that at least once every summer Dad will make Lobster Dinner.  This has been going on, with some regularity, for decades.  If he doesn’t make it at home, we go out to get it.

In the early days, when we spent our weekend days in Maine’s coastal towns, we discovered Barnacle Billy’s.  This was, and could still be, the kind of place where you pushed your way forward through the crowd and then hollered your order up to the cook behind the counter.  Meantime, someone in our party would troll the weatherbeaten restaurant for an equally weatherbeaten wooden table.  The lobsters came out of the kitchen hot and red with limp claws draped over paperboard bowls, accompanied by sides of corn, piles of steamed clams, and small pools of melted butter.

Last summer, Lobster Dinner took a new twist.  Dad acquired a recipe from a friend who apparently has created quite a following of his own with it. 

Preparing lobster in this manner is a multi-step process: first, you pour a large martini and drink it to get up the nerve to cook the poor buggers by plunging their writhing bodies into a boiling cauldron of water.  (I never look.  It’s murder.)  After they're cooked, you pin their bodies, belly up, to a cutting surface while you use a strong knife to score each down the length of its body.  (Don’t worry, it’s already dead.)

Once scored, you generously brush melted butter with garlic in and all around the lobsters' nooks and crannies.  If there were a recipe to the buttery sauce, I would give it to you.  But after several requests, it was revealed that there is none.  It's more of a style than a recipe.  

Grill the lobsters.  Not too much. Serve with bowls of melted unsalted butter, grilled corn, carrots and potatoes in broth, steamers, and cole slaw.  Beer, white wine.

Breaking All the Rules + Oysters

Okay, I've broken one of the golden rules of blogging by letting 10 months--10 whole months!!--go by without a single post.  I'm crawling back into your arms, humbled.

I got busy.  Like, busier, because I have a business that got really busy.  I am going to experiment with a new approach to DustSnowCoffee.  Briefly, it's going to get brief.  Not as brief as Twitter (@dustsnowcoffee), but with a lot more pictures and less prose.  That's the plan anyway.


Let's do it!


We've got a lot to catch up on.  In small bites.


Which leads me to a meal, the real subject of this post.  I've been meaning to share it with you for months (six, not ten!).  

Do the cranberries give away that this meal took place on Cape Cod?  I was visiting my parents at their cottage on the beach, and they experimented with two newly discovered recipes, one of which was martinis with cranberry garnish.   We transported this exciting cocktail twist to the Coonamessett Inn in Falmouth, MA. It hasn't made its way to California yet, but I expect to see it in every chic lounge on the West Coast for the next cranberry harvest.

The real gems of the meal were the oysters.  To make the dish: start by whipping up your favorite aioli recipe.  Then shuck.

  
Freshly shucked oysters are key, right before you prepare the dish.  If there is no way you're going to shuck oysters yourself, the fishmonger will do it for you, but you risk losing a lot of juice.  Gently sautée a mix of chopped mushrooms, preferably fresh from the market, in olive oil and garlic with some salt and pepper.  Pile the mixture onto the shucked oysters.

Drop a teaspoon or two of the aioli onto the mushroom mixture, and broil until the aioli is just right--lightly brown but not burnt.

This is not an oyster.  It's a clam shell that is hosting a colony of smaller mollusks.  A micro community on South Cape Beach.

After you eat, you have to walk.  Otherwise, you risk making (and consuming!) another crispy-chilled martini with cranberries and a lemon twist.

Mirror to the Local Soul

I learned at a very young age that to really get to know a culture, you need to shop where the natives shop.  I also learned at a very young age that of all shopping, I prefer the food kind of shopping.

When I was about 10 years old, I lived in the diesel-crusted capitol city of a middle-eastern country, and for some inexplicable reason my parents allowed me to go to the local koutche store and bread shop alone.  There, I would buy warm, fresh barbari or nan-e taftoon and carry it to our marble and parquet home, where my mother would prepare simple sandwiches with crunchy green onions, a creamy cheese or butter, and salt.  This freedom was brought to an abrupt halt by a violent revolution that involved lots of hostages and embassy explosions that gripped the Western world for quite some time. 

But this story is about a western culture in another hemisphere in a new millennium.

My friend Vanessa was in town recently from Boston, on vacation, and so she was a tourist.  When she visits, she always brings a few trinkets from her most recent adventures—prayer beads, bracelets, necklaces—that she no doubt procures from bazaars and independent artisans that sell their crafts along pathways to this or that point of significance.  While Vanessa likes food as much as I do, she tends to survey local cultures through their crafts. 

Through these two perspectives—of food and of crafts—we discovered a view of San Francisco that I, as a local, had not yet seen.  It was the view from Treasure Island, filtered that day through the Treasure Island Flea.

