Posts for category ‘Guest Post’

Moving on from the global cuisine of London, intrepid contributor C.C. finds herself in an old outpost of the British Empire: McLeod Ganj, India, home of the Dalai Lama and the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile. She eats, prays she won’t develop a stomach virus, and loves much of what she finds—especially the chocolate desserts.

In a particularly efficient way of checking major experiences off life’s to-do list, C.C. has fulfilled two lifelong goals simultaneously by going to McLeod Ganj, India to do a yoga teacher training course. It’s a rigorous program with early morning meditation, classes in anatomy, philosophy, ayurveda, yoga ethics/business, and four hours of asana practice a day, which makes a girl hungry and justified to eat whatever she wants, even typically taboo foods like crepes, cupcakes, and pizza.

This is a good thing, since 14 of the 16 people on the course become predictably ill as will happen to western travelers to India, thus requiring a paranoid girl like C.C. to beef up her attempts to avoid parasites, amoebas, bacterias, giardia, hepatitis, and all other manner of unsavory stowaway germs lurking in the hill town’s water supply and on any cooking or cutting surface. She assiduously avoids anything that may have been grown in manure like fresh vegetables, things with absorbent qualities like tofu, and all meat—not a big deal for C.C. and really appropriate in mostly veg-India anyway, not to mention yogic.

This means restricting her diet to very cooked and safe foods like bread (C.C. has no appreciation for rice, which she considers a useless carb. Sorry, Asia.); omelets (thankfully McLeod Ganj isn’t that vegetarian); “curd,” which is the most relentlessly watery yogurt known to humankind and may quite possibly be crying as you eat it, such is the endless seepage of water that spews forth; pizza; and the occasional curry when feeling daring.
>> C.C. finds a lot to eat in McLeod Ganj, India – even some leafy greens. >>

Today we’re proud to introduce Eating My Words, a new feature by contributor Rebecca Peters-Golden where we’ll revisit food scenes from literature and recreate the dishes described therein. Rebecca, a graduate student in literature at Indiana University, is also a compulsive baker who has been known to make three-layer chocolate cakes out of boredom, so we’re happy to make the most out of her vast talents with this series.

While visiting my sister in Philadelphia this past December, I was bemoaning the grayness of winter and wishing for more fun in my life. Always eager to make me stop whining help, my sister suggested that I participate in the Philadelphia Artclash Collective‘s annual “Fun-A-Day,” through which I might combat precisely such grayness and lack of amusement by creating something every day of January. Projects ranged from the artistic (some genius painted a picture of a Buffy character every day) to the happenstance, and everything in between. But what would I do that would be truly Fun?!

In the year and a half before Fun-A-Day, I had been working on my dissertation in literature and feeling a creeping anxiety that reading for pleasure was becoming a thing of the past. To this end, I wanted not only to do something that would combine my favorite things—reading and cooking—but also to remind myself of the pleasure I take in reading by removing it from the realm of the purely academic and placing it in the realm of . . . well . . . fun.

So, I decided to recreate some of my favorite moments of food in literature. And then, you know, eat them. Now, six months and many, many sticks of butter later, I feel at peace with literature and more excited about food than ever. For my first good food story, then, here is Truman Capote’s combination of literature and food: a scene from In Cold Blood, Capote’s non-fiction novel that tells the story of the 1959 Clutter murder in Holcomb, Kansas.

>> Read on to find a bloody good recipe for cherry pie inspired by In Cold Blood. >>

Rocco has many friends, one of which is Marcus, a dog on the brink of fame. Justine van der Leun found Marcus while living in Umbria, a beautiful, rustic region in central Italy. Her memoir Marcus of Umbria: What an Italian Dog Taught an American Girl about Love was released yesterday by Rodale. Today, we are very excited to share with you a piece that Justine wrote exclusively for Good. Food. Stories. about her experiences with family, love and pork.

A pork chop followed by cured pork topped in pork sauce paired with a side of pork.

This is Umbrian cuisine, simplified. This is the diet that nearly imploded my fresh Italian romance. This is the diet that drove me temporarily mad. This is also the diet that changed how I think about food forever.

I moved to a 200-person Umbrian village the way only a 25-year-old woman in love with a foreign gardener can: Immediately, unironically, entirely. I had met Emanuele on vacation. Three weeks later, I pledged to return for good. I just had to sublet my apartment in Brooklyn, pack all of my worldly possessions, and score a one-way ticket to my new life. No biggie.

It didn’t occur to me that one of the most disconcerting and unfamiliar aspects of the move would be my brand new diet. My brand new, inescapable, pork-filled diet.

Of all the strangeness that I faced as an expat—language barriers, social constraints—it was the culinary culture shock that threw me for the biggest loop. This was the Slow Food Movement before it had a name. This was hardcore local eating. This was a place where I, a New Yorker accustomed to global cuisine, could not get a taco.

“What is a taco?” the Italians asked. “What is Thai food? Sushi?” When I explained it to them, they turned green.

“Che schifo!” they shrieked. How gross!

