Vosges chocolates

I had such high hopes for October.  I was going to tell you about apple picking and applesauce making, about the baguette class I took, about the glorious hazelnut affogato (made with molten chocolate instead of coffee - be still my heart!) at Pitango.  And then somehow it became the end of November, and none of that happened.  Oh well.  I'll try to get back to it someday.

Part of the reason I've been such an abysmal correspondent lately is that I planned my travels poorly.  Yesterday was the first time since November 7 that I had a day off work without having to travel anywhere.  Today, my second day off in a row, feels so luxurious - maybe that's because until today, I haven't had two days off work in a row without traveling anywhere since October 15.  I just counted - that's more than six weeks!  It makes me tired all over again just thinking about it.  Between a trip to Baltimore for Halloween, a swim meet, a trip to Chicago and Madison to visit old friends, Thanksgiving, and the fact that I work for a company that does the vast majority of its business in November and December, it's been a crazy couple of months.  The even crazier thing is that after today, there are only three more Mondays until Christmas.  Just three more!  Then, maybe I'll return to some semblance of normality again.  For now though, there's nothing to do but to embrace the madness.  And to eat as many candied chestnuts as possible - that part is very important.

But I didn't come here today to gripe about the fact that I'm happily employed or that I travel too often.  Nope, I'm here on much more important business.  I'm here because I need to tell you about the chocolate.

So remember how I said I went to Chicago?  Going there was kind of an afterthought - I was headed to Madison for the weekend, and didn't want to have to make the whole trip out there in one day, and I have friends in Chicago, so I thought, "Why not spend the night?"  And once I had decided to spend the night, that also meant I had a morning free in Chicago, so I thought, "Why not visit Vosges?"

Mo, the founder of Zingerman's Mail Order (where I work), is good friends with Katrina, the owner of Vosges Haut Chocolat in Chicago.  We sell some of Vosges' chocolates, including (of course!) the eponymous Mo's bacon chocolate bar, and our companies have a good working relationship.  Taking full advantage of that relationship, when I was in Chicago two Fridays ago I spent a few hours behind the scenes at Vosges with Emily, the director of new product development, talking shop and touring the production area.  It was a great, great day.  There is so much that I could say about it that I hardly know where to begin, so I'll try to let the pictures do most of the talking.  I wish I could include smells, too, though - upon entering the production facility, you are engulfed in the subtle yet persistent aroma of fresh, warm chocolate - it's pretty delightful.

The offices at Vosges are just lovely: elegant, dramatic, vibrant, luxurious.  Those are all words I would use to describe their products, too - I don't think that's entirely a coincidence.

While I was there, I saw some of the toffee production.  Toffee is cut on a large, heated table, which keeps it warm and malleable as workers slice it very carefully.

Vosges uses all sorts of unusual, exotic flavorings in their chocolates.  They have bins and bins of ingredients like these:

Vosges's signature products are truffles.  Here are some, mid-way through production:

All truffles take a ride through the enrober, AKA (according to me) the chocolate waterfall.  I can't tell you how hard it was to not stick my finger in.

Dried rose petals, ready to top truffles:

I especially loved the visit to Katrina's office.  Katrina is, in Emily's words, "a collector of stuff."  The shelves in her office were piled with all manner of things: vintage wedding cake topper couples, books on chocolate, bright colored feathers, molds, packaging options.  Everything was jumbled together, and yet there was a rhythm, an order to the chaos.  I only wish my own haphazard piles of things could look so intentional!  Emily picked up a few of the items and told me their stories; I wish we could have taken an hour just to go through them all.

The headless bunny, for example - its head is missing because it's currently being used as a model for lollipops that will come out around Easter.  I love that.

There are so many reasons I love my job, but the connections that allow me to have private, behind-the-scenes tours of fantastic chocolate companies?  What an incredible perk.  I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Many thanks to all of the wonderful people I met at Vosges - come and visit the next time you're in the Ann Arbor area!

Like eggplant parmigiano, but simpler

Hey there.

So I haven't been writing much lately - maybe you've noticed?  Sorry about that.  In the last few weeks, I've taken charge of a big new project at work that has been occupying most of my time and thoughts, and even some of my dreams... so you could say I've been a little preoccupied.  At the end of the day, I haven't felt much like writing, because if I'm going to write, I want to do it well, and that takes time and energy and focus, all of which have been put to other use.

But there's something I really need to tell you about before we waste any more time.  I've eaten it twice a week for the last three or four weeks, and there's more stored away in the freezer, and if that doesn't mean it's good, I don't know what does.

