Cheeseburger Dress

 

 

 

Yes, I would totally wear this. With this. Probably to something like this.

Anthony Bourdain Pencil Sketch

 

Thank you artist Sam Morrison from Michigan for making these kick ass Dharma lunch sacks, more & more  lunch sacks and the dreamy sketch above. Pretty cool way to brown bag it if you ask me.

Like the Prairie Home Companion with Baggy Pants

 

              

A photo from the lobby

Or at least thats how the Garden State Jubilee referred to themselves as I was introduced to them, before noon on Wednesday; in the humble suburban town of Teaneck, NJ. Protected by a large  Orthodox  Jewish community the town is seemingly  untouched – many of its storefronts so old they’re practically retro, and the Cedar Lane Cinema is no exception. Playing mostly art house, indie and jewish indie flicks, the price of admissions is a mere $4.75. The snacks? my twizzlers set me back $2.25 – combined, thats less than admission for a matinee at the Megaplex. But I wasn’t there for a movie (not today, I’ll get to that), I was there to see something I never thought I would – a live radio broadcast. So for the better half of the early afternoon, from the upstairs theatre that houses fifty; myself and seven or so other audience members clapped, laughed and participated exactly just in that fashion. 

Until today, my only recollection of live, theatrical radio came from  such movies as “Annie” and “A League of There Own” where middle aged women in dark colored itchy looking dresses read the radio when prompted by an “on- air” and “off- air” blinking red sign. Usually some fast paced newsy sounding jingle hummed in the background as these aging women in their modest heels and proper white gloves read grim war front news into heavy metal microphones. Or at least thats what I imagine. But not what I saw. More like ten or so actors and technicians recording a show in t-shirts and jeans; old time noise effects replaced with a Mac, and a couple cameras on tripods. Not a single cellphone sighting, no huffy or fussy performers – just actors (characters!) collaborating for a dying art in an old movie theatre.

And what a show.  I can’t say I’ve been to many recordings of anything, in fact, the last live taping I went to was back in August when I saw Doug Benson’s Marijuanalogues. I also don’t listen to much live, theatrical radio these days -in fact, more like 1010 wins for New York City traffic updates. So, I’m no authority- but between the Jersey Devil skits and Uncle Floyd’s banter, the games of “Trivial Prosciutto”   with audience member participation and the occasion catchy tune performed mere feet from me – it was fun. Engaging, worth return for, what people refer to as “a real treat.” 

 The whole experience, the entire theatre is in fact a treat, from the pimply teenager in his bow tie and matching vest who sells you your ticket – to the original posters and  original seats in the theatre downstairs. No reclining chairs or $7 sodas, neon signs or 30 minutes of commercials and trailers before the movie. No circles of teenagers huddled in the lobby you have to worm yourself  around or long lines for bathrooms or tickets or candy. Its simple, small, quaint and the exact opposite of my every other movie going experience as of late.

A poster from outside

But before we made it to the theatre upstairs for the show, we waited patiently in the lobby when in between going gaga over old movie posters and smoking cigarettes I discovered the news. From March 11th to April 29th on Wednesday at 8 pm you can catch an old time classic, played on original 35mm film for $6. If you get there at 7:30 you have the pleasure of hearing Jeff Barker play the organ,  and then if your lucky they’ll play this. If you want to make a true evening of it, I suggest taking your date down the street to Bischoff’s  for an ice cream beforehand. Did I mention they still wear paper hats, churn their  own ice cream from scratch, and have booths in the back worthy of making out in between sipping from the same milkshake like you’re Sandy & Danny and this is Grease.  Now where did I put my saddle shoes?

Movies & Dates: 

March 11 – Casablanca

March 18 – A Night at the Opera

March 25 – Goldfinger

April 1 – Beyond the Rocks

April 8 – Dr. Strangelove 

April 15 – Jezebel

April 22 – On the Waterfront 

April 29 – It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World 

Cedar Lane Theatres 503 Cedar Lane, Teaneck, NJ 201-836-3334 www.bigscreenclassics.com

Garden State Jubilee: www.gardenstatejubilee.com – Airs at 9:03 on Saturday nights, but if you’d like to attend a live recording, you can attend Wednesdays at 11 am now through mid-April. For more information, call the theatre.

Edible Endeavors

“Don’t be such a snob Michelle, these bagels are perfectly fine.” But they weren’t.  They never were. They were imposters- steam injected, sparsely topped, and “baked” to an ungodly pale color. You had to toast them to make them even remotely edible and worse, the bottom was caked in cornmeal.  I wouldn’t stand for it, I never did. Ever since I can remember I’ve always looked at food and thought: this could be better. I’ve had better, and even though I go to college nowhere near good bagels, I’m not eating those. In fact, theirs a great artisan bakery down the road, they have the best sourdough rye, let’s have that instead.

