insomnia haiku

The Roast Chicken Project: Final Exam

At last, it was time for Lydia's final roast chicken: the one she made her own. (Sounds so poetic, doesn't it? Or rather like a pet she's adopting?)

She'd invited me over to help sample the chicken, but first she started the night before, using parts of the various recipes we'd covered. I'll let her explain:

A great start! And thus, wine bottles in hand, I headed to Lydia's apartment on Friday night to taste the results of all her hard work. This time, I took the pictures (and was not nearly as prolific in this task as she had been).

We had a tiny hiccup at first because Lydia had preheated the pan, as the Zuni recipe instructed, but then turned the heat back off before placing the chicken in the pan. While this initially struck me as something rather basic, I realized, after thinking about it, that "preheat the pan" as a recipe instruction assumes a knowledge that not everyone has. It doesn't actually say, "preheat the pan and then, leaving the heat on, put the chicken in the pan." It just says "preheat the pan." You're just expected to know that preheating the pan is the prelude to doing some next step with the heat still on. And that terminology disconnect is what I assume can make things hard for novices, in ways that people with more cooking experience can't anticipate.

Lydia put the chicken in the pan (this time with the heat on), but she hadn't preheated the oven, so we had some timing issues—having to take the pan off the burner while waiting for the oven to heat—but eventually she worked it all out.

Meanwhile, Lydia's cat was bored.

Since Lydia was using the Zuni method to cook the chicken, she had to flip it after 30 minutes. It looked great pre-flip ...

and post-flip.

After one more flip to recrisp the breast meat, here it is out of the oven (yes, it looks the same as the previous two pictures of the chicken, but let's go with it for the sake of the narrative).

Spooning the fat off the pan was one of those things I found easier to explain in person than via text. (Go figure.) The last time she'd made the Zuni recipe, Lydia had been unsure as to what "pour the clear fat off the pan" meant, and this time I was able to show her which part was the actual fat that had to poured (or spooned) off. It is hard to get it all, I'll admit. I once gave my mom one of those pitcher things that separates the fat from the not-fat. It's kind of cheating, but I always found it cool-looking, like some gravy/fat Napoleon. (The dessert, not the dictator.)

Now Lydia had to test to see whether the chicken was done or not, something she'd had trouble with in the past. But this, to my mind, is something that can be hard for anyone, since your indicators can often be so vague: "see if the juices run clear," "see if the leg moves easily," etc. Then one look at something reddish and you go into shock, thinking you'll kill all your guests. She was a little worried, but I had her cut into the joint, and everything looked good to me. I think this is just one of those things you get to know with enough practice. (Which was the point of this whole experiment, really.)

She served with "potatoes a la Brian" and a mango-something salad from a restaurant in London whose name I forget (here is where taking notes might have been helpful).

Sorry for the imperfect picture taking; I was so impatient to eat that I didn't maneuver for a better shot.

The finished plate:

All in all, a lovely meal—the chicken was perfectly cooked, the potatoes nice and crispy, the salad an enjoyable accompaniment (I might have gone with something lighter and green, for contrast; but I'm not the hugest mango fan, so I don't feel entirely qualified to comment).

When I asked Lydia what she'd learned, she said that next time she'd use the Zuni method, but dispense with the oil, because it wasn't needed; and she'd also leave out the garlic, which didn't cook through or influence the flavor at all. (She said the same about the lemon, but I disagree. The chicken had a slight lemony taste to me, which I always like in my roast chicken.) Plus she's learned more about her oven and its ideal temperatures. I'd also venture to say that she's learned which end of the chicken to stuff the lemon into, as well as what the "clear fat" is in a roasting pan and how to get rid of it, and what you do after preheating a pan. And she got a cast-iron skillet out of the deal.

Final grade: A. Well done, Lydia. I really do hope she learned from this little experiment—I'd like to think that she did, but the proof was in the cast-iron pan. The final final test someday will be to see if she can roast a chicken without any recipe at all, but I'll just have to trust that she can make that happen. When she tells me about it, I'll feel like a proud ... err, mother hen.

And now, on to the next project. Any ideas?

Now I'm just craving breadsticks.

An 86-year-old columnist for the Grand Forks Herald in North Dakota reviewed the city's new Olive Garden recently, and the review went viral today, mostly because it got picked up in Gawker, which more or less made fun of it. And then people piled on, and the columnist got interviewed -- either ironically or unironically, depending on how you read it -- by the Village Voice and other places, and ultimately this was a pretty big day for the Olive Garden, not to mention Grand Forks, ND. And 86-year-old reporters. (Go, you!)

