Tuesday, August 15, 2017
A friend of mine moved to Seattle just before the first harvested Minnesota corn made it to our markets. She loves the west coast goodies (fresh salmon!) but laments the lack of fresh sweet corn. Her experience sent me into a panic and I wondered what life would be like if sweet corn weren't available for that precious month of late summer. That panic resulted in me bringing fresh corn into the house every chance I had.
We've enjoyed corn salsa, corn tacos, corn salad, boiled corn, grilled corn, corn with butter and corn with cheese, corn on the cob and corn off the cob, corn pudding, corn bread, corn muffins, corned potato salad and corned mashed potatoes, hush puppies, and corn chowder with cheddar and dill. Did I mention I am corned out? Well, except for the hush puppies. Nothing beats deep fried corny nuggets.
My friend who now lives in Seattle will return to Minnesota in a few weeks to celebrate the Minnesota State Fair with me. She's already put in a request for several visits to the Corn Roast. The Corn Roast is a popular State Fair vendor. You stand in a line to purchase a ticket for corn and/or pop, then stand in line to receive the butter-dipped corn and/or pop, and then stand in the street eating your hot roasted butter-dipped corn on the cob with a thousand other corn loving souls willing to pay a few bucks for the pleasure. Then you stand in line to toss your spent cob into the compost bin, all the while hoping someone in your group has a spare string of tooth floss they are willing to give you. (If you stay until the Fair closes for the day, you will be treated to a song and dance performance by the Corn Roast workers.)
While my friend eats her roasted corn, I will wander over to the neighboring vendor where they sell alligator meat and frozen grapes, and I'll order a batch or two of hush puppies that I might share. Or not.
Summer is fleeting. Enjoy it while you can.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
At our annual grilled pizza party there were plenty of amazing pies. As usual our pizza loving friends brought the most clever and creative toppings, and we feasted for hours.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
The 90s represented my first breath of freedom. Technically an adult, but not really mature enough to recognize that status, I ran through the decade with breathless abandon. My friends and I spent summer evenings together, toasting to our lives with cold Zimas pulled from a cooler of melting ice, just like in the commercials. Zima was a joke to some, and life's very essence to the rest of us.
As quietly as banana clips and mom jeans disappeared, so too did our favorite malt beverage. I don't recall being warned that Zima was leaving the liquor store shelves and our summer nights. Was there was an announcement we ignored? The 90s ended as Florida ominously forecasted the decade to come, and just like that our carefree days ended. I waved a sad goodbye to Al Gore and my innocence.
Last year when Gilmore Girls released the 4-part mini revival, a renewed interest in Zima spread among Gen-Xers (we who partook of the cocktail back in the 90s) and Millennials (those who were too young to enjoy the refreshing beverage during its heyday).
Obligatory Gilmore Girls-Zima reference explanation: Zima played a significant role in the TV drama, as Luke and Lorelei enjoyed a few bottles of warm and aged "chick beer" to toast their engagement.We knew Zima was still sold in Japan, and we searched the Internet for viable recipes to make our own. But without the original, how could we know if what we were drinking was legit?
Around us the world was falling apart. There was little comfort outside of binge watching the aforementioned Gilmore Girls reboot and Friends reruns. Then it happened: rumors about the rerelease of our beloved Zima had some of us questioning this as possibile fake news. Yet, on the 4th of July I wandered into our neighborhood mom and pop wine shop, and there on the front wall was a shrine built of cases and cases of fresh Zima.
It was like being confronted with myself at 27. Remember me? Remember the hope you had? Remember tanning and not worrying about sun damage? I tucked a 6-pack under my arm and gladly paid a hefty $10 to relive those years.
T and popped the caps off a couple of chilled bottles and we were transported to the past. Zima tastes like youth. It tastes of unidentifiable sweet (but not cloying) citrus, grounded with a tickle of pink bubble gum. Its effervescence is refreshing, like a bike ride with the wind at your back. It is the love child of My Pretty Pony and Hilary Clinton's headbands.
I've become a Zima hoarder. Soon after the 4th the stores in our city were selling out. I bought out the remaining stash at our neighbor store, where the owner assured me they will stock the limited release Zima as long as the supply line continues. On these hot humid days when the news tells us that the craziness of politics continues, I reach for a cold Zima and reflect. I wonder if my old bib overalls still fit.
Various locations across the United States for a limited time only.
Price: $6 to $10 for a 6-pack.
