Alpha Whiskey's Open Salon Blog

Breaking Bread

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 14:04:48 -0400

This girl made bread. From scratch. (On a Saturday night. Yeah I know, RAISE THE ROOF.)

This isn’t completely unheard of since I love to cook. (Last fall, I baked approximately twelve loaves of pumpkin and banana bread, so this ain’t the first pan I’ve greased.) But bread-bread, you know, the kind for a sandwich or to mop up broth from a thick, savory soup, the kind that calls for yeast, the kind you knead until your arms are sore? Even though different than my usual dessert-type loaves, this was a first.

It all started with a craving. But as I stood in the bread section, reading the label of my favorite multi-seed loaf, I was reminded that even the fancy-pants “healthy” bread from Whole Foods contains quite the roster of ingredients. Despite the use of words like organic, all-natural, first born, WHATEVER, for a super basic staple like bread, it sure contained a lot of stuff.

I’ve grown leery of bagged bread over the years for this reason. And its ability to survive on my counter as long as 3 weeks before it spoiled.

I abandoned my regular loaf and considered pita as an alternative. With only a handful of ingredients (water, salt, yeast, and flour) it seemed like a healthier choice. Better on the health factor but one pita flat contained 200 calories. Even though one slice of bread roughly the same size is in the neighborhood of 150, depending on the type, that seemed high. I tossed the pitas back.

I’m not a calorie counter, and I do love pita bread, so I suppose what ultimately compelled me to return my usual loaf and the pitas to the shelf and moved me to the baking aisle, in front of sixteen types of flour, is a desire to move away from pre-packaged foods. The kind that, like my recent loaves of bread, seem to never stale or spoil, which has always made raise an eyebrow. Food should break down fairly fast, right? If it takes months or years to expire, what kind of house party is it throwing in my body?

So there I was, frozen veggies slowly melting in the cart, as I gazed upon the wall of flour, unsure of which one to buy. This is exactly the kind of situation that triggers my long-standing problem with indecision, and an innocent debate on the merits of this flour over that flour could’ve easily resulted in the loss of my sanity and an entire afternoon. So I find it rather surprising that I chose the first bag I picked up (thankfully labeled: Bread Flour) instead of falling so deep into indecision from scouring every bag for subtle yet crucial differences that I had to be dragged from a dusty, white heap and politely asked never to return.

Back home, I began baking prep. As I do with so many recipes, I dove right in without fully reading the instructions. This has happened countless times, and has resulted in either late or completely abandoned dinners because something had to simmer an extra 45 minutes or sit overnight. I’m a skimmer, it happens.

Around 8 p.m., after a cursory glance at the recipe provided on the bag of flour, I began to mix the flour, water, salt, brown sugar and butter (which I substituted with Earth Balance). Within minutes I had a squishy ball of yellow dough. I placed it in a greased bowl, covered with a towel and set the timer for an hour.

The oven timer buzzed sixty minutes later and I thought, Yay! Time to bake! But no. As I read the second half of the instructions, I discovered that I had to knead it, again, and place it in a loaf pan and cover for another 60-90 minutes. At this point, it was after 9 p.m. and I needed to go to bed for an early yoga class, so I followed the instructions, except I stuck the pan in the fridge, hoping the “cool rise” method that I discovered on the Internet thirty seconds prior wouldn’t ruin the loaf.

In the morning, I rolled out of bed and pulled the pan from the fridge. I felt weirdly giddy that the dough had in fact risen, as though I had done something magical. It didn’t quite reach the lip of the pan per the instructions, but it was enough to reassure me that the cold air hadn’t ruined it. When I returned from class two hours later, the pan was still quite cool, even though I’d left it on the counter. I was disappointed that the dough hadn’t budged.

But damn it, I was invested in this bread now. And I really wanted it to be good. I decided suddenly that maybe it’s crucial after all that the dough rise to the exact specification of the recipe, and maybe if I warmed the pan by holding it in my lap, the dough would rise just a few more inches.

So that’s what I did, guys. I basically incubated a pan of bread dough. In my lap.

Suddenly I realized this was ridiculous. It’s dough. It’ll be fine, right? I heated the oven, popped the pan in, set the timer and rationalized that if I screwed it up, I had a full bag of flour for another try.

Still, my mind was never far from the oven, even as I busied myself with other chores. With seven minutes left, I smelled the distinct aroma of bread-doneness and got nervous, but all seemed well when I stole a small peek. Minutes later I pulled the pan from the oven and set it on top of the stove.