Now, I suppose I can understand that at first people thought it was satire, because big-city denizens (by which I mean "we") are mean-spirited, pretentious people who think we know better than to eat at Olive Garden. It's certainly true, there is much better Italian food in the world than at Olive Garden. But in a town like Grand Forks, an Olive Garden is a big deal. And I hope we're not all too cynical to remember what that's like.

During my childhood in suburbia, going to someplace like the Olive Garden was a treat. Chain restaurants were the height of fine dining in my hometown, and we ate at home most of the time, so getting to eat out a chain was rare and fun. The waiters at TGI Friday's made me laugh; I couldn't wait for the pie at Marie Callendar's; I still like the Chinese chicken salad and cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. (We didn't have an Applebee's. We were deprived. But we did have a McDonald's with a statue of a horse in it.) And the Olive Garden -- those breadsticks, my god! Pillowy and dunked in garlic and butter ... I'm sorry, what's not to like?

I don't remember when my tastes changed. But a few years after moving to New York, I ended up at the Olive Garden in Times Square one day, and I looked at the menu and was stunned at how expensive it was. Yes, this was my first reaction -- not that the place was tacky or cheap, but that it was expensive. $16 for pasta? I may as well go someplace good. Then I ate the food, and it was mediocre, which meant that my palate had changed such that I could no longer enjoy the Olive Garden, and I haven't been back in more than a decade.

Side note: If there had been blogs when I'd first moved to New York, I should have done a blog on my eating habits on an editorial assistant's salary. Chains were a lifesaver back then. I have fond memories of the two-piece value meal at KFC and the 99-cent menu at Taco Bell.

But my entire point in writing this post is that in reading the articles and comments around the Olive Garden review, I have discovered that even here in New York City, until 4 pm every day, you can get unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks at Olive Garden for $6.95. I am serious. Here, look. Less than $10 to eat until you're stuffed. And I do remember that the salads were good. Doesn't this make you want to run out and eat at an Olive Garden right now? Nice job, Grand Forks Herald.

The Roast Chicken Project: Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken

After making Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken, Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken and Mark Bittman's Simplest Roast Chicken, it was time for Lydia to tackle a roast chicken that's not simple, but certainly perfect. I'm talking about the creme de la creme of roast chickens, Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken.

Nearly everyone I know who loves to cook has made the Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken, which, full disclosure, comes from the cookbook published by W. W. Norton, my former employer. I've given that cookbook to every member of my family. My mother now cooks almost all her meats "a la Judy Rodgers," meaning she salts it at least a day, if not more, before cooking. Both she and my younger brother have cooked Thanksgiving turkey this way, and my brother used to make the Zuni chicken once a week.

The Judy Rodgers method of cooking a roast chicken is a bit more involved than the "simple" recipes we've covered before. This roast chicken is predicated on a few basic tenets: 1) use a small bird, 2) dry the bird thoroughly, 3) pre-salt, to improve flavor and lock in moisture, and 4) cook at high heat (475 degrees). You pre-heat your skillet -- see, this is where Lydia's purchase of a cast-iron skillet for the last recipe comes in handy -- over the stove, place the chicken in it, then put it in the oven for 30 minutes. Flip the bird over (and because the chicken has been patted so dry, it won't stick to the skillet -- this amazes me every time it happens), roast for another 10-20 minutes, flip again, roast for another 10. Done.

Meanwhile, you're making a bread salad of crispy bread pieces and greens, dressed with a vinaigrette and topped with pine nuts and currants. The chicken's great without the bread salad, but it makes the dish different and interesting, so I told Lydia she had to make it. Confession: I got so excited about Lydia making the Zuni Cafe chicken, I made it myself a few days before she did. I have a tiny kitchen, and since I moved in I haven't much used the broiler, which is one of those under-the-stove drawer deals. After a minute, the bread caught on fire. I'm talking flames shooting skyward, the bread completely black. I scraped as much of the black parts off as I could, but my bread salad did not turn out as delicious as I've made it before. Sadness. (Chicken was lovely, though.)

Meanwhile, Lydia had already started on her chicken, pre-salting it on a Friday night and duly sending me pictures. But then life came up, and she wasn't able to make the chicken until the following Tuesday. Since the recipe calls for salting the bird one to three days in advance, and she would be leaving the chicken salted and waiting in her refrigerator for four days, I'll admit I got a little worried that the bird would last that long. But, my mom, Knower of All Things, assured me it would probably be fine; and though Lydia wasn't able to check the sell-by date because she'd already thrown away the packaging, I figured grocery stores don't really sell chickens right up to the last day, such that you'll have to cook it immediately or you'll die. Right? Well, we would just have to see.

Here's an edited-down version of the recipe, though I recommend getting your hands on the cookbook and reading the recipe in its entirety, as it's marvelously thoughtful and instructive. And away we go!

