the new orleans deliciousness continues

The inarguable highlight of our second afternoon in New Orleans was a trip to a landmark:

YESSSSSSSSSS! More on that in a second.

Since it became apparent very early on in the trip that consuming enormous quantities of (often fried) food was going to be an essential part of my stay in New Orleans, I decided to just go with it and maintain some peace of mind by walking extraordinary amounts. Our po’boys and daiquiri fueled first day included an impressive 10.5 mile walk. Our second, a beautiful stroll down Saint Charles Avenue to the famous French Quarter and back, 7.5 miles or so. I’ll take it.

Especially when there were praline samples to be had to fortify us on our trip.

And, since Steve was there and needed second lunch, pizza options to explore.

[Don’t we love that casual pizza places in New Orleans have beer pairings?!]

I clearly missed the memo about Gulf shrimp. Again, these were not tiny! These were jumbo shrimp! (Oxymoron alert).

 

Now, back to that first picture… in case you couldn’t quite guess the contents of that bag…

Ohhhhhh yes. The famous Cafe Du Monde.

Let me first say that the walk through the French Quarter to Cafe du Monde is lovely. Beautiful homes and hotels to be seen, the music of street musicians wafting around (particularly amusing was a girl who was playing the accordion with impressive talent accompanied by a dude who sang wretchedly and was clearly stoned out of his mind. It was quite entertaining!), fun little shops to pop into (including the most extensive hot sauce selection I’ve ever beheld at one spot).

And Cafe du Monde, while clearly a tourist attraction, runs like a well oiled machine. (Note! Cash only. But cheap. It’s like $2 and some change for what we got, and if you’re looking at price per calorie it’s epic!)

As for the beignets.. If you haven’t experienced them this description isn’t going to do much for you but they’re… fried dough. With powdered sugar. And SO MUCH MORE. Guys, beignets are… they just… I can’t even put into words how good they are. Doughy in the middle, crunchy on the outside, yeasty, crisp, sweet…. they are just absolute heaven.

On the map I saw a place called the French Market, and I was all excited to meander around it, envisioning handsome men carrying baguettes and cheese samples and the like, but it was ultimately a bit depressingly touristy. No cat lady t-shirts (though there were a lot of places selling things like that in the French Quarter, being a tourist-oriented part of town) but the restaurants looked more designed to please every palate than truly impart the culinary quirks of Nola.

I did enjoy this pun.

Meander meander. On the one hand, I was all, “Look at those exquisite buildings! I would love to live in the French Quarter!”

On the other hand… Bourbon Street. Yelling. Puking. Spilling. Fighting.

It being a landmark and all, Steve and I both wanted to experience it… just to say we had, pretty much. So off we went to indulge in overpriced drinks in the company of the friendly and inebriated.

The first place we ducked into had a balcony (big plus, and why we picked it), live music (semi-plus; I love live music but wasn’t that dazzled by their sound, but according to Steve their between-songs rappeur was “hilarious”. I was in the bathroom and missed it) but no mojitos (big minus; New Orleans is HOT and you really just want a mojito).

Fortunately, the very cool bartender joined us in bemoaning the fact that most of the bars along that strip did not serve mojitos because it’s a pain to muddle lime… then referred us to one that did, Pat O’Briens. And told us which of the (several) bars on their premises to which to bequeath our hard-earned dollars, which he assured us would have the lowest prices.

And the mojitos were ours.

 

With a nice fountain view.

 

I have turned into a real lightweight and spent the entire walk back from the French Quarter (keep in mind, almost 4 hours) spontaneously breaking into dance, blurting out deep down emotional pronouncements, and laughing at Peniston Street. Again.

Fortunately, the absurd effects of my single drink (!) wore off by the time we did dinner with the family.

My sister recommended Ignatius, another lovely restaurant on Magazine Street. Once again, we sat outside.

  

Like many of the restaurant choices in Nola, they had an impressive small plate selection, so I opted for the shrimp and grits and a side of greens.