I don't really know what to call it, so maybe I'll just tell you about the first time I ate it.  I had just arrived in Lausanne, Switzerland, where I was looking forward to spending a few days with Justine.  That evening, one of her coworkers, an Italian named Giulia, had offered to make us dinner.  After serving us perfectly al dente pasta with pesto made from basil in her parents' garden and olive oil from their family friends, Giulia brought out an eggplant dish.  "Like eggplant parmigiano, but simpler," she explained.  The eggplant had been diced, and cooked with tomatoes, and baked with cheese on top: in other words, eggplant parm without the breading and frying.  I enjoyed it, and made a mental note to add it to my repertoire.

Fast forward to fourteen months later, and as the eggplants continue to show up each week at the market, I've been continuing to snatch them up and make this dish every Saturday night, with leftovers for dinner on Mondays.  It takes a little while to cook the eggplant, but otherwise this dish couldn't be easier, and it is so, so good.  It's one of those dishes that every time I taste it, even though I knew it was good, I surprise myself again with just how good it really is.  And that's why I can't justify waiting any longer to tell you about it.  It's rich and earthy and so flavorful, and uses just a handful of ingredients, most of which are vegetables.  It's not flashy, and it's certainly not the prettiest thing I ever ate, but it makes me so happy every time I eat it.

Who knows if there will still be any eggplant left at the market this weekend, but if there is, you know what I'm having for dinner Saturday night.  And I hope that's the case, because then I don't have to figure out what I'm having for dinner that night, and frankly, I don't have much energy left for important decisions like that just now.

Eggplant and tomatoes

Sorry, I know that's not a very sexy name for a dish - especially one as super fantastic as this one - but that's basically what this is.  If you've got a better one, I'm all ears.  Back when the tomatoes were at their peak, I used fresh ones for this dish, but lately I've been using canned and they've been great.

1 onion, diced
2-3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 large eggplants, diced into 3/4"-size pieces
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes
2 cups tomato sauce
4 cloves garlic, minced or put through a garlic press
2 teaspoons herbes de Provence (or a mix of dried rosemary, oregano, thyme, marjoram, basil...)
1/2 pound fresh mozzarella, shredded
1/2 cup freshly grated good parmigiano-reggiano

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Over low heat in a large pot, sweat the onion in the olive oil until soft, then add the eggplant and raise the heat to medium.  Let cook for five minutes or so, stirring every now and then to distribute the heat evenly, then add in the salt.  Let cook another five minutes, then add in the tomatoes, tomato sauce, garlic, and herbs.  Let cook 30-40 minutes, stirring every few minutes, until the eggplant is soft and delicious, with none of that green, raw eggplant flavor - it should be ready to serve as is.

Remove the pan from the heat, and pour the eggplant mixture into a large casserole dish or two - I have found that for this much eggplant, one 13 x 9 inch pan and one 8 x 8 inch pan are about right.  Sprinkle liberally with the mozzarella and parmigiano.

Bake for 15 minutes, until the cheeses are melted and beginning to brown.  Serve immediately with good, fresh, crusty bread.  Sigh with happiness.

Serves six, or reheats beautifully in the oven if there are leftovers

Pancakes and other necessities

It's October!  That must mean Halloween, which must mean pumpkins, which must mean pumpkin pancakes.  I feel like lately I've been trying to play catch up with so many fruits and vegetables as their seasons draw to an end, but it will not do with pumpkins.  Pumpkin pancakes cannot be delayed.

The first time I ate a pumpkin pancake, it was something of a revelation to me.  It was a Sunday morning, about four years ago, in, of all places, my college dining hall.  I know, I know, that's not much of a recommendation, but hear me out.  I know it was a Sunday because it was a "Sterling Brunch" - a fancy, once-a-month affair that boasted all sorts of fancy breakfast items like quiches and tortes and lox for your bagels.  And, this one fateful morning, pumpkin pancakes.  I had never considered making pumpkin anything beyond the standard pumpkin pie, and I was intrigued.  They did not disappoint: mildly sweet and incredibly aromatic, I was hooked from my first maple syrup-drenched bite.

Once I discovered pumpkin pancakes, it was as if the floodgates had opened.  Suddenly, I made pumpkin everything: pumpkin bread, pumpkin scones, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin baked with ziti and cheese.  (Some of those efforts, I may say, were more successful than others.)  Within a few months, the P section of my recipe card box was full to overflowing with pumpkin recipes, nearly squeezing out underutilized letters J or D all together.  By the time spring came around and I had access to more varied vegetables than just canned pumpkin and frozen broccoli, I think I must have been quite ready to move on.