The top of the loaf was just slightly browned and carried a fresh, yeasty aroma. I gingerly slid a knife into the center and it came out clean. Happy that so far everything seemed perfect, I left the bread to cool (I’d come this far, hadn’t I?) and returned to it fifteen minutes later.

Steam rose from the hunk I cut and pulled from the loaf, which instantly melted the small smear of butter. I put the whole thing in my mouth. And it was heaven.

(Obviously so good that I forgot to take a picture before I ate another piece.)

Want to try your hand at this recipe? Surf on over here and check it out. (FYI I substituted water for milk and used Earth Balance instead of butter. And I totally nixed the raisins/currants.)

Drainage

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 10:04:23 -0400

I find it easy to write when I’ve had a bad day. My ego is suddenly that kid who’s dying to be called on. Ooh ooh, teacher! I know the answer! it seems to say.

So I didn’t fall a part during my career counseling appointment with Bob last week. I saved it for yesterday, apparently, because I sure as shit was a blubbering mess of tears all afternoon.

There are few things I find more humiliating than crying at work, having to scoot to the bathroom in hopes that no one sees me on the way, or comes in while I’m sobbing into scratchy toilet tissue, or afterwards as I slink back to my desk with swollen eyes.

I was so proud of myself last week for telling Bob my work/life story and not once feeling even the slightest prick of tears in the corner of my eyes. I came away in such a good frame of mind. I came to Salon, read some stuff, and wrote a post, then later dug through old college papers, trying to reconnect with the Angela who was once a thriving writer. I felt myself brighten. I felt hope return.

What happened?

Well, several things crashed into each other within a matter of hours. But what sparked it was a typo I made in a newsletter, which several people both inside and out of my organization pointed out.

“Does anyone proof these things?” one reader hastily replied.

Another left me a voice mail nine minutes after the newsletter had gone out. A lady from Maryland drew out the phrase blatant error like she was pulling a heavy iron sword from its sheath.

In case you’re wondering, I erroneously stated in the opening paragraph that the Kentucky Derby would fall on the second Saturday in May.

Now, if you live in Kentucky or are a die-hard Derby fan, you know just how wrong this is. It is always the first Saturday in May. This, my friends is law. I've lived in Louisville my entire life, worked in tourism for the city for six years and have uttered that phrase probably hundreds of times.

FIRST. SATURDAY. IN. MAY.

So these people, and everyone else who responded, are well within their rights to point it out, and to be honest, I can see why they were a bit self-righteous about it too.

But then again, this is a tourism newsletter. It’s informative, but it’s fluff. It contains news, local events and food and cocktail recipes. I’m not changing lives here. And yes of course I proofed it. A few people did.

In fact, I am crazy about copy-editing. I pride myself on catching errors and making minor tweaks to improve the fluidity of a piece. Particularly with this newsletter, one that I’ve been praised for and felt deeply proud of. So to have one glaring mistake on a pet project that’s been near and dear for three years? I literally crossed my arms on my desk, dropped my forehead and just fucking sobbed.

Oh so many ways to let my ego pity itself. Embarrassment? Yep. Crushing pangs of incompetency? Check.

And I know, people screw up. We overlook things, even things we obsess about. Maybe because we are so obsessed.

But I’ve never screwed up on this project before by botching such a well-known fact about Louisville. This is my baby, and I feel rather affectionate toward it, even protective of it. And given the state of things lately (re: career counseling) it’s sort of a last refuge. So to let something slip through the cracks with this, even something small, is telling.

I went home, absolutely defeated.

But today is a new day, and after an additional handful of overly punctuated emails pointing out my grievous error, I re-sent the newsletter with a correction and an “oops, we goofed” note. It went like this:

Our thanks and apologies to all the die-hard Derby fans who pointed out our error in stating that Derby falls on the second Saturday in May. We know it always has been and always will be on the first Saturday in May. So please, plan accordingly.

We’ll lay off the Mint Juleps for our next issue.

Cheers!

Kill them with kindness, isn't that the old adage? My last little bit of resolve may be circling the drain, but I refuse to let this mistake be my undoing.

Are you there, Salon? It's me, Angela.

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 14:04:04 -0400

“Reconnect with the things you love,” says Bob, my newly appointed career counselor.

I feel my heart swell, but I do not cry. This is our first session, but it’s nice, for once, in my long history of counseling and therapy, to not let myself fall apart. What’s really fantastic is that I don’t even feel the urge. The only thing I feel is the truth, radiating hot and steady from my chest: writing.