Lorrrrrrrrrrd those shrimp and grits were good. (Sidebar: have we been taking note of how much shrimp I ate in New Orleans?! Hoping I didn’t have any underlying cholesterol issues prior to this trip!)

The shrimp, per usual, were fat and juicy and cooked just right but WOWZA that gravy was sumthin’. Smoky, tangy, and rich. And the grits, while certainly serving as an impressive butter vehicle, still had a nice assertive flavor and texture of their own. This was GOOD GOOD GOOD.

The greens were my attempt at getting a serving of vegetables in for, oh… the first time on the trip? They were those lovely Southern-style greens. You know, cooked for hours and hours until basically devoid of nutrients.

Malindi got the same shrimp and grits along with a fried green tomato salad (!) that she shared. And both my mom and Steve got the Jambalaya, which was A+.

Cute story: I thought our waiter was kind of reserved or unfriendly or something, but then as he was clearing our plates, he noticed Malindi still had food left, shot her a grin, and told her to “keep nibblin’”. ADORABLE.

Final note, Steve TREATED everyone to dinner! Thanks pal!

Another crappy night’s sleep, involving a deflating air mattress (…) followed. It was just as well that I didn’t sleep much- more time to see what the lovely city had to offer. I snuck out of Malindi’s dorm room, leaving Steve to get a bit more shut-eye, and made the pleasant stroll to The Chimes once again.

Jill was nice enough to invite Steve and I for breakfast.

Due to a legal system that contains a certain amount of whimsy, The Chimes is not allowed to have any on-site cooking. So, Jill goes down the street to the French Bakery every morning and brings in delicious baked goods.

Nibble nibble nibble. I didn’t eat all of these… but more bread may have happened too :)

Then we were off to another bee-yoo-tiful neighborhood, Bayou Saint John. New Orleans is a little weird with the urban planning- you drive around and you’re on grimy, ugly, strip-mall-y roads, and then you take a turn and drive two blocks and BOOM, you’re somewhere GORGEOUS. It’s all a bit uneven.

This is a bayou. (Secret: I have no idea what a bayou actually is. My little sister spent four years in Louisiana and she does not know either, which makes me feel better).

We originally arrived to attend the Bayou Boogaloo street festival, with live music and the like, and the colorful sign looked promising:

But we turned out to be too early. So instead we took the recommendation of an incredibly friendly local who told us we could find what she considered the best po’boy in New Orleans here:

A LOT of people agreed. I heard some local types go, “Ugh, that’s right, it’s Tulane graduation this weekend.”

*cough* Sorry.

Some of the past visitors were famous!

(Can you imagine trying to eat a messy po’boy wearing a suit and tie?! Reason 203485720835602837502835 I don’t want to be president.)

After a long wait to order and then receive our food, I would’ve eaten just about anything, but these sweet potato fries went down real nice. Particularly, in a fun combination I made after raiding the condiments bar out of simple curiosity, with cocktail sauce.

As for my po’boy, initially a bit enigmatic..

Pulled open to reveal it was comprised of a roll, fried catfish, lettuce, tomato, and pickles…

The bread was only so so. And the lettuce was pre-bagged and seemed to be giving out in the Louisiana heat.

Not to worry. I just ate the perrrrrrrrrrrrfect catfish. Fish and chips lunch, Nola style. It was magnificent and in and of itself earned Parkway Bakery its fame.

Also: back in 2005, Parkway Bakery flooded six feet deep. So a toast both to their perfect catfish and their enduring spirit.

The post-lunch activity could’ve easily consisted of a food coma, but instead we took a stroll, to the City Park. We didn’t make it into the museum, but we checked out the sculpture garden, the old-fashioned amusement park (which was ADORABLE; I was heartbroken it wasn’t open) and peeked in at the film they were shooting (!) (Didn’t recognize anyone)

The best part, though, was the natural scenery. As my mom wisely pointed out, you can see where they got the inspiration for putting Mardi Gras beads on trees. The lovely Spanish moss makes that shape naturally!