So unlike jobs or men or mismatched socks,  I don’t settle with food. I improve on it. I seek it out.  I’m always looking for the best – no matter where the best is found. My bagels? I prefer the Jersey variety, 3 Stars Bagels in Fort Lee, NJ to get specific. I get them still warm. The chewy, crispy, crunchy, slightly shiny exterior is perfect. The toppings are generous, the bottom bubbled slightly from the heat and above all, light – not obnoxiously heavy like those imposters. Personally, I prefer the burnt ones and have been known to hang over the counter, pointing at the baskets to specify which bagel looks the most “well done.”  This practice makes me feel more like a cranky old lady at the meat counter than a serious bagel connoisseur, but those old ladies always get what they want, don’t they?

And I’m ok with getting what I want. In fact, I’d go as far to say I thrive on the idea of finding my favorite, or “best,” or for that matter, “worst” – where I shouldn’t shop or eat again. For this reason, I cannot walk past a bakery and not step foot inside. Any kind, anywhere, they are all fair game. And I’ve always been this way, always wanting it in that Veruca Salt kind of way – no self-control, a slave to both the hunt and the sugar.

Now I wish I could pinpoint a specific moment in time when I realized food mattered. That it was more than something to torture my Mother with by declaring I was a “vegetarian“ as a tween – or simply as nourishment due to a strict diet after fat camp.  I can’t. I can tell you how I remember making scrambled eggs for the first time; how my first fine dining experience was at Le Cote Basque, or when I realized that everyone did not eat matzah ball soup. The time I ate a whole pineapple and broke out in hives – or my first day working in a restaurant kitchen. The day I decided that my botched Campbell’s soup can tattoo was just a good idea as sleeping with the guy I met at the farmers market, the way a former co-worker insisted on lending me Ruhlman’s Charcuterie.

In a way I’m thankful I don’t have just one shining moment though – but rather a huge library to reflect on. Every culinary class, every job – every meal, every man, is another story, another memory – another step to finding my best or worst or in-between. Continuing to season myself with every cookie, every piece of bread, even every bagel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pork Me

 

I’m from New Jersey, and I’m exit 72. I’m from New Jersey and I’ll drive circles around you on the turnpike. I’m from New Jersey, and I eat pork roll. For the unfamiliar, dare I say, unknowing, Pork roll (also known as Taylor ham to us North Jersey folk) has been a Jersey breakfast staple since its invention by John Taylor in the late 19th century. It’s the quintessential Jersey breakfast best served on a buttered roll with melted American cheese and a fried egg. The flavor is unique, the texture kind of like Canadian bacon (but not really-did I say unique already?) and the possibility of replication impossible. From here, I could tell you the whole history, my preferred cooking method, and why people go bananas over it– or I could just link you to a recent Star Ledger video that explains all that and tell you my story instead.

The first time I tried the thin grease slathered circles, I was not in New Jersey, but upstate New York, at a local diner. I had just polished off my stack of pancakes, my father sipping his last bit of coffee, when he called the waitress over. “I need a Taylor ham on a roll, to go.” I remember being confused, since the term was yet to enter my vocabulary. We received the foil wrapped sandwich minutes later, and headed home. As we drove back, I anticipated the fate of this my new-foiled wrapped friend. What was it? Why had I never heard of it before and what the hell was my father doing with it? I flung myself from the car and ran into the garage, where I was to spend the next few hours running rampant through my father’s workshop: when I came across the horror. My father was down on one knee, tearing pieces of bread and meat from a bundle in his hand, and feeding it to our golden retriever! This new food, something that had filled my father’s truck with a smell that had tantalized me the whole way home: was being fed to the dog! I’m not sure what I said at that moment, but my uproar was enough for my father to lift off the top of the bulkie roll and hand me a slice. I remember hesitating for a second before devouring the whole thing in one bite. The taste was smoky and mild, sweet and salty, deep and jolting. The texture was soft but dense, and the tangy flavor coated my mouth like no other food before it. Ever since, whenever the opportunity arises, I order pork roll. When I’m far from home and I crave that distinct flavor, I buy hard salami and fry it, to be eaten with my eggs. This preparation is kosher style, since the salami is of beef origin, is served “pancake style” in most diners, but sigh, is not the same.