My culinary bucket list

Yesterday, I finally persuaded someone to go to Momofuku Ssam and have the duck lunch with me. It's not that people I know don't want to eat the duck lunch; it's just not the easiest thing in the world for most people to leave their offices and go have lunch in the East Village for an hour or more.

Momofuku Ssam is one of my favorite restaurants in New York, if not my actual favorite. Maybe I like the whole David Chang aesthetic, or maybe I'm just so powerfully under the sway of those damn pork buns, which cause me to go into paroxysms of ecstasy every time I bite into one. I've had them several times, and still -- every time. (I should note, I've had two pork belly bun-type concoctions that at least come close to Momofuku Ssam's, and they were at Animal in Los Angeles and Family Recipe in New York.)

Still, I'd never had the duck lunch, which was instituted only last year; and I'd wanted to go ever since I'd first read this glowing review. Yesterday, with a friend newly in town and between jobs, I was able to go. And my word, did it live up to the hype. Here, with apologies for the bad lighting, is what it looked like:

We didn't order the duck bun, though I'd like to in the future. But perhaps the best part was after we'd ordered, when the waitress came over to our table with a plate of the steamed pork buns in her hand. She told us that the kitchen had fired an extra by mistake, so she was giving it to us. Hang on. One of my favorite foods in the whole world, and she was just... giving it to us, for free, even though we hadn't asked for it but secretly wanted it all along. Is this what it's like to be a millionaire? Or in heaven?

I would provide a humorous example about angels bringing me things unbidden in heaven, but to be honest, I can't think of many things I'd want more than a Momofuku Ssam pork bun I didn't have to pay for. (Sorry for the rhyme.)

As for the duck itself, it was fantastic -- bursting with flavor, lusciously fatty, skin that was shatteringly crisp. I said to my friend, "I could eat this forever." And I might have, except of course we had to save room for Momofuku Milk Bar across the street (for once, I forwent the crack pie for the candy bar pie).

So that's another dish that's long been on my bucket list, that I can finally cross off. It got me thinking about other dishes on my culinary bucket list. I've done pretty well at eating most of the legendary dishes whose reputations loom large on the epicurean landscape. But there are a few still left, and no doubt, as each year passes, there will be even more.

Here's my culinary bucket list -- based on dishes, not just restaurants (with two exceptions) -- in vague order of how much I'm salivating to eat the dish. I'm sure I'm forgetting some. What's on yours?

Mutton Chop at Keens Steakhouse (New York)
I'm such a Peter Luger fanatic that I confess Keens wasn't even on my radar until it was re-reviewed by the Times in 2005. There hasn't been a suitable occasion for me to go since then, but I've been wanting to go, and the mutton chop is what you're supposed to get. I mean, just look at that thing. Last week someone in my Facebook feed posted a picture of it just before he devoured it, and I felt a white-hot jealousy akin to how I feel whenever I realize Ryan Gosling can never be mine.

Burger at Peter Luger (New York)
Yes, I have been to Peter Luger several times. The burger is supposed to be quite good, even extraordinary; but I can't ever bring myself not to order the steak. That'd be like traveling all the way to the Grand Canyon and then not actually looking at it because you got distracted by a nice tree. I'm sure it was a very nice tree. But it was no Grand Canyon.

Black Label Burger at Minetta Tavern (New York)
It's tough to get a table at Minetta Tavern, but I've somehow managed it three times. Twice, I couldn't resist ordering the famed Côte de Boeuf with bone marrow. Once, I got incredible crab cakes and shared the regular burger. Maybe it's the $26 price tag, or maybe it's the fact that if you're lucky enough to get a table, you feel you should order something more "special" than a burger that's so expensive. Still, next time, I'm getting it.

Burger at DB Bistro Moderne (New York)
Are you sensing a theme here? I've been to DB Bistro Moderne twice, and neither time did I pay for my meal. Why did I not take the opportunity to order the famed burger of sirloin, braised short ribs, foie gras and black truffle? Was it guilt that I'd be sticking my hosts with a bill for a $32 burger? I don't know. But I've been kicking myself ever since.

Pastrami at Langer's (Los Angeles)
I adore the pastrami at Katz's. I will defend it vehemently against all other New York pastramis. But I've heard that the pastrami at Langer's is even better -- mostly because of the bread -- and I don't doubt it could be true, but this is just something I have to find out for myself.

Pizza at Di Fara (New York)
Apparently the pizza at Di Fara is the best pizza in New York. I only know this because the people on the boards at Chowhound say so. Be that as it may, I know next to nothing about Di Fara except it's in Brooklyn somewhere, and it's not a part of Brooklyn near me, and the lines are long, and ... well, that's all I know. Someday I will get there. If I can ever find out where it is. (OK, I just looked it up. It's in Midwood, off the Q train. I am an intrepid eater, but I can tell you right now that I'm probably not taking the Q train just to eat pizza.)

