Taste This………


 

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Ewwwww, this taste rancid!  Oh my Gawd, I think I’m gonna be sick, taste it!

 

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must I try something that makes you sick.?  Not only do I trust your judgement, I trust your taste buds.

 

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do you insist that I get sick too.   Is it some twisted initiation to some club were we vomit as a group?

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So If you come at me with a fork or spoon.  Insisting that I join you in your taste horror, I will not be responsible for what happens next !

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CityFella

 

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Zimbabwe: Kentucky Fried Chicken stores out of chicken and cash


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Leading fast-food chains in Zimbabwe have shut their doors as the cash crunch in the country worsens – just two months after President Emmerson Mnangagwa won elections.

KFC put up notices at its branches in the capital, Harare, and the second city, Bulawayo, saying they would remain closed “during these difficult times” until further notice.

“This is due to the fact that we are unable to source stock from our suppliers as they require US dollars. We are doing everything possible to resume trade as soon as possible,” the notice said.

St Elmos pizza outlet said it had shut its branches for the same reason, adding that it would use the time to do some deep cleaning and repairs .

Chicken Inn ran out of chicken on Tuesday, and it was unclear when they will get supplies again, the state-run Chronicle newspaper reported.

Some phramacies were also shut in Bulawayo, it added.

Last week, Zimbabwe’s Financial Gazette newspaper reported that many retail shops were running out of some essential goods because of foreign currency shortages.

Zimbabwe abandoned its own currency in 2009, adopting the use of foreign cash. The government issued its own version of dollars called “bond notes” in 2016 to ease the continuing cash shortage, but they have rapidly lost their value.

Denmark to label food according to effect on climate


Denmark to label food according to effect on climate

New labeling on food packaging will enable consumers in Denmark to see the effect of their shopping on the environment.

 

Food products will be marked with stickers showing their environmental impact, according to a proposal expected to be included in a new climate package to be presented by the government this week.

“We want to give consumers the means to assess in supermarkets the environmental impact of products,” Minister for the Environment Lars Christian Lilleholt said.

Business interest group the Danish Agriculture & Food Council (DAFC) welcomed the proposal, but said a number of considerations must be made.

“It might be necessary to weigh up the environmental impact against the nutritional value of the product. A bottle of soda may have a low environmental impact, but it is not a product you can live on,” DAFC director Morten Høyer said via a press statement.

Lilleholt agreed that the plan to implement environmental labeling on food products carried a number of challenges, but stressed the importance of providing consumers with information.

“My impression is that there is a demand for knowledge about how individual consumers can contribute to improving world climate,” the minister said.

Based on voluntary climate markings on food packaging, the government will launch a campaign to make it easier for consumers to make climate-friendly choices, according to the plan.

The initiative will involve a collaboration with supermarkets.

“I will enter into dialogue with the retail sector, butchers and other food producers to open a discussion about how we can implement this in a way that would enable the climate labeling to work,” Lilleholt said.

 

The Local

Mayonnaise Ice Cream Exists and It Might Be Brilliant


Wait!  Now here Us Out 

We now exist on the same physical plane as mayonnaise ice cream, and it’s either ingenious or the end of all mankind.

An ice cream shop in Falkirk, Scotland, debuted an ice cream made with Hellmann’s “real” mayonnaise, immediately sparking debate across social media about just how terrible this concept is. As some people pointed out, mayonnaise is sometimes used in recipes, especially for baked goods, for tanginess and a creamy texture. As other people pointed out, gross.

Debates aside, this mayonnaise ice cream might be perfect for exactly one thing: dipping french fries. French fries taste like heaven dipped in soft serve, their greasy, salty flavor complemented by the ice cream’s sweetness. (If you haven’t tried this, get yourself to a McDonald’s or Wendy’s drive-thru ASAP.) And as most of Europe can tell you, fries go better with mayonnaise than they do with ketchup. Put the ice cream and mayo together, and you might just achieve food nirvana.

For what it’s worth, the ice cream shop’s owner told the Today show that the dessert is a “full on hit of fat and cream followed with an eggy milky aftertaste.”