Monday, July 3, 2017
Meanwhile, summer waxes and there are festivities to attend: a Cooking Matters benefit attended by nearly every chef in the Who's Who catalog of Twin Cities great cooks (and a Pyramid-style game show to draw in new volunteers), a Midsommar celebration and a Viking cooking class at the American Swedish Institute, and a luxurious 4th of July weekend filled with family and memories of childhood summers when the world only needed to be as big as Gaylord's expansive park with its annual party complete with pony rides and fireworks.
Monday, June 19, 2017
Rows and rows of fresh, robust breads with soft balls of spreadable butter and more preserves than you know the names of in Swedish. Next to the bread is an entire table of cold cuts, pates, cured and smoked salmons, pickled herrings, crispbreads, quick pickled cucumbers, lingon, pickles, fresh vegetables, and at least three Swedish cheeses. Move on to the yogurts and filmjölk, nuts, dried fruit, more preserves, honey, granola, tropical fruit, fresh fruit, and syrups. American breakfast is also represented, as well as English, with scrambled and softboiled eggs, bacon, baked beans, sausage, priskorv, and Swedish pancakes. Pastries piled high include cardamom bread and cinnamon rolls, croissants, cookies, and more butter, preserves, and desserts. You might find bagels and cream cheese, and fruit juices. And coffee. Lots and lots of hot fresh coffee. Strong enough to wake your taste buds, and gentle enough that even I can stand two cups before my day begins. Too strong for you? Add a little milk and get over yourself.
Find a seat at a solo table, or eat with new friends at one of the communal spots. Be sure to grab a clean plate if you dare go for seconds.
Not staying in a hotel? Look for a decent coffee shop as soon as you rise, and return there every morning. The owners will get to know you and offer free slices of cool crisp melons. You will dream about cafe lattes served in bowls as big as your head and topped with petite meringues. Eat your way through the bakery items, and never leave a sandwich loaf or a salmon paj behind.
Always relax over your breakfast. Appreciate your coffee, your surroundings, and your blessings. Coffee isn't to-go, coffee is to-stay.
My theory, following two weeks of blissful Swedish-style eating, is that it isn't just social democracy that makes Nordic people the happiest on earth, it is their amazing breakfasts.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
I felt a calming joy as I breathed in the air of Gamlastan for the first time. It smelled of waffles and cream gravy, with a hint of cigarettes and beer. It smelled like an adventure.
The words from an old Aerosmith song kept swimming in my head, "Don't want to close my eyes,
I don't want to fall asleep, 'Cause I'd miss you baby, And I don't want to miss a thing…"
So I sucked the marrow out of Sweden. I danced to ABBA, I petted dogs, I gazed at the archipelago waters, I pushed my nose deep into the blooming flowers, I pressed my hands against the stone buildings, and I spoke terrible Swedish to anyone willing to converse.
When I was a kid my Grandpa Johnson gave me a little brown music box that played a few bars to "Fly Me To The Moon." The ballerina that once graced the music roller is long gone, and the outside of the box is covered in weird stickers from the 70s. But the song still plays, plink plink plink, and whenever I hear the melody I feel my grandpa's presence. In recent years I've heard "Fly Me To The Moon" playing in random public places immediately following several significant life events. It is eerie and wonderful, and whenever this happens I know my grandpa is watching over me.
One morning in Uppsala we leisured over breakfast discussing our plans for the day. (If you've never had a Swedish hotel breakfast you need to get that on your "must do" list immediately. It is a smörgåsbord of delightful dishes, from beautiful breads and pastries to pickled herring and smoked salmon, from pates and cold cuts to bacon and eggs. There is yogurt and fruit and vegetables and every manner of preserves, toppings, butters, etc. It is a feast that never ends, and you wash it all down with a good strong cup of coffee.) And right then, right there in the middle of Sweden in the middle of our amazing trip, "Fly Me To The Moon" came over the sound system. I nearly cried into my coffee.
I felt Sweden's importance in my life. I felt my grandpa and all those who came before us, whose feet left Sweden more than one hundred years ago. She still owns us, and I am ok with that.
More to come as I soak it all in.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
When I return, there will be stale water and Oskar will have forgotten to eat a few meals. But neither cat will be any worse for wear, and likely won't even realize I've been gone. Cats and dogs love the ones they're with. Thankfully most husbands don't operate on that model!
I'll return in a few weeks. Meanwhile you can view my adventures on Instagram at nordicfoodgeek.