My first experience in a real kitchen was at my uncle’s diner in Fairview, New Jersey. (The Original Yankee Tower Diner)  His greasy spoon was a family business, started by his father when the area was mostly made up of factories and its workers looking for a cheap, quick meal. They were a famous institution, and when they closed their doors a few years ago, their secret meatloaf recipe was proudly featured in the local paper. This is where I first learned how to cook pancakes on an open grill, carry six plates to a table, and peel lots and lots of onions. This is also where I learned how to cook pork roll. My uncle’s kitchen was old, it was dirty, and it was a diner. Everything on the menu was cooked on the large, open flat top or fried in the fry-o-later. After a few weeks in the kitchen, my uncle decided to give me a chance on the grill. The orders were shouted into the kitchen through the pass, by some of the toughest Jersey broads I ever knew. When it was slow, or when he thought I was ready, he’d call on me to take on an order. Then, it came “eggs over easy with Taylor ham.” I took six pale pink circles from the stack on the sandwich bar, and carefully placed them side-by-side on the grill. Immediately they begin to bubble up in the middle, seeing the panic in my eyes, my uncle reached for the metal spatula in my hand, and used the sharp edge to cut a line to the center of the pattie, “like this,” he said. It quickly deployed, and laid flat on the grill, for an even golden exterior. The meat sizzles and pops, waiting for the right moment to be flipped. Two eggs go on the grill, and before I know it, the whole plate is on the pass. My mission was accomplished. 

Now more than ever, I am thankful for all things grease laden, especially my good old friend pork roll. Yes, bacon is great, pate has its days and prosciutto di parma will always have a place in my heart, but nothing holds a candle to my favorite past time. I can’t imagine how my teenage years would have been without all those sandwiches I lovingly and drunkly consumed in the wee hours of the night. My sloppy self, hovering over a diner counter, coffee in one hand – sandwich in the other, friends to one side, a regretful intoxicated hook up, the other. But for my now older and wiser self – I’m just happy to be near it, closer to it now then a year ago when I lived in New England. Available to me now on a continuous basis, regretful decisions and male companions optional.

 

 

 

Caramel in a can

 

You know those cans of stuff you buy on sale sometimes cause you tell yourself there will be days just like this one where you’ve got a. lots of free time b. you’ve got lots of free time to cook c. you had no idea what to do with it when you bought it, but it was cheap or d. had the day off and went grocery shopping high.  Well, its one of those days. Or weekends, or weeks. In fact, I don’t know when I washed my hair last but whatever. We’ve all had them, the days where you walk out of the store with funky condensed soups, cheap-diced non-Italian tomatoes, taco kits, and weird seasoning packets. And then they sit in the cabinet because that’s what the pantry is for, to be filled with foodstuff we probably rarely use but are supposed to have. To rot.

SO, if you cook at all, or at the least grocery shop, you have some of this stuff packed away in the cupboards like me, admit it. And maybe you’ve got the whole unemployment thing lingering over your head too and you realize, well, all you’ve got is time. So, one of the things you might do to pass the time between fake applying for jobs?  You fuck around in the kitchen. Even if you burn the shit out of something, or ruin a pan, or are too lazy to go the store to buy more of something, and then try to substitute – but it ends up exploding or something. Who cares? It was technically already paid for, and it’s not like your experimenting with torchon, right? Also, if your plan works – a new recipe! Cheap dinner! Leftovers! Munchies!

So, what did I find in my cupboards that prompted my glow, anticipation, my excitement? Alas, not a man, but rather, three words: Sweetened Condensed Milk. So, what is it? Its milk with no water and sugar added. Its thick and pasty and I have no idea what people do with it. Did I mention I went to Pastry & Baking School? Yeah, we didn’t learn that. Ever. Wanna talk about inverted sugar? Molding chocolate? Tempering? Sure, I’m your gal. Sweetened condensed milk, you’ve got me beat. Anyways, Wikipedia says its “used in numerous desserts dishes” which is good enough for me; and considering the ingredients – making caramel out of it makes perfect sense. 

So, I googled and I found the “recipe” in a synch. You basically take a can of the stuff and take off the wrapper. You drop the can in the bottom a DEEP pot with atleast 3 inches of water on top. Boil for 4 hours non-stop. Make sure it is always covered in water (meaning, when the water starts to evaporate after a couple hours, add more). Let it cool on the counter a couple hours, and then put it in the fridge overnight. I didn’t try it, but I strongly suggest not trying to open it while it’s hot. Its basically hot molten sugar, and considering it involves the use of a can opener to get to, I strongly suggest against it. Anyways, wait. Sleep on it, dream about it. Then, the next morning, in your thong & slippers you can stand at the fridge eating it with a spoon. OK, maybe it was my finger. 

Anyways, what happens after you wrestle that can open even before coffee? You find the silkiest, shiniest most consistent caramel ever. Ok, it wasn’t perfect; it does have a tangy flavor to it. Almost like it was made with goat milk but not really. I can’t decide if the can was old and I didn’t check the date or its just supposed to taste that way.  On second thought, that shit it notorious for lasting forever, so I doubt it. So, yeah, tangy. In a kinda good way? I’m yet to put it in brownies with coconut but it did go well with pretzels and pocky. I have to admit I never heated it up, but if I did, I don’t think it could hurt some vanilla ice cream.  I can imagine it would be great for pie or make great sandwich cookie filling – even eaten like its frienemy nutella, right out of the jar. Hm, now if only condensed soup was so inspiring….

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