Not for long, though.  I keep coming back to them.  With just a little spice and a luscious fresh squash flavor, these pancake makes for one of my all-time favorite breakfast foods.  Luckily, now that I don't depend on the dining halls to make my breakfasts, I don't have to wait for special once-a-month brunches.  In October, once-every-three-days feels much more appropriate - especially when there's plenty of fresh apple cider on hand.

Happy autumn!

Pumpkin pancakes

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1/8 teaspoon allspice
2 eggs
2 tablespoons canola or vegetable oil
1 cup plain canned pumpkin
1 1/2 cups milk
chocolate chips (optional)

In a medium bowl, sift together all the dry ingredients.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs, then add in the oil, then the pumpkin and milk.  Mix in the dry ingredients, stirring just to combine.

Heat a griddle to 350 degrees Fahrenheit, or heat a non-stick frying pan until water drops flicked on its surface dance and take about two seconds to evaporate.  Using a 1/3-cup measure, pour out circles of batter to create your pancakes.  Let the pancakes cook for 2-3 minutes, until the edges look dry and the top surface is pock-marked with indentations.  Flip the pancakes, and let them continue to cook another 1-2 minutes, until firm when depressed with the spatula.

If you want to include chocolate chips, you can mix them into the batter, or, if you only want chocolate chips in some of the pancakes, you can do what I do:  when cooking a chocolate chip pancake, spread a thin layer of batter on the griddle, sprinkle with chocolate chips, and top with another thin layer of batter.  These pancakes tend to be on the thick side, and consequently take a little longer to cook.  On the plus side, though, there's no melted chocolate mess to clean up on your griddle!

Serve immediately with warm maple syrup, and fresh cider to drink, if you've got it!

Serves 3-4

Just in case you were wondering what to send me...

When I lived in Paris in 2008, my host family had two exchange students: me, and another girl from my exchange program.  While I was there, my mom sent me a guidebook to the best pâtisseries, or pastry shops, in Paris.  My roommate's mom sent her miniature boxes of American cereals.

I always kind of wondered why she had come to Paris, if she wanted to eat American cereals and didn't seem much interested in practicing her French or sight-seeing.  I, on the other hand, wore out my shoes hitting the streets of Paris, nearly always with my pâtisserie bible in hand.  Good thing I did; otherwise, I doubt I ever would have found Le Loir dans la Théière.

Le Loir dans la Théière (which means, by the way, the dormouse in the tea kettle) is an eclectic salon de thé/café/restaurant tucked away on the narrow, verdant rue des Rosiers in the heart of the Marais.  It's the kind of restaurant where the chairs don't match, where the half the tables feature brightly colored ceramic bowls filled with white and raw sugar cubes (and those who don't have them make friends with their neighbors), where diners charge their iPhones at the socket beneath the Alice in Wonderland-inspired mural.  Basically, it's my favorite kind of place - especially when you consider how outstanding the food is.  I came for the dessert buffet, much lauded in my pâtisserie guide for its enormous slices of tarte à la citron meringuée (left), but I came back again (and again... and again!) for the tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates.

The savory tarts don't show up on the paper menu - instead, they selections du jour are always listed on a chalkboard near the front door.  The selection is pretty similar from day to day: tarts with fresh goat cheese, capers, and tomatoes; tarts with shallots and aged goat cheese; tarts with red onions and tomatoes.  All the tarts are good, but oh my, the onion and tomato tart is just heavenly.  The earthy sweetness of the caramelized onions is perfectly balanced by the acidity of the fresh tomatoes, and then it's topped with a dusting of diced herbs and served on a perfectly crisp, flaky, buttery crust.  In a perfect world, I would eat this for lunch every day.

Unfortunately, it is not a perfect world, and I don't usually have this even once a year.  I've tried a few times to make it at home, and I think I'm starting to get close.  In any case, I have definitely learned a few things in the attempt.

1.  The onions need to be cooked slowly in advance, to get to the soft, sweet, unbelievably delicious state.  That's just not going to happen during 15 minutes in the oven, so they need to get going well in advance.

2. The tomatoes won't get cooked in 15 minutes, either.  Better to roast 'em by themselves in the oven for an hour first to condense some of the juices and create a much deeper, richer flavor.

3.  To be crisp and flaky and perfect, the crust really needs to be fully cooked on its own, too.

So when you get down to it, making the tart itself is super quick and easy, because you're just throwing together ingredients that have already cooked, and heating them up for 10 or 15 minutes.  It's just the time spent getting everything ready in advance that takes a while.  The end result, though, is so, so worth the effort.