From the beginning, I ate with Emanuele’s family, a group of people I immediately adored. I ate as landlocked rural people have always eaten: Home-raised meat, potatoes from the cellar, wine from the vineyard, and minimal greens in the winter. Emanuele’s mother, Serenella served me clean, well-prepared, homemade food every night. I was in the cocoon of a new family, exploring a brutal and beautiful countryside. It should have been blissful.

And yet, after a month of Serenella’s food, I would have begged, robbed, and mauled for a smoothie. Or an imported Chilean orange. Or a falafel pita. Even at the local restaurants, one menu prevailed: 20 types of pizza (salsiccia, salame); pork chops; prosciutto; a porchetta sandwich. There were exceptions: A luscious arugula slice; a creamy black truffle pie; a crisp antipasto dish; sautéed, garlicky greens. But in the end, the flavors were monotonous. To a local, they tasted like home. To a guest, they tasted like the rustic countryside. But a month into my stay, they were making me claustrophobic. I was accustomed to variety. Like someone who’s watched too much reality TV, I couldn’t focus on a classic novel.

One day, sitting on the concrete floor of the mansion where Emanuele worked as a groundskeeper, I wrote an email to a friend back home. I wrote in a word document on Emanuele’s computer because it was impossible to stay hooked up to an internet connection for long enough to finish an entire email.

In my letter, I bemoaned my new life: I focused on the relentlessness of the cuisine. I was used to Caribbean chicken stews and three-spice fish tacos, to banh mi with crunchy pickled cucumbers, to green tofu curry, southern-fried chicken. From my apartment in Brooklyn, I could dial 100 numbers and get thousands of dishes delivered to my door. What I would give for a cheeseburger or some lo mein—anything to break up the wretched monotony of il maiale. The dreaded pig.

Before I sent my email, I saved it on Emanuele’s computer. Then I left town for a week, on a work trip. While I was away, Emanuele called to say he had found the email. In which I insulted his mother’s cooking and praised my urban culture above his.
>> Read on to find out what happened after Emanuele discovered the email. >>

Today we welcome world traveler and adventure guide Max Rudy back to the pages of Good. Food. Stories. with a report on his winter voyage to Nicaragua. Max shows us how to eat as the locals do with fresh mackerel, plates of lobster, and even ex-pat pizza.

When a trip to Nicaragua was first proposed to me, thoughts of AK-47s and Oliver North with his right hand raised popped into my head. But hey, that was the 1980s, and if Madonna can continually be reborn, then so can Latin American country, right? Right!

For the past few years I have heard of Nicaragua being “the Costa Rica of 20 years ago” with an unspoiled wealth of nature, beaches, and jungles with safe, friendly locals who are glad to see you. And upon my return from a week’s venture into the country, I can safely and proudly announce Nicaragua’s new slogan: “Think sandy beaches, not Sandinistas!”

With the largest land mass and smallest population in Central America, Nicaragua is a true escape. We ventured to the Rancho Santana, a gorgeous development with five distinct beaches in the southwest corner of the Rivas region. The geography, produced by volcanic activity, is rocky and mountainous with the flora and fauna of a desert, but the climate is definitely tropical. To get there, you must forgo paved roads, ATMs, and most symbols of modern life and trade them for dirt roads (or mud, depending on the season) that lead to absolute paradise.

In the true paradox that is the third world, even though we were in one of the most untouched outposts of a poor country, our group of five managed to score a $250 per night (total!) guest house at a fully-amenitied mansion on a hill overlooking a pristine, world-class surfing beach.

Although we did have staff, they did not cook for us, and the local ex-pats quickly filled us in on the places we just had to try. On our quest for the best food experience, we found passionate people operating simply, where life is not what material possessions you own but how you spend your time living. All of a sudden, my big HDTV seemed meek to the concept of a slower pace of life, co-existing with nature and animals and restoring the art of conversation, family and appreciation of life. Food helped lead our journey that week, and our memorable meals encompassed this feeling.
>> Read on for the three top meals in Nicaragua (if you can find them at night). >>

Today we check in with Official Salad Correspondent Natalie Hoch, who’s reporting from the tree-lined avenues of brownstone Brooklyn with an inspired spring salad. Trust Natalie, a girl who eats a second helping of salad after dessert, to come up with something that even the most hardened greens-hater might want to stab a fork in.

Spring is here! The gorgeous blossoming pink, white, and lavender trees that lined the streets of Brooklyn in April are now bursting with new leafy green in May. The weather is warm, the air is fresh with recent rain, and the farmer’s market is finally offering more than apples and jams—hooray!

Crisp, flavorful, and bright spring salads are on my mind, and the first fresh produce of the season is giving me an excellent incentive to get creative in the kitchen. After a sunny stroll through Grand Army Plaza’s fabulous market, I decided to combine farm-fresh fava beans and spring beets for a colorful treat, inspired by the blossoming colors of spring.

Pink and green, crunchy and creamy, spicy and smooth—this salad makes for a refreshing lunch on a hot and humid day. Perfect with a crisp white wine and flip flops!

>> Read on for a salad that sings of spring with fava beans and radishes. >>