Oolong And Short Of It

I am a coffee person. I love everything about it—the smell, the taste, the way the hot mug feels between my hands. I make coffee every morning in a French press, add whole milk till it’s the color of toasted rye bread, and then let its warmth and richness fill up my soul and stuff.

Recently, though, I discovered a tea that, while it hasn’t conquered the realms of my morning time yet, has taken dominion over any and all afternoon caffeine consumption transpiring in my world. Loose-leaf Coconut Oolong, procured from Tea Chai Té here in Portland. Not only is its taste rich and mysterious, Oolong is not acidic like coffee, and its caffeine delivery is much lighter. There will be no tragic crash after drinking a cup of this, no stomach ache, no jitters—only a little charge of energy and a subtle kicking of the world’s ass sensation.

For peeps who don’t know, Oolong is half way between green and black tea—kinda a best of both worlds tea, really. It has the body and complexity of a black breakfast tea with the brightness and freshness of a nice green. Plus, this particular Oolong is instilled with young coconut nectar, making it even richer, more aromatic and mysterious. You sprinkle an impossibly tiny amount into a tea strainer, let it steep for a few minutes, and then (if you’re me) pour a dash of milk in the mug. Don’t let the liquid’s pale color fool you. The concoction is creamy and smooth, yes, but it packs a hidden aromatic punch that instantly transports you someplace exotic.

Be Better Than Champagne

So we’re on the cusp of the New Year, and I already drank/ate my weight in such things as holiday ale, Brie, and peppermint bark recently. No matter—the time to abstain is not yet upon us. We’re still essentially required to sip something special to celebrate the passing of the old and the coming of the new, right?

New Year’s cheer has been tied to an elixir called Champagne since time began, but I don’t do Champagne. Nah. Not even one glass. It just don't agree with me.

BUT, instead of Champagne, I’d like to offer up something different (maybe better?): Prosecco.

An Italian sparkling white wine, Prosecco is crisp, light, and laced with whiffs of peach, pear, and apricot or whatever. It’s much fresher and simpler than Champagne, and way less rich. It’s also fermented in a large stainless-steel vat before bottling—not with an in-bottle injection of yeast like Champagne. For this reason I find it WAY easier on the body (less inclined to dole out a life-giving hangover in the morning).

Another Prosecco plus: it’s half the price of Champagne. This lovely bottle of Adami Prosecco is only 17 bucks! So reasonable. It would be cool to sip this from the most delicate of flutes, right around midnight.

Greatfruit

Isn’t it nice that, as the days slide darkly and coldly into winter, something as vivid and as citrus fruit would come into season? I love walking into the winter market and finding huge boxes of navel oranges, great piles of tangerines and tangelos, and glowing baskets of Cara Cara oranges (of which I’ve already sung the praises on these pages). They’re as restorative to look at as they are to eat.

Anyhow, my very favorite of all things citrus is the pink grapefruit. Wait, let me rephrase that—my very favorite citrus is a REALLY GOOD pink grapefruit. Hence: I only eat them in season. I worship at the altar of the kind of grapefruit that weighs heavily in your hand, so replete with juice is it, and when you jab your spoon in and taste it—expecting sour—you get sweet. An unexpected burst of sugar, like a gift, but still with that tart jolt of life that those other, more saccharine fruits don’t have. It’s the kind of thing that can set the tone for your entire day, you know?

I like to cut them in half and spoon out each little section or cut them into slices and suck all the pulp and juice out using my teeth. I never peel them and eat them like an orange because that is weird.

Grazing

We are entering a festive season—one of rich, decadent meals that come with a range of accompanying desserts and hours of prep time. Guys, this is not something to complain about—and I promise that’s not what I’m doing. I’m just saying that there should be balance in all things, and so on those nights in between the parties and family bonanzas, I prefer a simple meal that blends a bunch of bangin’ snacks. That way, you can sit on the floor in front of your coffee table, turn on an episode of Mythbusters, and graze at will. It’s nice!

Plate One:

Sliced apples

Brie

Honey, drizzled

Plate Two:

On the fly crostini: slice a baguette, slather each piece with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and toast in the oven until golden brown.

Plate Three:

Steamed kale, dressed with red-wine vinegar, salt, and pepper.

Plate Four:

Flour tortillas, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt, cut into triangles, and then toasted in the oven until crispy.

Hummus

Spicy pesto dip: combine plain whole-milk yogurt with pesto and a smidgen of chopped jalapeños.

An Everlasting Meal

I'm down for cooking, and I'm definitely down for food … but I have a short attention span. If I’m interested in a recipe, I’ll start scanning the list of ingredients—my interest waning as the amount of items I don’t already have or can’t easily procure grows. Sadly, anything past 7 ingredients total usually loses me altogether. I like to keep it simple—which is why I was excited to read An Everlasting Meal (thank you Kirsten Blair!).

“Cooking is both simpler and more necessary than we imagine,” writes Tamar Adler. “We don’t need to shop like chefs or cook like chefs; we need to shop and cook like people learning to cook, like what we are—people who are hungry.”

I love this. I love making simple meals from stuff I have laying around. It’s both a challenge and a way of living within my means (I.E. not dropping $50 at Whole Foods on ingredients for one meal—which is WAY too effin easy).

An Everlasting Meal is kind of a cookbook, and kind of not. It’s a collection of essays about the act of cooking in your home and why this is and should be important to all of us—with simple, delicious, intuitive recipes sprinkled throughout.

For instance, why can’t a salad just be a single vegetable raw or cooked with a drizzle of vinegar and olive oil?

It can—and it often is in places like Italy.

Why can’t a chunk of good bread be the centerpiece of your meal?

It definitely should be, and there are unlimited things you can put on it:

“In autumn, roast a whole butternut squash. Smash it in a bowl with good olive oil, a little freshly grated Parmesan, and a lot of freshly cracked black pepper. Spread the squash thickly on the toast, drizzle it with more olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice, and sprinkle it with roughly chopped toasted almonds.”

And so on and so forth.

Also, Adler touches on—not gluttony—but why we should be moved by what we eat: because it connects us to moments and memories and fills up our souls.

“Let the smell of salt remind you of a paper basket of fried clams you ate once, squeezing them with lemons as you walked on a boardwalk. Let it reach your deeper interest. When you smell the sea, and remember the basket of hot fried clams, and the sound of skee-balls knocking against each other, let it help you love what food can do, which is to tie this moment to that one.”

It’s nice, right?