It is oddly fitting to find a flea market on a place called Treasure Island, though if you’re unfamiliar with this particular Treasure Island you wouldn’t know that it dangles like a patina pendant from the Bay Bridge, halfway between Oakland and San Francisco. 

Admittedly, it was a pretty cold and windy Saturday morning, even with the mostly clear, blue sky.  Treasure Island Flea is held on the last Saturday of the month, a kind of appetizer to the Bay Area’s mother-of-all-flea-markets, the Alameda flea market, made popular recently by the Afghani protagonist from the wildly popular book The Kite Runner.  We paid our $3 entrance fees, and I scanned the tent tops for the food stalls—sadly, way at the other end of the market.  We started to troll the booths. 

Sometimes, you get lucky.

I immediately spotted a chunky, silver David Yurman-style necklace that the vendor explained was from the ‘70s.  I plunked down a whopping six bucks, and chirping with delight, showed off my acquisition.  People craned their necks to see, anxious to find the next treasure hidden in these piles of old bracelets and necklaces.  I could feel the silent, competitive energy, and felt triumphant.

We grazed through stalls of vintage American ‘70s and ‘80s clothing, 20^th century jewelry, accessories, and household goods like brass lions, hammered buckets, and lawn chairs. Somebody walked by with a large paper cone filled with miniature donuts covered with icing and colored sprinkles.  We were getting closer to the food.  I felt like one of those hungry lions on the Discovery Channel, stalking its knock-kneed prey.  I distinctly remember craving coffee. 

My friend Sheryl had joined us, and eventually, we three separated, each immersed in our own obsessions.  I made a break for the food stalls, but not without a brief delay to purchase two dashing, pink, deer-resistant plants from a horticulturalist. 

I shamelessly inspected each small kitchen, not hesitating to stare at other people’s food and how they were eating it, here in the wind with no tables and a sea-level view of San Francisco’s east face.  South American, Italian, Greek, the choices were all intriguing.  It was hard to decide, which reminds me of when I was in grade school, and my friend Sally and I would ride our bikes into town on half-day Tuesdays to buy candy, and I would labor for minutes (read: hours to a 2^nd grader) over which candy bar to buy… Marathon, Butterfinger, Almond Joy… so many choices, only one lifetime!  I might have been better off growing up in an Eastern Bloc country, where I hear the options were much more limited. 

I decided on an arepa, because I’d never eaten one.  Oh, it was good!  A crusty, gluten-free bread pocket stuffed with black beans, avocado, shredded cheese, and tomato.  Oh, the joy!  People ogled at my arepa, and I pointed to the stall with my saucy fingers.

It didn’t take long for Vanessa and Sheryl to fall in line.  There was immediate and unanimous consensus that we must have—and share—one of those paper cones stuffed with Harvey’s mini donuts.  We did.  Chocolate glazed, if you’re wondering.  At the bottom, the donut crumbs float in the melted chocolate.  You want to be the one holding the cone at the end.

Freshly juiced, we poked around a jewelry table, where the artist assembles necklaces with chain and found objects like old keys, locks, etched glass hearts, and so on.  We each bought one, a silent bond.

At this flea market, floating on the Bay, you won’t find any Moroccan spices, prayer beads, or dreamweavers. Rather, you'll find food, crafts, and treasures of two water-rimmed cities in 21^st century America.

Special thanks to Vanessa, guest photographer for all the images in this blog post.

Truffle Popcorn

It was Tuesday, around 11:52 a.m., and I was hungry.  Lunch hungry.  But I had a lunch date at 2:30, so I needed to eat something that could hold me for a couple of hours but not fill me up, because I knew I was going to stuff myself at the restaurant.


A pantry scan turned up a half-eaten bag of raw pistachios, a set of red, green, and orange colored honey sticks, and a few cans of sustainably-caught-along-the-California-coast wild sardines.  Ho hum.


Then I saw the popcorn.  And I could only think of Truffle Popcorn.  Michael Mina's Truffle Popcorn.

Truffle Popcorn Parts

For those of you who have eaten truffle popcorn, you probably have truffle oil in your kitchen, because once you've tasted truffle popcorn, you must make and eat it often.  I first had truffle popcorn at Michael Mina, a stellar restaurant on the first floor of the Westin St. Francis Hotel, which sits astride the city's Union Square.  The popcorn was served in a raised bowl, which sat in something like an iron ring supported by iron legs.  The pulpy, pink pomegranate martini that was served with it was equally divine.  Since then, there has been no match.