Fried Chicken Dinner at Momofuku Noodle Bar (New York)
This is one of those group things you can't just decide to do; you have to get a minimum number of people together to do it. I love fried chicken, and this is supposed to be excellent fried chicken, and I craaaave it but whenever I mention this to people, they say, "Oh yeah, I've always wanted to do that!" and it never comes up again. Cowards.

Bo Ssäm at Momofuku Ssäm Bar (New York)
Momofuku Ssäm popularized the large-group dining experience in New York with their Bo Ssäm, which is a slow-cooked pork shoulder with Korean fixins; and though I've already had a whole-pig dinner (at Back Forty, for my birthday), I'm still looking forward to the day I finally get to experience the Bo Ssäm, because it sounds so fun and like such a spectacle. Runner-up: the whole pig at the Breslin.

Cheesesteak in Philadelphia
I have never been to Philadelphia. (I KNOW.) Therefore, I have never had a real Philly Cheesesteak. I would name Pat's or Geno's as my purveyor of choice, but I know some consider them touristy now, so I'd have to do some research before picking a spot. One of these days I'm going to hop on a train to Philadelphia by myself, have a cheesesteak, go to the museum, and head home.

Tempura Bacon at The Red Cat (New York)
This is probably the easiest item on my bucket list. I've just never been to Red Cat for some reason, and why wouldn't I want to eat tempura-fried bacon? C'mon.

Foie Gras Brulee at Jean Georges (New York)
As a rule, I don't eat foie gras, for ethical reasons. But I would make an exception for this, because it falls under the Allowable Exclusions Act: "I'm on vacation," "Someone else ordered it," "The host served it to me and it'd be rude not to eat it," and "It's famous."

Po-Boy at Mother's (New Orleans)
There's no good reason I've never been to Mother's -- the line, maybe? But I've only been to New Orleans twice as an adult, so obviously there were a ton of other places we had to go. It's possible the po-boys here aren't even that good anymore, but it's just one of those things I want to try. Also: the fried chicken at Dookie Chase, since I went to Willie Mae's last time.

Ricotta Pancakes at Locanda Verde (New York)
I love Locanda Verde, but I've only been there for dinner. It's said they have a great brunch, and many speak highly of the ricotta pancakes. That's... um, all I have to say about that, since I'm not normally a huge pancakes fan.

Anything at French Laundry (Yountville, CA) or Per Se (New York)
Sometimes I despair that I will ever eat at French Laundry or Per Se. I've wanted to eat at French Laundry for, what, 15 years now? More? But it's not so convenient for me these days, and no matter how I look at it, I simply cannot justify spending $300 or $400 or whatever it is on dinner at Per Se. This is just going to have to go on my "if I ever win the lottery" list or my "if I'm dying and decide to blow all my money on decadent food" list. Which is sort of what a bucket list is anyway, right?

The Roast Chicken Project: Mark Bittman's Simplest Roast Chicken

For Lydia's third roast chicken, I wanted a recipe that involved either turning the chicken, or playing with oven temperature. I decided to go with Mark Bittman's "Minimalist's Simplest Roast Chicken" recipe, which calls for placing an oiled chicken in a heated cast-iron skillet, roasting the chicken at 500 degrees, then turning the oven down to 350 degrees. Putting the chicken in a heated pan starts the legs cooking before the breast, and lowering the heat then prevents the breast from overcooking.

The problem: Lydia didn't have a cast-iron skillet, or any other skillet that you can put in the oven. And a roasting pan wasn't going to conduct the same amount of heat. I was going to start searching for another recipe, but then Lydia, dedicated project-er that she is, cheerfully volunteered to buy one. (Which is good, because recipe #4 is going to require a cast-iron skillet, too. It's also good because cast-iron skillets are wonderful things to have.)

Here is her bounty, a 12-inch Lodge:

Congratulations on the newest addition to your kitchen, Lydia! May you get years and years of enjoyment out of it. A cast-iron skillet is excellent, as my brother pointed out, for making panini ... or, as a colleague pointed out, for bashing a mouse with it and killing it dead.

Mandatory side dishes this time: green beans, again (using a different method than the sauteeing of the first project); and roasted potatoes, via the parboil-then-roast method suggested by my brother Brian. I made these recently and they were incredible -- they turned out almost like big, crispy + fluffy french fries. It probably did not hurt that I followed his instructions and used bacon fat. But then, how many things are ruined by adding bacon fat? Um, none, that's how many.