Oh the bane of the writer’s existence: calling oneself a writer but not writing. What a tortuous way to live, to see yourself as this thing that you feel without a doubt you most certainly are, but to have nothing to show for it.

Well. Not nothing. I have some published stuff. I have my journals. And I have this blog, which has sat cold and still since September 2010.

In a way, the abandoned blog creates a vacuum. Other people’s writing fills the void. The rest of this community evolves while my two-year old post feebly proclaims its selection as an Editor’s Pick, an accolade that reminds me of the high school football star who won the championship senior year. And in his older age, admires the trophy with a gleam in his eye and gets wistful when he thinks about his winning touchdown.

And oh my God, I know, it’s just a blog post, get over it.

But it’s not about pride over a praised post.

This is about the larger issue of why it’s so goddamned hard to do the things that I love. The things that bring me joy. The things that make me the kind of person you want to have coffee with.

I wanted to keep posting here. I’ve read through old posts dozens of times over the last two years, including the comments (which made me miss this community even more), feeling guilty and longing to be in the zone again, but I was tortured with the thought that the next thing had to be better (or at least as good) than the last. And that seemed daunting. Impossible, really, so I never tried. And then time slipped away. A few months, then a whole year.

And then another one.

And then I found myself in an office, listening to sweet, sweater-vested Bob tell me I’m at a low ebb, and that I need to rediscover the things in my life that bring me joy so I can figure out what to do about my career. Which is why I swung by here today—Bob asked me to re-read some of my favorite writing to drum up a bit of positive energy.

He also suggested I review and organize my best photographs.

Oh yes, there’s a second neglected creative outlet to contend with. My Canon, my buddy, has sat in a drawer since Christmas, ready to go with a new leather strap and an empty 4 gig memory card. The website I created for my photos just sits, much like my last post. Static and unviewed, wasting space on the Internet.

Bob asked me imagine my future—what do I see myself doing? I panicked because I saw what I always see when faced with that question: a wall of fog.

What I want is to support myself with my two creative passions, but I’ve bought into the whole eight-to-five, “watch the world through your window” lifestyle for so long that I feel silly for entertaining any alternative notion. I mean if I were to be out of a job today, I would apply for another office job tomorrow, because that’s all I know.

So I’m trying to know some other things. Which is scary to do at 33, an age where I feel like I should be happy in a solid career with a healthy 401k, climbing the old corporate ladder.

But that is not me, that has never been me.

All I want to know is, where are my people? Where are the self-sufficient, successful and creative human beings who don’t spend their days in over air-conditioned conference rooms and cubicles?

My Mixed Tape Romance

Fri, 3 Sep 2010 14:09:13 -0400

So, I found an old cassette tape buried in a box of CDs a few nights ago. I pulled it out with a mixture of curiosity and astonishment—how the hell had it survived over 20 years worth of wear and tear from long-term storage and countless moves?

But I was most concerned about what was on it. “Oh! What treasures could it possibly hold?” I tweeted moments after I found it.

I couldn’t wait to pop that sucker into a tape player.

And where might I have found such a retro appliance? Well in my 2002 Jetta of course. I’ve never really understood this, how a car made in the aughts could have a freaking CASSETTE player and no cigarette lighter, but I digress.

I was too excited to even rewind the thing, I just popped it in the next morning on my way to work.

Soon, I heard the warbled voice of Debbie Gibson, crooning her heart out about being “Lost in Your Eyes.”

Oh, there was much cringing.

And then I actually did something I haven’t done in decades - I fast forwarded a tape! I mean after years and years of hitting one button to skip CD tracks, fast forwarding a cassette felt so tedious and imprecise.

And yet despite the tedium, or maybe because of it, it was incredibly rewarding when I timed it perfectly (a sixth sense for these things develops over time) and hit play just before the next song. It made me feel like I was in my childhood bedroom again, flopped across my water bed with my little pink tape player.

(Yeah, you read that correctly. WATER BED.)

I’ve listened to the tape each time I’ve been in my car this week, and have enjoyed the surprise of each song, which I had recorded from various radio stations. It’s a mish-mash, and also a bit of a train wreck.

See, creating a good mixed tape is a lost art, one that requires practice, especially when recording songs from the radio. Back in those Limewire-less days, music had to be worked for, and a good mixed tape required a sophisticated skill set. It was ideal to stop the recording just as the song was ending, before the next song (or a commercial) began. But not too prematurely and chop the song . It was a delicate balance and it required focus.