I'm not exactly sure how Michael's people make his truffle popcorn.  I've tried to replicate it a few times, and have developed a recipe that is light and truffle-y with a pinch of salt and a complement of fresh parsley.  I know it's good, because I ate the entire bowl before I remembered I was going to photograph it.  That's why there's only one photo here, of the ingredients.


Lately, I've been using a bag of Amish Country Rainbow Popcorn, which I bought from a Mennonite clerk in Rawlins, Wyoming last September (warning: don't be like my parents and think rainbow popcorn pops into colored popcorn).  I wouldn't be surprised if Michael Mina uses butter in his recipe, but I like to keep mine simple.  


This is my recipe, for one person:


2 to 3 cups popped corn (I prefer an air popper for a clean, light pop)
2 to 3 teaspoons truffle oil
Generous tablespoon fresh, chopped parsley (do not attempt this recipe with dried parsley.  Ew.)
Truffle salt


Drizzle a teaspoon of truffle oil around the bottom of the bowl.  Drop half of your popped corn into the bowl.  Add another drizzle of truffle oil, half of the parsley, and a pinch of truffle salt.  Drop the rest of your popped corn into the bowl, and finish with the remaining oil, parsley, and another pinch of salt.  Stir it up.  Carry your bowl to your favorite sitting spot, and eat.

If you happen to have a pomegranate martini on hand, you might want to bring that too.

Hungry Girl Eats at Nem Nuong, Little Saigon, Orange County

Too often I fall in love with one dish or another that I first sampled in some far away place.  Then I can't get it out of my mind, and I just want to go back, or try to make it.  


By far away, I mean somewhere that I can't reasonably get to on a weeknight for dinner, like Orange County, CA.


And more specifically, a Vietnamese restaurant named Nem Nuong, which is tucked away in the back of the lackluster Mall of Fortune in Garden Grove in Orange County.  Even if you had the address right, and your GPS was spot on, you might think twice before actually getting out of your car and walking into the restaurant.


My Vietnamese friend Kim (seriously) recommended it when she heard I was going to Huntington Beach to visit friends.  I have a policy about eating in ethnic restaurants, which I do as often as possible.  The policy requires that in order to eat in an ethnic restaurant, most of the clientele must be of that ethnicity.  Not negotiable, ever.  For my Vietnamese friend to recommend this restaurant 500 miles away was a solid endorsement.  Plus, she practically drooled when she told me about the spring rolls.  "They famous," she said.

Meat Rolls (Brodard image)

I was a little nervous about dragging my friends to this restaurant, site unseen.  But when I mentioned it, they were floored!  Turns out the restaurant, part of the Brodard Group (of two) Restaurants, is locally famous, and centered in the Little Saigon part of town.  They'd been there before, and were happy to go back.


We ordered the Vegetarian Saigon Style Spring Rolls, oversized, stuffed with shredded tofu, mushrooms, vermicelli, sweet potato, lettuce, cucumber, carrot and mint.  All wrapped in a perfect rice paper, served with a delicious dipping sauce.  They lived up to their reputation, and made a meal unto themselves.  I must have more, as soon as possible.  We ordered a table full of dishes, some soups, some noodles, the works.  The waiters patiently rearranged our condiments and sauces when we bungled the  accompaniments.  By meal's end, we were stuffed, and the sizable restaurant was full.  


Total bill for six people for dinner: $89.00, including drinks and tip.  We'll all go back for more.

Splitboard: The New Snowboard for Backcountry Boarders

As a snowboarder, I often gaze longingly outside ski resort boundaries at all the fresh powder.  I snap back to reality when it hits me how hard--and dangerous--it will be to trek up to the ridge and make it down to the chair lift without an emergency Ski Patrol escort.

I was thrilled to learn about splitboards, just this week.  A splitboard, according to splitboard.com, is a regular snowboard that splits apart into two halves that become skis.  You can see how they work in this video.  Here's another one; turn up the volume on your computer first (remember to close your door if you are in the office).

I thought I had discovered a brand new product, but splitboards have been around for about 20 years.  A core group of backcountry snowboarders, who likely got fed up with trudging through the snow carrying a board on the way up and skis on the way down, stuck with the idea.  A side benefit is that, even though splitboards will set you back several hundred bucks, you don't have to arrange or pay for a helicopter to fly you up the mountain.

Kudos to the people at splitboard.com, who, not long ago, decided to build an online forum for "splitters."  This online forum pools together user feedback.  The result?  One, new ideas.  Two, the product development process has greatly improved.  Manufacturers have already modified snowboard gear to accommodate splitboards.  And let's face it, the snowboard business could use something more fresh than hip-hugger pants.