More to come!

the cooking zone

Sometimes I just want to spend five hours or so in my kitchen. I have a job. I have a degree. I CHOOSE to do it. I am not a betrayor of the feminist cause. I just really, really love to cook sometimes.

It can be a Sunday afternoon spent by the stove, making my morning oats for the week, idly planning my life, dreamily staring into the mixture where thick milky bubbles slowly work their way to the surface of the pot.

  

Another night, I had beautiful fresh produce and I was craving a beautiful meal. I am definitely of the belief that looks can be deceiving, and a big plate of brown much can be great. Still, we eat with our eyes first, and sometimes it can be gratifying to create something beautiful and present it, a work of art, to one’s dining companions.

It helps when you are lucky enough to live in a house filled with pristine fresh local produce.

Kale, steamed until just tender; still vibrantly green.

 

Fresh tomato, slow roasted until its juices had condensed its slices into small, impossibly sweet slivers of flavor.

 

And sliced onions and mushrooms, made in a process in which I forced myself to be patient, slow cooked and caramelized, finished with mushroom soy sauce for a complex depth of flavor.

   

And so began a delicious layering process of a meal that turned out to be nutritionally balanced, beautiful in color, subtle and tasty in flavor, and totally incidentally vegan.

I began with the kale, drizzled in olive oil and topped with some fresh field peas from the farmer’s market (think black eyed peas, but I boiled them til they were just al dente, so with a little more oomph than the canned stuff)

Then I added the onions and tomatoes to the center, a veritable bulls eye of dinner.

  

Slightly bitter kale+ rich olive oil+ earthy and meaty beans+ sweet tomatoes+ sweet but umami-deep caramelized onions and mushrooms= really amazing depth of flavor.

The individual components were great on their own but this combination was highly synergistic. And again, did I mention it was pretty?

 

Also appropriated some leftover components into rice salad, a dish of which my mother has always been very fond, as was her mother. I got How to Cook Everything Vegetarian for my birthday (!! Believe me guys, we will talk about this), and he has literally dozens of variations on rice salad. So stoked.

This one had leftover brown rice, green onion, fresh parsley, peas, chopped date, and strawberry vinaigrette. Highly tasty.

My next cooking zone evening began with quality inspiration. I was at the farmer’s market on Saturday and the wonderful Farmer’s Market Chef series had one of its demos set up. The adorable French chef from 2941 (an incredible-sounding restaurant where I have not yet been) was making butternut squash ravioli. It was rich and perfectly seasonal for the rather raw and grim days we’d been having.

Meanwhile, Steve was out of town and there was nothing exciting going on that night. I was home alone and rather forlorn without the company of my loved ones.

Obviously, I had to make butternut squash ravioli.

I roasted a sweet and petite squash and mashed it to tenderness, incorporating some milk to help whip it together, salt and pepper, lots of sage, and just a bit of Parmesan (as it turned out, a little went a long way).

Filling was LUSCIOUS. Butternut has an amazing silkiness.

  

I have pasta making experience, but wanted to amp up the nutrition factor and so used this whole wheat pasta recipe. The dough was rather sticky so I tried to work with it carefully.

 

I also declined to use my machine, since it seemed more trouble than it was worth (particularly since it’d seemed to be a two-person job the previous time I’d used it). I was in no rush. I liked the idea of using my hands and a rolling pin; more traditional tools.

I’d roll it out…

 

Trim it into an even rectangle

Dab on filling

 

Fold the top over and slice it

And put it on a flour dusted plate, with more flour between layers, and covered it with a cloth while I worked on other rounds.

The process took two hours, probably more. I listened to Nelly on repeat (which I just sometimes feel irresistible urges to do while cooking); felt the cold, sticky weight of dough in my hands; smelled the aromas of my kitchen; pinched corners as I pursed my lips, seeking a good shape; patched holes with tiny dough scraps. It was wonderful.

I ended up with a beautiful dinner for one.