And now, on to the project.

Roast Chicken #2: Ina Garten

Roast Chicken #1: Thomas Keller

Ed. note: Good girl!

Ed note: I did not see any of these texts until this point, as I was out doing karaoke for a friend's birthday. My version of Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones" killed. Anyway, here I saw the texts and suggested she cut into the thigh to see if the juices ran clear.

Ed. note: Maybe...

Ed note: I suggested that next time she blanche instead of parboil. Me, I usually dispense with the blanching and just saute the hell out of mine, steaming them a bit at the end... but then I like mine a little burned, Chinese-style.

So there you have it. New cast-iron skillet, "best so far" chicken, amazing potatoes! Unfortunately, during the process I couldn't help Lydia much with whether the chicken was done or not, as I couldn't tell from the pictures -- it looked good to me, but hard to say. I'm going to guess that opening the oven door frequently may have thrown the cooking off a little. But I don't really mind if the breast meat is a touch pink.

I don't have a recipe for chicken salad; I just add mayo, maybe some pickles or celery, with possible additions of walnuts, apple, raisins, even a little salad dressing. (Usually just mayo if that's all I've got. I still dig it.) I think this is just one of those things you have to do a few times, sans recipe, until you figure out what proportions you like -- it's certainly something my mom had me make when I was younger, and I didn't even realize I was learning a skill. But I'll try looking for a recipe anyway. My question to you: What do you like to add when you make chicken salad?

Coming up next time: Yes, you guessed it, I'll be throwing the Zuni Cafe roast chicken with bread salad at Lydia. Probably won't add sides at all, unless any of you can think of some (besides potatoes and green beans) that would go well with that. But I think the bread salad should be plenty. And I may even make it alongside her, just because I love it so much.

The Roast Chicken Project: Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken

In my last post, I forgot to mention the turducken -- a critical omission on my part. Yes, in future years, my family and friends may refer to 2011 as "the year we made turducken," as we did indeed accomplish this feat of cooking a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey. Here it is:

And now, onto Roast Chicken #2.

As a reminder, I'm trying to teach Lydia to master the roast chicken by cooking several different variations, one a week. Last week was Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken. This week's was Ina Garten's, aka the Barefoot Contessa (is she really ever barefoot?) on the Food Network.

The assignment I gave Lydia was to cook Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken. It's oh so different than Thomas Keller's -- rub things on the skin! stuff things inside! put vegetables underneath! Thomas Keller and his minimalist bird would faint dead away. My only instructions were to cook the recipe, and also to make potatoes, whether separately via my brother Brian's parboiling method or in the pan itself. (Note to Brian: I tried this and the bacon-wrapped James Beard roast chicken, and neither turned out great. Remind me to tell you later.)

Lydia was excited about doing an Ina Garten recipe. So she purchased the chicken Ina called for -- 5 to 6 pounds, which shocked me; what does she think she's going to put in there? -- and away she went.

Editor's note: At this I was confused. Didn't Lydia realize she was texting me? Why did she just address me in the third person? Then I realized, aaaahh, she's not writing to me, she's writing to THE BLOG. Carry on.

Well done, Lydia and Ina! Looking forward to the next one, I am contemplating recipes that call for turning, or for stuffing herbs under the skin, or lowering the temperature at a certain point, or butterflying. Or I could just give Lydia the original super-simple roast chicken recipe my mom gave me. Thoughts? Please let me have 'em!

The Roast Chicken Project: Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken

It's no secret that I don't think of myself as a great cook -- or at least, I'm not as good a cook as I am an eater. My mother and my brothers inherited the "inventive chef" gene, but I'm not nearly confident enough to whip up dishes the way they do.

I suppose it doesn't help that when you're single, cooking for yourself can get kind of boring. It also didn't help that when I was younger and my mom was in the kitchen, I'd be in my room with my nose stuffed in a book, and would only come upstairs at the last minute, in time to make salad. (I was always disappointed that there wasn't anything left to saute, which I considered far more exciting; but for some reason I didn't quite work out that offering to help earlier might someday work to my benefit. Plus, no doubt my mother didn't trust her clueless bookworm anywhere near the stove. I wouldn't have.)

The fact that I have to follow recipes, and often have to keep consulting them even after I've made a dish multiple times, always struck me as an essential cooking failure. Still, I know the basics -- "how to boil water," etc. -- and it wasn't until recently that I understood that knowing even that much sets me apart from people who don't cook at all.