Now that I'm back in the US, I wish my Parisian host mother would send me care packages... I could use a nice slice of authentic Loir tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates!  However, since I doubt it would survive the trip in stellar condition, I suppose I'll just have to keep making my own.  I suppose my consolation ought to be that I have access to all sorts of American cereals in any size box I desire...  Lucky me?

Tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates

A quick note about pie dough: I used Pierre Hermé's recipe for pâte brisée because that was what I had waiting for me in my freezer, but you could use your own favorite recipe.  What's important is that it's fully baked before you put the onions and tomatoes in.  Otherwise, it won't be crisp and divine when the tart is served.  If you have a tart pan, this is a great opportunity to use it, otherwise a pie plate will work just fine.

1 pint cherry or grape tomatoes, sliced in half
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil or bacon fat
6 medium to large red onions, julienned
Salt and pepper
Dried herbes de Provence

Pie crust, pre-baked in a tart pan or pie plate until golden brown and crisp.


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, then spread out the tomatoes in a single layer over the paper.  Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt.  Bake for thirty minutes, flip the tomatoes over, then bake for another thirty minutes or so, until they're wrinkled and browned and leaking their juices.

While the tomatoes are roasting, set a large frying pan over low heat.  Warm the oil or bacon fat, then add the onions.  Let the onions cook over low heat for about twenty minutes, stirring every few minutes, then add salt and pepper to your taste.  Continue to cook for another twenty to thirty minutes, still stirring every few minutes to prevent sticking and burning, until the onions are soft and sweet without any of the sharp pungency of raw onion flavor.

If you're really good at planning and timing your cooking, you could be preparing the pie dough during the time the onions and tomatoes are cooking: after it has rested, rolling it out, getting it in the tart pan, chilling it, pre-baking it.  If, like me, you have high hopes for doing 15 things at once in the kitchen that invariably turns into a slow working process, you could get the pie dough done ahead of time.  In any case, once the pie dough is baked, the tomatoes are roasted into their sweetest essence, and the onions are irresistibly caramelized, it's time to start assembling.  Pour all of the onions into the tart crust, then dot the top with tomatoes.  Finally, sprinkle herbes de Provence over the whole tart.

Bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes, just until heated through.  Serve immediately with a tossed green salad and crusty bread.  If you also happen to have a buffet table full of desserts when you finish, so much the better.

Serves four

All signs

Today I ate my first apple from the market, and shuffled my feet through the first of the crunchy fallen leaves.  The air is cool and crisp and fresh, and it's just beginning to pick up that tell-tale October scent of crumpled, drying foliage and wood-burning fires.  We may still be a day or two from the equinox, but in my book, all signs point to autumn.

Here's to soon-to-be-made chili and applesauce and butternut squash soup!

Red, green, gazpacho

I don't know why people always talk about Christmas in July.  Based on what I've seen in my kitchen lately, it seems to me that Christmas in August would be more fitting.

I know, I know, technically, the calendar says it's September now.  Sometimes, I even believe it, like when apples and grapes first started showing up at the market last week, or when I check the weather forecast and see our high is going to be in the 50s.  My kitchen is still full of tomatoes and basil, but it's starting to feel like a mad rush to get whip up pestos and roast the tomatoes and get everything stored carefully in the freezer to brighten the months to come.  I have more to say about those efforts, but first, I need to talk about gazpacho.

I made gazpacho a few weeks ago, back when it was still warm enough that the idea of a chilled soup doesn't feel quite so outrageous as it does today.  Today, I made my first pumpkin bread of fall, and I'm keeping warm at my computer with a sweatshirt and a mug of hot tea.  Two weeks ago, though, we had a warm day and lots of vegetables.  Gazpacho is my perfect August dinner: cool, refreshing, ideal for those hot, sticky evenings when you can't stand the idea of turning on the stove.

I had made gazpacho before, but the last time I made it, it was a chunky soup that really emphasized each vegetable individually.  When I was in France last summer, however, I tried gazpacho andalou, a smooth, velvety revelation that appears on menus all over the country, but especially in the southwest.  It was served with tiny bits of bell pepper, onion, and crisp little croutons to be added by the diner as garnishes, providing just enough textural contrast to keep the whole thing interesting.  This was the gazpacho I wanted to make.

Gazpacho andalou is a French name for the popular chilled tomato-based soup from Andalusia, the southernmost region of Spain.  Home to the Great Mosque at Cordoba, Pablo Picasso, and hot, dry, summers, these people really know their chilled soups.  Their gazpacho includes all of the common ingredients found in a chunky, state-side gazpacho: tomato, bell pepper, cucumber, onion, garlic, good vinegar, good olive oil, salt and pepper.  However, there's also one more standard ingredient mixed in: stale bread, which helps the smooth soup bind together.  Because we're not worried about having perfectly diced vegetables, the recipe couldn't be easier: just a rough chop, a minute or two whirling in the food processor, and a quick press through a sieve.  No heat required; thank goodness.