It's inspiring to see an industry embrace customer innovation and feedback to fulfill an unmet need and expand the category in the process, without adding blue crystals.

My Face is Burning!

My face is burning.  It started last night, in the Jeep on the way home.  One by one, it happened to the other passengers too.  About every hour, someone would cry out "My face is burning!"

Actually, it all started before last night.  Without going too far back, this particular story started just a few days after the recent cascade of epic disasters hit Japan.  When I heard the news of potential radiation danger in Tokyo, I called my friend Ellie-ko, who I met shortly after she migrated here from Japan 15 years ago, but who I haven't seen in two or three years outside of Facebook.  If you have kids you know how quickly these years can go by without seeing your friends.  It's not that you lose your friends when you have kids, it's that you get a lot more friends.  First, there are the pre-school friends, then the soccer friends, the baseball friends, then the school friends, and so on.  And you still only have 365 24-hour days to hang out with these friends.

With the news that Ellie-ko's family was okay, the subject matter quickly turned to catch-up, which then with remarkable speed turned into a plan to go snowboarding at Sugarbowl.  Sugarbowl is the first ski resort you hit when you drive the 80 East toward Reno from San Francisco.  Its convenient location makes it easy to get there, snowboard, and come home on the same day.

Which is precisely what we did.

When we planned this day trip, we were unaware that a string of winter storms would dump epic snow there just before our arrival.

Can you tell there is a house under here?  Yes, a whole house.

I recruited my friend Cindy, a telemark skier who needed a day off from managing a dynamic household that includes three kids.  We were accompanied by Bill, a dad and skier who, when chatting with Ellie-ko at their kids' curbside drop-off the day before, asked if he might come along too.

Our foursome was complete, and the Jeep was loaded with gear by 7 a.m. behind the local Peet's Coffee & Tea.  The sun just rising--which, by the way, it does here 10 minutes after it does there, at Sugarbowl--a medium half-caf and petite vanilla bean scone in hand, I hit the gas and we hit the highway.

We were among the first customers to arrive at Ikeda's in Auburn.  This is a popular half-way point where travelers load up on road food, mountain snacks, and fresh baked pie.  Apparently the chicken pot pies are to die for.  Ikeda is located a few doors up the street from Lou La Bonte's.  Lou La Bonte's has always fascinated me from the freeway.  It's the kind of dark, windowless restaurant that was popular in the 1940s.  I imagine very senior citizens pulling their oxygen machines along with them on the way to their dinner tables as they talk through their cigarettes.

This fellow had already put 30 hours into clearing this private driveway.

Just before Donner Pass, the slopes, sun kissed, white, and mostly empty, came into view.  Did I mention it was already 50 degrees?  We parked, stepped out of the car, and removed layers of clothing.  This was spring skiing, right on time.  And if you've ever boarded or skied on peanut butter, you know exactly what it was like.  I heard someone refer to it as "trying to board on thick cake batter."  The waxing hut was busy all day.

We made our way to the top of Mt. Lincoln.  I like to traverse almost all the way over to the west, past Silver Belt and across The '58 to just before The Palisades.  These are a series of tall butte-like cliffs, which, to descend safely, require a measurably higher level of skill than I have right now.  There is a lot of terrain along this north face to explore--mostly trees, chutes, and cliffs.  After a few runs here, we slogged our way over to Mt. Disney, met up with our friend Liz who moved from San Francisco to Truckee a while back, and carved our way through very forgiving snow on the wide groomers.

One of the highlights of Sugarbowl is the Angel Hair Pasta dish that you can get at the Nob Hill Cafe. We met up with college friends Mike and Margot and ate this lazy meal on the deck in the sun before we geared up for the afternoon.  More Disney, more Mt. Lincoln, and one by one we dispersed across the mountains, finding our own favorite spots.  I had lots of slope to myself after 3:00.

The plan was to meet at the bar at 4:00, which is exactly what happened.  Equipped with Bloody Marys, beer, and wine we sat outside in sunshine and t-shirts and recounted the day.  Helmets and goggles off, our faces exposed, we felt the burn in spite of two applications of sunscreen.  The big ball of gas was low in the sky when we gathered our gear and pointed the Jeep down the mountain.  We stopped in Auburn, again, for an al fresco dinner, and filled our bellies with Tio Pepe's Mexican food and margaritas.

My face is still burning.   I need to dig up that little jar of Darphin Purifying Baum that I got on Cape Cod a while back for sunburn.  It's predicted to reach 80 degrees here today, and the sun coming through the southwest facing window is approaching my computer screen.  I can feel the salty Pacific breeze on my arms.  The air smells warm.  It was a good day on a snowy mountain with old friends and new.