Years ago, when I met my friend Lydia, she professed that she didn't cook. Since then, she's taken numerous cooking classes, and in fact I've eaten one of the gourmet meals she learned how to make -- it was delicious. But when we shared a vacation rental in Barbados, I noticed that there were certain fundamentals that weren't part of her cooking vocabulary, like how some vegetables might cook at different speeds. It occurred to me that when it comes to learning how to cook, there's nothing quite like doing the boring basics repeatedly, not to mention trying things a lot, and failing a lot (and oh, I fail a lot).

Lydia was in search of a project, so I suggested she learn how to make one of the simplest, most wonderful dishes there is to make: roast chicken. It's not the easiest thing to master. I've made a lot of roast chicken in my day, and I can do it off-book, but I'm always looking for new ways to do it, and I still fail at it one out of every three times. I remembered that my younger brother (a great cook) once told me he was making a roast chicken every week, just to perfect the technique.

Lydia and I have agreed on this: Every week, she'll have to make a roast chicken from a recipe I will send her. She has to make whatever sides I dictate, too. Supplying her with any number of recipes won't be a problem, as I've got loads of them clipped and bookmarked. The problem for me will be narrowing it down to just four. (I already know what the last one is going to be -- and if you know me, then you know what it's going to be, too.) After she's made those four roast chicken recipes, she'll have to roast a chicken by herself, with no recipe at all.

We started with the basic recipe that I use as my go-to, Thomas Keller's "Favorite Simple Roast Chicken." There's really nothing to it, the only quirk being that he uses high heat to roast, whereas not all such recipes do. I also love that he waxes rhapsodic about eating a wing and the chicken butt immediately, which I totally do standing up at the cutting board, and now no longer have to feel guilty about (Thomas Keller does it, too! and he's a master!).

I gave Lydia her assignment, which was to make the chicken along with two sides, in this case roasted potatoes and green beans. And she had to document the process with pictures and descriptions, which she did, texting me photos and commentary at every step. Will she learn, not just during this first step of the cooking project, but over the next four installments? We'll see. And if you have any roast chicken recipes you think she absolutely has to try, let me know in the comments. Note: I'm giving her a pass this next week, since it's Christmas.

So now I'll turn the blog over to guest blogger Lydia and her pictures and texts. Take it away, Lydia! (I cut out most of what I texted back, but my occasional commentary is in green.)

[Ed. note: Next time, she doesn't get to use a thermometer.]

[Ed. note: I forgot to take a screengrab of this text, but here Lydia informed me that she'd decided to make "spicy blackened green beans."]

So how do you think Lydia did? For a first try, I think she did pretty well, myself.

Man cannot live on sodium-free bread alone

The next time I'm looking for an apartment, number one of my list of criteria is going to be "bedroom can't have a streetlight directly outside the window."

Blergarrrrgh.

A quick note about the Great Sodium Cleanse of 2011. I've cut way back on prepared and processed foods (Trader Joe's, sob -- I even gave away my unopened jar of curry simmer sauce, so that it wouldn't tempt me) and takeout (I miss you, Seamless!), and though that's something I probably should have done anyway, it also means I've been forced to use my kitchen a lot more, which has been an interesting challenge. Story for another day. And I've been using less salt in cooking, sometimes even -- gasp! -- none, though mostly what I'll do is cook without adding salt, then add a teeny bit of finishing salt at the table. I'm using low-sodium soy sauce, and only half of what I would normally use. I've tried not to add salt to side dishes at all, when bearable. Look, I'm trying.

But despite my efforts, and despite the fact that I've cut back and my taste buds haven't shriveled up and died, there is still quite a lot of pain involved. 

Exhibit A: sodium-free bread. I bought this at Trader Joe's, and have been trying it for the past couple days. It's weird. It tastes like tin. Me no like it. Apparently, bread really needs salt. Now you know.

Exhibit B: sardines, which I love, have sodium. Not a lot, but they are preserved and canned, so it's not like they make sodium-free sardines. I had some the other day but felt guilty about it.

Exhibit C: It is really, really hard for me not to have soy sauce. Even though it's the low-sodium kind, using it in cooking -- which I've been doing -- is probably wrecking all my hard sodium-reducing work. But I can't help it! I love soy sauce, OK? I'm Asian.

Exhibit D, E, et al.: I walked down the frozen-foods aisle of the grocery store the other day and started pulling out frozen dinners just to see what the sodium content was. EGADS. It shouldn't have come as a shock to me that these things were loaded with sodium, but it still kind of did. Not that I ever eat frozen dinners, but I am inordinately fond of Swanson's turkey pot pies for lunch, and it turns out that each one contains 750 mg of sodium. Considering you're only supposed to have a maximum of 2,300 mg per day, that's a lot.

So no more Swanson's turkey pot pies for me. Other things I can't have: hot dogs, cold cuts, Popeyes fried chicken (990 mg for the leg + thigh, 500 mg for the biscuit), cheese... sigh. I have to stop. This is depressing me.