The thing that really counts, though, in making a good gazpacho is to use top-notch ingredients.  Luckily, August is the month that farmer's markets are overflowing with vegetables, and this is a perfect way to use 'em.  (I know, I know, that pesky September thing again... but last I checked, there were still plenty of vegetables at the market, so if it's still hot enough to warrant it where you live, get to it!)  The vinegar and olive oil should be great, too.  A good sherry vinegar, always a popular choice in Spain, is ideal, but any vinegar you like enough to drink straight would be great.  As for the olive oil, this is the time to break out the expensive bottle of extra virgin, estate pressed stuff.  Keep a little extra on hand for garnishing, too.

Speaking of garnishing, keep an extra red and green bell pepper on hand to dice for garnishes, and then go to town with the Christmas in August celebrations!

Gazpacho Andalou

Traditionally, gazpacho was made by mashing all the ingredients together with a mortar and pestle.  I've heard this gives the soup a better texture.  But when it's hot enough outside that you want gazpacho for dinner, do you really want to be exerting all that energy?  I don't.  I was quite happy with the results from my food processor, and it saved me some considerable elbow grease.

All the recipes I've seen for this gazpacho say that it needs to sit at least 2 hours once it's all mixed together, and they're not kidding.  When I tasted it right out of the food processor, it was a disappointing, bland vegetable mush.  The next day, though, the flavors were much more pronounced.  After two days in the fridge, it was better yet, bright and refreshing. 

2 1/2 lbs tomatoes, seeded (reserve the juice!), and cut into chunks

1 good-sized cucumber, or 2 medium cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and cut into chunks

1 green pepper, seeded, cut into chunks

1 red pepper, seeded, cut into chunks

1/4 sweet onion, diced

1 small clove garlic, peeled

6 oz good bread (I used this one), crusts removed and torn into smallish bits

2-4 tablespoons good olive oil

2-4 tablespoons good vinegar (sherry, if possible)

Salt & pepper

Set the bread to soak in the reserved tomato juice.

Combine the cucumber, tomatoes, peppers, onion, and garlic in the bowl of a large food processor.  If you don't have a huge food processor, it may be easier to do this in two batches.  Add in the vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper, and let sit for 10 minutes.

Add in the bread and tomato juice, then process until smooth, pausing occasionally to scrape down the sides of the processor with a spatula.  Season with salt and pepper to taste, keeping in mind that the flavors will heighten as the soup rests.

Strain the soup through a seive or chinois, then set in the refrigerator to rest for at least two hours, and up to three days.  Serve chilled with good bread and some garnishes (see below for possibilities).

Garnishes

While not strictly necessary, having some crunchy bits of vegetables or croutons make for a fantastic contrast with the silky-smooth texture of the soup.  The garnishes are generally served separately in small bowls.  At the table, diners can garnish their own bowls of soup as they please.

1 slice good bread, diced into tiny bits, browned in the oven for 5-10 minutes to make croutons

1 red pepper, seeded, diced into tiny bits

1 green pepper, seeded, diced into tiny bits

1 small cucumber, seeded, diced into tiny bits

Good olive oil, for drizzling

Serves 4 as a main course with bread, or 8-10 as an appetizer

Seattle, part three

Even when we weren't taking trips through the mountains, Jen and I covered a lot of ground.  Luckily, though, sometimes we didn't need to go too far afield, because there was plenty to do almost in Jen's back yard.

Jen lives in Fremont, an eclectic neighborhood that I'm quite confident is way too cool for me.  It's filled with cute shops and eateries and a sign the casually marks the center of the universe.  In addition to being home to a street market every Sunday that boasts a bizarre yet intriguing collection of antiquities, collectibles, junk, and food, there's plenty of permanent public art, like a rocket perched precariously on the corner of an old warehouse, a thirteen-foot tall bronze statue of Lenin, and, perhaps Fremont's most famous resident, an eighteen-foot tall troll that lives under a bridge.

Fremont is also home to Theo Chocolate, a bean-to-bar chocolate factory.  Theo offers tours of their factory, which includes tastings of several of their chocolates and a brief explanation of some of the machinery and processes used to make chocolate.  On my last morning in Seattle, Jen and I signed ourselves up for a tasting.