Good songs that were well-recorded were the bread and butter of a first-rate mixed tape.

My tape lacks both of these things.

Case in point. Throughout the week I’ve listened to the quintessential 80s power ballad “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” (which is on there TWICE), an Amy Grant tune I had forgotten even existed called “I Will Remember You,” Prince’s “Seven,” the oh-so-aching “Take My Breath Away,” and a real gem from Boy Krazy called “That’s What Love Can Do.” Yeah, that video is something special.

I’ve also been amused by by Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up,” and “Rush, Rush,” a sweet love song that features KEANU FREAKING REEVES in the video, which I remember absolutely loving as a kid. (I laugh now though, because whoever directed the video apparently didn’t care that Keanu’s classic Bill & Ted mop-top didn’t quite jive with the 1950s theme.)

I mean honestly the whole tape is in Strugglesville. Aside from the super cheese-ball songs, the tracks are slapped together with no regard for genre (80s Suck Rock, maybe?) and transition awkwardly.

The tracks also begin several seconds late (couldn’t reach the record button in time!) and are accompanied by recording static and/or the “chipmunk” effect. They also end abruptly—a result of stabbing the stop button with my index finger when the DJ committed the heinous offense of talking over the last seconds of a song.

It’s like my past self left my future self a really shitty present.

Oh, but seriously, I do love it. The goofy songs, the awkward transitions and warped sound quality. The nostalgia of the cassette tape is a special thing, one I wish my 13-year-old niece could understand.

Huh. And suddenly I recognize the Baby Boomer generation’s obsession with records. I mean, I love record players. Been trying to get my hands on one for a minute. So, hey who knows, maybe the younger generations will think (or already do) that cassette tapes are vintage and therefore cool and then we’ll have something in common after all.

And it would be totally rad if they made mixed tapes as a nod to the Gen-Xers.

You're welcome.

My First Year As A Veg-Head

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 16:08:49 -0400

I read an excerpt in Skinny Bitch about a factory farm employee who sliced off the tip of a pig's snout—“like a piece of bologna”—and threw salt in its face, just to watch it squeal.

That was the moment I decided to become a vegetarian. I mean sure, the book as a whole compelled my choice, and there were other horrific stories aplenty, but I’ve never been able to forget the image of that pig. That was my Grand Klong moment.

I tried to give up meat when I was 10, after I watched an HBO documentary about animal cruelty. It was my first glimpse at the truth about where meat comes from, and it showed in vivid detail the process of how cows are slaughtered. I was horrified as I watched blood spurt from their slit throats, their hides were ripped off while still alive, but my eyes were glued to the screen. I wanted to see more. I somehow knew I was learning something pivotal—a cold, hard truth about the world—and I didn’t want to diminish its impact by turning away.

The film took an odd turn at the end when it touched on how people in various other countries kill the animals they eat. The single most vivid scene I still cannot shake to this day, I mean sometimes it just plays on a reel in my head, over and over, was a lady who tossed a live cat into a vat of boiling water, scooped it out, raked her gloved hand down its back to remove the hair and then tossed its limp and steaming body into a pile before moving on to the next.

The following day, I BEGGED my dad to let me give up meat, and he didn’t really put up a fuss. For lunch, he picked the meatballs out of my Chef Boyardee and made me cheese sandwiches. As for dinner, my dad’s culinary skills were pretty basic and meat was always the focus of our plates. Steaks on the grill, a slab of country ham, baked chicken. I wish I could say we figured it out, but neither of us really knew what to cook if I didn’t eat meat, and back then I was ruled heavily by my stomach (actually, I still am) and as the days drew on, the desire for meat began to overpower the impact of the documentary. After only one week I was back to eating dad’s cheeseburgers.

And I enjoyed meat for the next 21 years: thick, medium-rare filets. Savory pieces of applewood-smoked bacon. Juicy bison burgers. Corn dogs at the fair, slathered in mustard. Fresh chicken salad. Mom’s succulent pot-roast. Pepperoni pizza. A fat, pink salmon covered in lemon juice. Thanksgiving turkey. Honey-baked ham at Easter.

And then, last October, my boss lent me a copy of Skinny Bitch, not to persuade me to go vegan—in fact she was stunned when I told her I gave up meat—but as a “fun” read. What I mean is, the book does tout veganism, but it isn’t just information about the environmental damage caused by and animal cruelty within the factory farm system. There’s also information about how to cultivate a diet free of processed foods, sweets, chemicals and the like, and the authors use some colorful and witty language as they try to convince readers to eschew these things.