But don't worry, I'm still going to reward myself for all this sacrifice by going out to dinner once in a while. If I have to choose between treating myself to a fab dinner at Zabb Elee (awesome and authentic Thai food) and eating a Swanson's turkey pot pie, I'll take Zabb Elee in a New York minute.

And incidentally, since I started all this, my blood pressure has gone down -- though I'm still not sure if it's the sodium reduction, the diuretic my dad gave me in L.A., the herbal pills my sister-in-law gave me, or my new rule that requires me to get out of the damn apartment (and/or exercise) once a day. Maybe all of the above?

The price of salt

 A little over a week ago, I went to my doctor's office to get a prescription refilled. She looked at my chart and told me she was going to take my blood pressure, since the last time I'd been in, it had been on the high side.

I had no memory of that, but sure. The doctor's office is such foreign territory for me. I generally do what I'm told.

She soon informed me, with slightly furrowed brow, that my blood pressure was even higher now, and that this was a cause for concern. She told me that before putting me on medication, she would have to "prove" that my blood pressure was high, and therefore I would have to buy a blood pressure monitor and take my blood pressure twice a day for two weeks.

What was all this? Medication? Twice a day what now?

Buried in confusion, I asked her what causes high blood pressure. It can be any number of things, she said. Sometimes it's genetics, she said, sometimes alcohol, sometimes stress.

Well, I've been incredibly stressed for the past seven months, I said. No reaction. Instead she handed me a sheet instructing me how to monitor my blood pressure, and then another one about adopting a low-sodium diet, saying that I needed to cut down on salt.

I still seemed to be in some kind of denial. "Oh, I don't eat that much salt," I said. 

"Well, everyone can do better. And you're the type of person who has just a little and it affects you a lot." (How would she know that?) "Now, it's going to be painful at first, but eventually you won't even miss the salt and in fact everything else will taste salty."

I sort of went, "mm-hmm," but barely registered what she said, as I was thinking, "This cannot apply to me; I don't eat that much salt." After all, I'm not one of those people who adds salt to everything the minute it's served, or even particularly likes salty foods. I looked at the sheet. The first thing I read was, "When cooking: Put away the salt shaker and reduce or eliminate salt in cooking." 

Um, what?

I'm going to admit something I hadn't realized about myself before: I am not all that good with doctors. I haven't had many health problems in my life, and I don't tend to go to the doctor's office when I get sick -- probably because my dad is a doctor, and as a child of a physician you're used to being told, "It's nothing." (Which it usually is. People who insist on getting antibiotics when they have a stuffy nose and a cough are ridiculous.) (Side note: I worry I'm going to die like Jim Henson someday.)

Therefore, when confronted with an actual health concern, I didn't react well. I got defensive. I was, in fact, downright rude.

"Don't cook with salt? At all?" I said. "I can't do that."

"Like I said, it'll be painful at first," she said, "but after a while you won't even notice the difference."

OK, hold it right there. I'm sorry, but I love food, and even though I don't use salt liberally, it still brings out the flavor in food, and don't tell me I wouldn't notice. I WOULD NOTICE. Could I stand to cut down? Sure. Is it important to be aware of the salt content in food? Absolutely. But "put away the salt shaker"? (Note: I don't actually use a salt shaker. I keep kosher salt in a tiny dish, and sprinkle it with my fingers.) 

Cooking without salt was something I simply could not fathom. I tried envisioning making steak without salt. Roast chicken. Stews. How am I supposed to make Chinese food if I can't use soy sauce? I imagined "Top Chef" judge Tom Coliccho looking at me with scorn. No salt? It's not an exaggeration to say I saw everything I stood for slowly slipping away. 

In the doctor's office, I was sputtering. "Do you cook?" I asked her. (This is the "I was rude" part.)

"I ... sure, I cook," she said. (My silent reaction: She probably doesn't cook. See, I was even rude on the inside.)

Mouth agape, I turned back to the sheet. The second thing I read: "When eating out at a restaurant: Request the food be prepared without salt...."

Whoa. I recoiled as if I'd touched something nasty. I would never sit down at Momofuku Ssam or Maialino and ask, "And could you please prepare my food without salt?" Oh, the humiliation. It wasn't going to happen. Therefore, I guess I ... gasp ... can't eat out.

Somewhere in all of this I pointed out to her that I was out of shape and knew it. I said it more than once. Let me see if I can break this down for you: I, who hates to work out, was eagerly, almost desperately offering to exercise rather than eliminate salt from my diet. (Her response: I wasn't overweight, so it didn't matter.) This surprised me. I would have thought that I'd have a harder time cutting fat from my diet than salt, but when faced with what cutting salt from my diet would entail -- becoming an old lady overnight, essentially -- I melted down.