I had attended a chocolate class at work the week before I headed to Seattle, which was helpful to me at the beginning of the tour, when our guide handed out samples to taste.  When tasting chocolate, you want to consider the ingredients included, the percentage of cacao (the percent listed on a bar is the percentage of cacao; the remainder is sugar), whether the chocolate snaps cleanly when broken (a good one will), the aroma (which is stronger just after breaking the chocolate), the flavor (which is best experienced by chewing the chocolate a little, letting it spread throughout your entire mouth, and then bringing air into your mouth, like in wine tasting), the mouthfeel, and the finish.  There's a lot to consider, and I was glad to have had a course in the basics before launching in to tasting on my own!

Chocolate is one of those products for which I really have to wonder how anyone discovered its existence.  It begins as the seed of the cacao pod, the flesh of which is white and slimy and tastes, I am told, something like SweetTarts.  In its raw state, the cacao bean is bitter and unpalatable, like apple seeds.  After the cacao pods are harvested by hand (a necessary step, because cacao pods never fall from the tree, and on one tree you may see pods that range from the flower, to barely formed, to entirely ripe), the beans and pulp are extracted from the pod, and then they need to be fermented for five to seven days, which kills the bean and eliminates some of its bitterness.  Next, the beans are sun dried, and then they are packed and sent from the cacao farm to the chocolate producer. 

Once at the producer, the work to make the chocolate has only just begun! The beans need to be roasted (as in the first photo to the left, with the yellow bins of raw, dried beans and the round black roaster in the back, which, incidentally, was a coffee roaster in a previous life).  After a good, long roast, the beans (now much darker, as in the second picture) are cracked and winnowed, which separates the inedible husk from the edible interior, called the nib.  The nibs are then ground, after which they are conched, a process that heats the chocolate and helps to create the desired mouthfeel in the finished product.  Next, the chocolate is refined, which gets all the particles of chocolate and any additives (like sugar) to a consistent size.  From there, the chocolate is tempered, which is a precise cooling process that, when done properly, gives chocolate its smooth sheen and its crisp snap when broken.  And then, of course, it's packaged and sold and, most importantly, eaten!

Theo produces a couple dozen different bars, many of which have added ingredients that range from the standard, like almond, to the unusual, like chai tea or buttered toast.  The flavored bars are intriguing, but ultimately I felt that the additional ingredients clouded the flavor of the chocolate itself.  I ended up purchasing one of the plain bars, an 84% dark chocolate made with beans from the Dominican Republic.  It has a dark flavor that reminds me of tobacco.

(By the way, if you're interested in learning more about the specifics of chocolate production, or you'd like to try your hand at making your own chocolates, Chocolate Alchemy has some great DIY instructions for the enthusiastic budding chocolatier.)

But of course, we had to eat more than just chocolate.  Sometimes, we had to eat ice cream, too, like the stunning cone of honey lavender ice cream I got at Molly Moon's.  I don't know how anyone who lives by Molly Moon's doesn't immediately gain fifteen pounds - the sweet, toasty aroma of freshly-made waffle cones (as we waited in line, we watched the cones come off the griddle and get shaped - that's how freshly made they are!) wafts out the front door of the shop and permeates the surrounding street within at least a ten-yard radius.  When I order ice cream I usually opt for a cup, but how could I turn down a cone I had watch them make?  The honey lavender was floral without being overwhelming, utterly delicious.  And that last beautiful bite, that was mostly cone with the last nibbles and drips of ice cream - perfection.

Once in a while, we even took a break from dessert and ate real food.  When I was planning my trip out to Seattle, about the very first thing that Jen suggested we do was to eat at Ivar's.  Ivar's has a few outlets in Seattle (including, I discovered on my way home, one at the airport), and they are known for their seafood.  The specialties vary from place to place: there's a clam house, and a sports bar, and a few quick fish fries.  We ate at the Salmon House, which offers stunning table-side views over Lake Union.

The menu seemed to be about 90% salmon: coho, sockeye, red, king, Sitka sound white king, all grilled over smoky alder wood and served on Caesar salads or with panzanella or just as is.  I ordered the King salmon, alder grilled and served with roasted fingerling potatoes and fresh green beans, along with a glass of pinot noir:

After our attempt at preparing salmon for dinner a few nights prior, I was reminded why I so often eat fish when I eat out - these chefs really know what they're doing.  The fish was perfectly prepared, slightly flaky, moist, with a rich, smoky flavor. The potatoes were crisp and lovely, and green beans are about my favorite thing ever, so they made a perfect accompaniment.  Yum.