What’s next, sour cream sundaes?

By: Sarah Rense/Esquire 

 

 

I hate cooking with my mom, but she can’t make fried chicken to save her life, so that’s what I make


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If your mom is an awful cooking partner (like mine), find a recipe she can’t participate in and hand her a cocktail

By: Bex Brian/Salon
For years whenever my mother left her Manhattan apartment and came to visit me in Brooklyn (which she called the country) she’d arrive disheveled and completely rattled, as if the number 2 train was a Wild West stagecoach wresting her from the safe confines of the city and plunking her down amongst the savages. Falling through the door, she’d whisper, “Get me a drink, darling.” Revived somewhat by a potent gin and tonic, she’d stare out across the low expanse longingly to the sun-blazed city so recently abandoned, and ask me what I intended to make her for dinner. It was at this point that I’d reach for my own bottle.

As children we merely bored her. As teenagers we bored her and frightened her. The problem now was, as adults, she had grown to like us, well, at least to need us, and that had totally thrown her for a loop. Which isn’t to say she was ready to let her guard down. One of us, at any moment, could suddenly marry a banker and start talking nonstop about derivatives. So far my sisters and I had resisted that urge, which didn’t leave her much to be bored by or critical of, except when we cooked. Her barrage of suggestions, her horror at technique, her scold would have me doubting my very existence, which was ridiculous because, empirically, I am a far better cook than she ever was. Every once in a while I would try to get her to back off, but she’d merely sniff and say she was only trying to help.

When she moved out to L.A. I can’t tell you the freedom I felt cutting my onions into slices instead of dicing them, using butter for sautéing instead of oil, and peeling my garlic like it was a fragrant pearl rather than smashing it as if it were a cockroach scurrying across my cutting board.

Being a good daughter, I do drag myself out to the coast to visit my mother once a year. And, as we’re not willing to just sit and stare at each other, I cook while she comments.

But this year I had a spark of inspiration. I would make something so far from my mother’s own experience that there would be no toehold for her muttered asides. “Really? Is that the best way to knead that dough?” Or, “If you leave that a moment longer you’re going to scorch it.” Or, “You sure you know what you’re doing? That much salt? You’ll ruin it. But go ahead, see for yourself.”

I told her that I was going to make fried chicken. Now I know fried chicken does not sound earth-shatteringly original, but my mother is a Cockney woman who migrated to Canada, where I was born. Fish and chips maybe. But fried chicken?

Never.

The chicken was great but the method was far too involved for the sort of cook I am and, since I do 99.9 percent of the cooking in our house, and since I’m just competitive enough to want to see if I could best his first attempt, I had to figure out how to do it with a lot less fuss.

At first I went the buttermilk marinade route, but didn’t like the texture it gave the chicken. I also tried cooking in high-heat oils, but then I would be in a panic turning the heat up or down trying to get an even boil. But eventually I hit on a version that suits my cooking temperament, which I would describe as a slapdash maniac with a decent palate.

With mother sitting in a chair in the middle of my sister’s kitchen, I began to assemble all that I needed. She watched with a gimlet eye as I dumped copious amounts of spice into my flour. I could see her craning her neck, but without any first-hand knowledge, she was rendered mute. When I pulled out my two-day dry-brined chicken cut into what I guess you could call hacked in the Chinese style pieces, she was too confused to offer a critique.

An hour or so later I placed a platter piled high with perfectly cooked fried chicken on the table, along with a cabbage salad laced with French Feta cheese and bowls of honey in which slices of Serrano peppers had marinated through the afternoon.

My whole family dove in. And soon I heard what every cook wants to hear, the groan of pure pleasure. My mother, though, had yet to pick up a piece. I didn’t blame her. After all, she had had no hand in its creation. Eventually, her hunger won out, and she begrudgingly grabbed a thigh. I can’t swear I saw a slight smile, but I am willing myself to believe that I did.