 

I ended up freezing most of the ravioli; for a busy weeknight in the future when I want something gourmet. My small but oh-so-satisfying batch I boiled for barely two minutes (it told me when it was done by very considerately floating to the top), and then I drizzled it with olive oil and sprinkled it with fresh ground black pepper and a whisper of Parmesan.

    

The filling was sweet and rich. The pasta was chewy and nourishing.

 

It was a meal to nibble on and linger over. I have to say, while I happily put grueling planning and effort into cooking for my loved ones, if it’s just me home for dinner the odds are good I will just make eggs… or just grab boxes out of the fridge and stick a fork in them.

There’s something nice about enjoying the ritual of a lovely, delicious, labor-intensive cooking process- just to make dinner for me, myself and I.

Rounding out the meal was seriously a favorite salad of mine that I am due to post about. Yes those are fresh peaches. Get ready.

At a certain point I ran out of filling and the dough was looking a little too gummy to work anymore anyway. So I just cut it (highly informally; I actually just got out my pizza cutter and improvised noodles) and saved it for lunch the next day.

I ended up making it for my mama, tossed with fresh homemade tomato sauce. Good stuff!

  

Excited to see where the zone takes me next :D

inspiration, collaboration

The title of this blog post sounds like the title of a truly gruesome graduation speech, doesn’t it?

(Sidebar: my high school graduation’s speaker was the local weatherman. Not even the main local weatherman. The assistant, weekend-shift local weatherman. The next year it was Ben Affleck. How is this fair?!)

The point was that sometimes the blog inspires ya and sometimes it doesn’t, yknow? This week there was just too much summer (with an emphasis on hotness and misery earlier in the week, and an emphasis on freedom and awesome in the later).

Still, there’s nothing like a gorgeous photograph that I must must must post to tug me back. Never mind that I was not the one to take it.

My hand operated a spatula, rather than a camera, when this rather exquisite photograph was captured.

Maya come over! Occasional writer of The Collegiate Gourmande. First a blog friend, now a friend friend.

Obviously, we food-laborated.

Maya was craving green things… I had green things. Leftovers were inspected. Farmer’s market purchases appeared. And this happened!

Sauteed green onion ‘n garlic

 

Threw in some greens and cooked down. Put in a casserole dish, topped with some leftover steamed asparagus.

Maya took the carb lead. Livened up some leftover cooked rice (my adorable mother always makes 1 dry cup of rice despite the fact that she the only person in the house who actually likes white rice. Plus there is usually- as there was this time- already leftover brown rice in the fridge), adding organic vegetable broth for moisture and flava.

Made creamy and luscious with various cheese (3 laughing cows- 2 sundried tomato, 1 herb). Poured atop the green base.

Then- sheer brilliance- eggs baked on top! Beautiful fresh farmer’s market eggs floated beautifully atop the other ingredients when Maya expertly cracked them

(Informal poll of other people who eat farmer’s market eggs: how they treatin’ ya? The adorable Mennonites who sell us these have never ever done us wrong. Steve, on the other hand, though he paid $3.50 instead of $5 for a dozen at his farmer’s market, ended up with one rotten egg and one horribly disturbing chicken fetus)

Anyway, then the whole thing went under the broiler.

 

Those things underneath? Leftover fries- of the traditional and sweet potato forms- leftover from brunch at a country club (!) with my sister’s godparents. Seeking moderation in all things, I went for the “Healthful selections omelet” (egg whites and veggies) with a side order of sweet potato fries.

Maya is a good sport, in eating my family’s leftovers in not one but two contexts.

(3 actually, since I also bulked up a leftovers salad. It was camera shy).

Once our collaboration was done, it was photography time. In which I was considerably outdid by Maya.

 

On Facebook, where she posted the pic, Maya referred to it as “savory rice pudding meets asian greens meets cheese meets eggs? It works.“ It totally worked.

The fries were a nice touch.

And the evening ended with totally fun boy HYSTERIA. It has been seven months (!) since I was last single and… suffice it to say that gossip, intrigue, and speculation are still fun. And giggling. Lots of giggling.