But let's not forget ourselves; there was dessert at the end of lunch, of course.  Jen and I decided to split the strawberry shortcake.

The biscuits were so crisp, they almost seemed more like sugar cookies.  But when they got moistened with the sweet strawberry juice and the silky, freshly whipped cream, it made a very satisfying dessert.

When we weren't raising our blood sugar to dangerously high levels, Jen continued to show me around Seattle.  One of my favorite visits was to Gasworks park, a wonderful example of post-industrial repurposed land.

She also led me around the University of Washington's campus on a stunningly comprehensive tour ("That's a building.  That's another building.").  At the end of the day, Mount Rainer even poked its head out of the clouds to say hello. 

See that oblong triangular shape in the middle of the clouds?  That one that looks like a cloud itself?  That's Mount Rainier, reminding us that, even as freak earthquakes and hurricanes roll through the east, there are still active volcanoes ready to terrorize the west on a whim.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and eventually I had to say goodbye to Jen and return home.  Not to worry, though: during my visit, we must have come up with a dozen things to do "next time," so sooner or later I'm sure I'll be returning so we can start plowing through that list.

Thanks to Elizabeth for playing the part of chauffeur, and especially to Jen, for playing the host and tour guide, and for showing me the path Ben Franklin took to work each morning.  After all, we all know that was the real reason I came to Seattle.

Seattle, part two: not in Seattle

Though there's plenty to do in Seattle itself, Jen and I also decided to spend some time outside of the city, up in the mountains.  Our first day trip was to Leavenworth, Washington, a little town tucked away in the Cascades, about two hours' drive East from Seattle.  Or perhaps, rather than "town," I should say, "Bavarian village," as the welcome sign does.

Leavenworth is an unusual find: all of the architecture is modeled after the idea of an old Bavarian village, complete with half-timbered facades.  All the signs in the town, including those marking outlets of national chains, like Bank of America or Starbucks, are painted on wood in an Olde English script, which is cute, if perhaps a little gimmicky.

Unlike the real Bavaria (home of Oktoberfest), the beverage of choice in Leavenworth is not beer, but wine.  Jen and I, along with Jen's roommate Elizabeth and their friend Hannah, made the trek across the mountains (and, as they, all being atmospheric sciences graduate students, kept pointing out, over the rain shadow) for a day of wine tasting.  Over the course of a few hours, we visited three wineries: Silvara Vineyards, Cascadia Winery, and Wedge Mountain Winery.  Though grapes don't grow all that well in the Leavenworth area (I learned that day that grapes grow well in apple country, but that Leavenworth is in the heart of Washington's pear belt; who knew), there are a number of wineries that have popped up in the area in the last decade or so.  Though they purchase their grapes from other commercial vineyards in Washington, the wines were made on-site at each winery.

We started at Silvara, which opened for business less than five years ago.  It boasts a brand-new, very happily situated tasting room that sits on top of a hillside, in the middle of a pear orchard, surrounded by wildflowers, with a spectacular panoramic view of the mountains.  If there was ever a more poetic setting, I'm sure I've never heard of it.

We tasted through a flight of five wines at Silvara, and I was particularly impressed with the Syrah, which was big and flavorful without being overly tannic.  Elizabeth and Hannah had never been wine tasting before, which surprised me - I forget sometimes just how much I do know about food and drink, because I always feel there is so much more for me to learn!  I led a discussion about our tasting so that, at the very least, I hope they'll be able to fake their way into the world of wine snobbery with passable repartee of legs, first and second noses, mouthfeels, and finishes.  (The trick is, when in doubt, go with "essence of toast.")

Cascadia and Wedge Mountain were fun visits because both wineries are family owned.  In both cases, we were tasting with one of the owners; at Cascadia, with the winemaker himself.  It was great to be able to speak to the people making the decisions about which grapes to use and how to make the wine to create the wines they particularly liked.  We tasted three or four wines at Cascadia, and another seven at Wedge Mountain, by the end of which we thought perhaps that was enough for one day.  Though I must confess that most of what I tasted has all run together in my mind now, the wine that really stands out to me was Wedge Mountain's raspberry dessert wine, made with 100% raspberries, ripe and sweet and utterly delicious.  The only bottle I actually bought, however, was Cascadia's Roussane, a pleasant, crisp white.

On the drive back to Seattle, we stopped at a couple of roadside fruit stands, several of which had posted signs advertising their cherries - just like Northern Michigan!  But with totems.

At the last stand we visited, I bought a few of the rosiest, most beautiful apricots I've ever seen.  Regretfully, I did not take their picture, but I'm happy to say that they tasted as good as they looked.