Recipe for Fried Chicken

Ingredients

Chicken: cut into 10 pieces, pat dry and heavily salt under the skin using Kosher or good sea salt (I like Maldon); leave uncovered in the fridge overnight or up to two days.

  • 3 cups white flour
  • 3 teaspoons cayenne pepper
  • 3 teaspoons Hungarian paprika
  • 1 teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1 teaspoon adobo
  • 6  Egg whites, more if need,
  • Olive oil, not extra virgin.

Method

Stir in cayenne and paprika; the flour should definitely have a reddish hue. Then the garlic powder and adobo. Adjust for taste. Many people sneer at flavor enhancers, but this is fried chicken; no point in getting snobby.

Dip chicken in flour, then egg whites (I like just the whites; the chicken has a lighter feel and more of a crackle without the yolk) then flour again. Heat the oil. It’s ready when you throw in a tiny edge of chicken skin and it quickly sizzles to the top. Cook in small batches until done, about 10 to 15 minutes per batch.

Keep warm on a wire rack in oven (200 degrees) until ready to serve.

Very much not New York pizza


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A recipe for pizza toast in Atlanta starts out as cold comfort, then provides a path forward

By: Julia Bainbridge/Salon.com

I checked the weather app on my iPhone as soon as my plane touched the ground in Georgia. It registered 89 degrees. Hours before, I finished a cup of coffee in a drizzly Manhattan and hugged my friend goodbye, and when I discovered the app’s findings, I texted her a screenshot. “Jealous!” she responded.   I abhor the heat.

Rummaging through the refrigerator in the apartment I’ve lived in for just over a year, I found sliced sourdough bread, tomato sauce, and mozzarella cheese that I had shredded and stored in a plastic container. I toasted the bread and then layered on the tomato sauce, which I mixed with a tablespoon of an Indian-style tomato condiment that another friend makes (and sells through her company Brooklyn Delhi) and then the mozzarella, which I melted under my oven’s broiler. It was a kind of pizza, I guess; pizza toast, let’s call it. It was fine. It was dinner that night.

Four nights earlier, I had ordered a New York pizza. It was a New York pizza in style — generous in diameter, with a thin, crisp but pliable crust — but also in fact. I was in New York and I ordered a pizza. It was a New York pizza because it was baked, sliced, delivered and, ultimately, devoured in New York. Hundreds of pizzas were simultaneously being delivered within a couple miles of me, and they were all New York pizzas.

This particular one arrived in a 20-inch cardboard box via a slender man named Weiqun. The time was 10:30 p.m. on Wednesday, and as I stood on the sidewalk in my silk pajama set waiting for Weiqun to unzip his insulated carrying case, I noticed a handsome brown leather briefcase to my left. Following the navy pant leg of its owner up to his face, I saw a late twenty-something man leaning against the brick facade of my friend’s apartment building, wrapping up a phone call about some business deal or another. Whether or not he does so ironically, I was charmed to discover that at least one millennial carries a briefcase to work.

For 30 seconds, Weiqun, the millennial financier and I were subjected (happily, in my case) to the synthesizers in Rihanna’s ragamuffin-style “Rude Boy” trilling out of the speakers of the boombox affixed to the back of Weiqun’s bicycle seat and onto Thompson Street. Once the pizza box reached my hand, off I went to the fifth floor.

As for the aforementioned devouring, it was done properly, by New York standards: My right-hand thumb and pinkie finger pushed together the two vertices on either side of the crust edge of each cheese-topped triangle, folding it in half lengthwise. I ate three slices, standing at my friend’s kitchen counter while streaming a Netflix documentary about early 90s-era club kid (and criminal) Michael Alig on my laptop.

 

I thought of that pizza as I plodded around my kitchen in Atlanta and ate my pizza toast in silence, watching the sluggish sway of dogwood trees billowing with flowers through my living room window. Visions of Weiqun came to me, as did flickers of Rihanna’s steel drums. My pizza toast tasted better after the first three bites, as I remembered my New York pizza and the scenario involved in acquiring it. Sometimes pleasure can be had in eating something so unlike the other that, in comparing the two, they’re both with you. The tomato achaar’s black mustard seeds revealed themselves, then the fenugreek. Tamarind! Gosh, I haven’t cooked with tamarind for a while, I thought as I reached the center of the slice. By the time I finished it, I was searching for tamarind recipes on my laptop. The next night I used the fruit’s pulp in a warming and garlicky chickpea curry, something I’d never made before.