(Yeah right like I’m going to give up coffee and bourbon.)

You can read why I decided to be a vegetarian in last year’s post.

And then you can read my other post about the woes of the protein question, wherein I am called an “oversensitive vegetarian” by one disgruntled commenter.

So it’s been nearly one year since I gave up the meat. But I still remember those first few days and weeks vividly. I was constantly worried about being hungry, although I never was. I was even more concerned about eating at functions with pre-fixe menus and eating at friend’s and family’s homes. Case in point, two days in to my newfound lifestyle, I attended my stepsisters Halloween Party. No one in my family knew yet, and I wasn’t comfortable in my decision to say anything. I scanned the tables carefully. Cookies. A Halloween candy dish littered with the familiars: Hershey’s Minis, Smarties, gumballs and Sour Patch Kids. There were also four kinds of chili—all with meat. And hot dogs.

My hunger and vegetarianism were spared however by the existence of nacho chips and melted cheese, but I ate horribly that night. That was the first time I realized vegetarian did not automatically mean healthy, and that I was going to have to wake up and pay attention to foods I could substitute for the texture and heartiness of meat.

Fourteen sugar cookies and stale tortilla chips were not a good start.

So in my (almost) year as a vegetarian, I’d like to share a few things that you, as a new vegetarian, aspiring veg-head or seasoned herbivore, might find helpful. This is by no means a List of Rules. Just sharing my experience.

Don’t be shy or afraid to tell people about your decision. Others can be your best advocate. I swear in the early days I never remembered to check menus or make special requests unless my friend Nancy reminded me to do so. My pal Susan had no qualms whatsoever once about flagging a waiter at a recent banquet who set down a plate of chicken pasta in front of me. “She’s a vegetarian” she exclaimed and of course they whisked away the offending dish and brought me the veggie (and much fresher looking) alternative. At that point I was so shy about making it public knowledge! Hell I was content to just pick the chicken out of my food, but I’ve since learned to really own my decision. And give others credit—every restaurant I’ve been to since I gave up meat has always been accommodating. Which brings me to my next point.

Eat at good restaurants. I don’t mean expensive, although that doesn’t hurt either. What I mean is, eat at locally owned restaurants. Get to know the people who cook your food. I eat out a lot, and I am a big foodie, so this one is important to me. Not only will you increase the likelihood of finding a wider selection of healthy vegetarian options on the menu (read: not french fries) but also the chef will probably create a fabulous veggie plate out of fresh and locally grown products.

If you’re not sure if there’s meat in something, for crying out loud, ASK. This goes hand-in-hand with the first point, so you need to be confident with your vegginess. I wasn’t at first, and I used to pull people aside and ask as though I was telling them I’d peed on the floor or something. Again, people do understand. The more confident you are with your decision, the easier it will be for others around you. Make them feel comfortable. Anyway, I accidentally ate bacon once because I just assumed the dish labeled “Vegetable Casserole” would be meatless (SILLY ME.) Again, ASK.

Keep the drama to a minimum. Don’t freak out if you accidentally eat bacon. Don’t run to the bathroom and act like you’re going to throw up or whatever. I also highly advise not turning into one of those vegetarians who is constantly saying “I’m a vegetarian,” because there is a difference between pretentiousness and confidence. Also, try very hard not to make every meal with others into a production. I go to a lot of places with friends and family that aren’t specifically vegetarian friendly. Sometimes it’s the house salad for me because literally everything else on the menu has meat in it. But that is what you signed up for so be prepared. Do not sulk at the table. Bring a granola bar or eat something before you leave the house. Do not sigh when someone forgets and asks you if you want a bite of their meatloaf. Donot expect anyone to remember right away. The important people in your life will eventually get it, and will be sweet and accommodating, I promise. It took my folks about six months before they stopped saying “oh, that’s right you don’t eat meat” but now then they keep black bean burgers in the freezer for me when I visit. Friends are quick to point out veggie options on menus and I love them for it. By the way, the reason I get to say this stuff is because at some point I have wanted to or have actually acted in the ways I’ve described. And it’s really unattractive.

I would like to thank Beans&Greens for his amazing post “On being a vegan.” It inspired me to write this, which has completely rekindled my desire to update this sorely under-attended to blog, but also to write more about my experiences and challenges with vegetarianism.

It’s been an interesting year without meat and I look forward to another year of surprising myself with how absolutely delicious meat-free dishes can be, exploring new and crazy ingredients, experimenting in the kitchen and deciding which local chef makes the best veggie plate.