Since then, I have not only been monitoring my blood pressure twice a day (with varying results), but I've also been thinking a lot about salt. It's true, I'd been ordering more takeout and buying more Trader Joe's prepared foods lately, since I haven't fully set up my Incredibly Shrinking Kitchen yet. Obviously that's a huge source of sodium. Bye-bye, Trader Joe's, I barely knew ye. 

But after my initial defensive reaction, now I see salt everywhere. I went out for lunch, and though I prudently requested salad dressing on the side, we also got a burger, fries and onion rings. Blood pressure FAIL. That same night, I had dinner out, and there was not a single thing on the menu that I could have ordered without a lot of salt in it. I asked the bartender several questions about the salt content of menu items, and he seemed unconcerned about my dilemma. In fact, I could tell he was now looking at me as a problem diner. That's what I am now. I'm Sally, from "When Harry Met Sally," except instead of asking for everything on the side, I'm yammering on about salt.

Yesterday I went to see "Breaking Dawn," and my sister-in-law ordered a big bag of popcorn, with the requisite butter and salt on it. I love movie popcorn. Mo' butter, mo' better. She asked me to hold the bag for a second, and I cradled it, staring at the kernels as I forced myself to resist. Meanwhile, on-screen, Rosalie was gazing hungrily at Bella covered in blood, and she had to be forcibly dragged away. I sympathized.

"You need to stop obsessing," my mother told me. Well, this is what I do. I obsess. And that, I guess, is what my doctor doesn't know about me: Tell me matter-of-factly that something's wrong with me, and that my only recourse is to cut down on salt, then by God, I'm going to start obsessing about being the best salt-cutter-outer in the world. It's the A student in me. Of course now I'm also obsessing, and stressing, about how high my blood pressure is, and about wanting to improve on the results, which -- of course -- has only been driving my blood pressure steadily upward.

In the end I'll have to learn to balance my health concerns with an obsession that's driving me batty and probably decreasing my quality of life. If I eliminate salt from my diet, then maybe I'll be less likely to have a stroke, but how happy will I be eating nothing but bland foods? I tried cooking zucchini the other day with no salt and plenty of thyme. I took a bite. It tasted like baby food.

It looks like even my obsession may have an expiration date, though. Last night, after a week of asking "Is there salt in this?" about every dish mentioned or placed in front of me, I was at my brother's house (re)watching "Bridesmaids." My brother handed me a bowl of freshly popped popcorn. "Is there salt in this?" I asked. Yes, he said, there's some salt. I paused and stared down at the bowl, then popped a kernel in my mouth. It was delicious.

The conversations you have with yourself about packing

It's funny -- not "haha" funny, more like "you belong in a funny farm" funny -- the conversations you have with yourself when you're trying to pack up your apartment, and decide which of your things you're not going to see for a while. For example:

 

Me: Could I live without my pasta pot?

Myself: Sure, maybe.

Me: OK, putting it in the box...

Myself: No. Hang on. Wait, I don't think I can...

Me: Are you insane?

Myself: I use it all the time!

Me: It's a pot and a strainer.

Myself: I love my pasta pot! It is awesome. And what if packing it makes me stop cooking pasta? Pasta is cheap and easy! I should be making more cheap and easy meals. Stop! DON'T PUT IT IN THE BOX.

Me: Sigh.

 

***

 

Me: I can live without the salad spinner, right? 

Myself: Sure. I mean I've used it twice in a year.

Me: Fine. That one's easy.

Myself: Wait.

Me: Oh Christ.

Myself: Well, I've used it twice in the past month -- once I remembered I owned a salad spinner. And it made me eat greens, so that was good. It made me feel virtuous. So... maybe don't pack it yet?

Me: You are a moron.

 

***

 

Me: Wow, I have too many books.

Myself: Yes, once I pack them all I will feel as though I've made progress.

Me: All these big, heavy hardcovers are going straight into boxes.

Myself: Oh, totally. But wait. Don't pack Infinite Jest.

Me: ARE YOU INSANE?

Myself: Well, I was just saying last week that maybe I would read it soon. Didn't you hear me? Last week?

Me: Yes, but it's like, 3,000 pages long, and 20 pounds.

Myself: But I might read it! Soon!

Me: You say that every year.

Myself: What if I pack it, and then I am sitting here with nothing to do because I already packed everything, and I think, now I finally want to start Infinite Jest, but oh no, I packed it, and now I am filled with regret? 

Me: So rather than pack it, you're seriously going to carry this behemoth around with you in your suitcase?

Myself: Maybe.

Me: Sigh.