New York City, where I lived for ten years, is a dirty, difficult place with endless potential for magic. About once a quarter, most New Yorkers wonder aloud where else they might move. I could have a yard in Nashville. I could afford a second bedroom in Portland. I could own a bed and breakfast in Maine. I could run an heirloom squash farm upstate. In the end, they usually stay. A piece of the reason why is that they feel a part of a phenomenal and phenomenally twisted club. Loving New York for the energy it provides and the willingness to sacrifice so much else for that energy is a very specific taste. Are you wacked enough to immerse yourself in it? So am I. Let’s play.

I left, and I’ll probably return. I say “probably” because, in this year away, a year that forced me into saying I’m in my mid and not early thirties, I’ve grown used to the ease of being able to seat eight guests comfortably at a table in my dining room. I’ve enjoyed the company of less rapacious men, men actually seeking committed relationships. And I’ve had the room to, instead of hustling to pay rent, try new things, like making chickpea curry from scratch. Twenty percent of me still isn’t sure I want to return to carrying my laundry two blocks once a week or engaging in months of flirtatious texts that lead nowhere over and over again. Another thirty percent of me is curious to see what else I might get up to with the time I have now, time that used to be taken up scraping New York’s dirt off of me at the end of each day.

I’ll spend the summer touring Minneapolis, Chicago, Austin, San Francisco and most places in between as I research for a book. Pizza toast will appear here and there to fuel me, I’m sure. Maybe in Philadelphia, I’ll make it on a hoagie roll. Maybe in Los Angeles, I’ll get my hands on some of that tomato achaar and make a version that’s close to my Atlanta original. I’ll think of my kitchen in Georgia and all of other the things I cooked there. And I bet when I order New York pizza, those flavors will be with me.

 

Pizza Toast

Serves 1

1 slice sourdough bread

1 tablespoon tomato sauce (or whatever your desired amount for spreading)

Shredded mozzarella cheese (usually about 1/4 cup, depending on your mood)

Optional toppings: flaky sea salt, black pepper, red pepper flakes or dried oregano

Place bread on a sheet pan. Broil on both sides until golden.

Spread one side with tomato sauce and top with cheese. Broil once more until the cheese is melted.

Serve immediately.

Clean Hands


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Remember that Seinfeld episode, where he was on date with a woman who’s father owned a restaurant.  At one point, Seinfeld went into the restroom and this man used the urinal and left without washing his hands.   Then the man turned out to the father of his date, who owned the restaurant.    The father went on to make them a pizza by hand and Jerry Seinfeld refused to eat the pie.    I can relate.

I would guess more than 60 percent of men bypass the sinks as they conclude their business.  I’m not a surgeon, but I wash my hands like one.  I often take several wash towels to open those doors that require turning or pulling. After all, I’ve invested time washing, drying to have it all undone by an unclean handle.

SHOCK HORROR!

I recently learn that many women bypass the wash basins too.

For years, I gave women a pass but with this resent news, they have made the list.

While I don’t think I’m a germaphobe, but I have phobe tendencies. I tend to avoid most finger foods at parties unless I’m first.  If there is a bucket of chicken and tongs aren’t available, I will use a napkin.  However, if that chicken has been picked over put a fork in this party goer, I’m done!        No Chicken for me!

Like Jerry, if I witness an unclean action by the cook, its ovah.   I’ve witnessed a mother wipe her sons nose with her fingers as she was putting out the bread.  I faked an illness-“Flash Pneumonia”and crawled to my car and to freedom.  If it weren’t for the Altoids in my car, I might have starved to death!

I live alone and yet I wash my hands when I handle my personal food.  Who knows I might have guest. It out of respect for them.   Clean hands, its important!

CityFella