Elizabeth, not being totally sick of wine by the end of the day, came home that evening to begin preparing a homemade blackberry wine with blackberries she had picked along the Burke Gilman train a few days earlier.  From my limited exposure, it seems to me that winemaking is a lot like jam making: everything has to be sterile, and there's lots of fruit and sugar, and if you do something wrong then your final product may kill you.  Jen and I, being less adventurous, made a loaf of safe, reliable, non-lethal banana bread.

The next day, we ventured out of Seattle again, this time to the Eastern edge of the Cascades to a miniature mountain called Little Si.  Considering how nature-crazy most Seattlites seem to be, it hardly seemed right to make my visit without heading out into the wilderness for some white water rafting or extreme mountain biking.  However, being a Michigander and, therefore, not quite so intrepid as those hardy Washingtonians, I was glad we opted for a hike instead.

Little Si boasts a pleasant hiking path, about five miles round trip, to a summit at 1576 feet.  On the way, it was clear why Washington is known as "the Evergreen State" - the path was surrounded by tall, tall trees. 

At the summit, we soaked in the sights while munching on slices of last night's banana bread.  Not bad for a day's work.

Seattle, part one

The day after my grandma was laid to rest, I had a flight...

...to go here...

...to visit her:

Allow me to introduce you to Jen.  She's not always quite that excited - only when she has lunch with me.  Or, perhaps, only when she's about to eat an eggplant and goat cheese sandwich at Boat Street Cafe.

Jen and I met during our freshman year of high school, but we became friends during sophomore year, when Jen joined the swim team.  Back then, we had a whole litany of reasons that we got along so well: we both made fudge, which we both knew was best paired with skim milk, and neither of us drank brown pop or ate any seafood other than tuna from a tin.  (Though we still eat our fudge with skim milk and eschew coke and pepsi, I'm pleased to say we've both progressed to enjoying a wide range of fish and shellfish.)  Jen moved to Seattle last September to begin grad school at the University of Washington, and after about a year apart, it was high time for a visit.

This was my first visit to Seattle, and I have to say that four days was not nearly enough time.  Between trips to wineries and strolls along Puget Sound and Lake Union, the days were just packed.  And then, oh then we went out for coffee or lunch.

My first morning, it was appropriately cloudy and we went for coffee at Espresso Vivace, home of the first latte art.  You - or, I suppose I should say, I - can thank Alex for ordering a cappuccino a couple of months ago and getting me interested in latte art, which inspired our trip to this shop, which wasn't exactly in Jen's neighborhood.  It was well worth the visit, though.  That day, I was the one ordering a cappuccino:

Jen, not being a coffee drinker (apparently one year in Seattle has not been enough to convert her) went for a take on a London fog, with cinnamon:

I'm used to adding sugar to my coffee, and must say I missed it a little, since I didn't want to pour any in and mess up the heart.  Luckily, the coffee was rich and dark and eminently drinkable, just the same.  This outlet of Espresso Vivace was, by the way, across the street from the flagship store of REI, which features an entryway consisting of a signed forest path, complete with waterfall.  Impressive.

Sufficiently caffeinated, we walked across town, passed the statue of Chief Seattle and through Seattle Center under the shadow of the Space Needle (which did indeed have a shadow, thanks to the sun's midday appearance), towards lunch.  Before I left for Seattle, I had asked friends who had lived in or visited the city where to eat; everyone recommended Boat Street Cafe, so I knew I wanted to get there during my trip.  Jen, ever the courteous host, happily obliged.

The dining room was white and clean and utterly comfortable.  The space was awash with light from the sunshine that filtered through the many windows, providing a warm, cheery ambiance.  But just in case you were interested in something more than just the decor, let me tell you about the food, too, which was pretty fantastic.

I ordered the flageolet beans with sauteed beet greens and a poached egg, which came with fresh beets and some buttered toast.  Everything was just packed with rich, earthy flavor.  The egg yolk was perfectly runny, and when you got the beans, greens, and egg together for a bite on toast, it was a fantastic combination.  It wasn't heavy, but it was also plenty filling - perfect lunch fare.

But what's lunch without a dessert?  Jen and I decided to split the Amaretto bread pudding:

The pudding was made with a crusty European-style bread, and served with a butter rum cream sauce.  Sometimes I feel that the alcohol in bread pudding is overwhelming, but this sauce added just enough of a kick to assert itself, but not so much that you couldn't walk straight when you left the restaurant.  The crusty exterior of the bread was soft and light, but it was the luscious interior that really won me over, each decadent spoonful melting on my happy, happy tongue.

After lunch, we took a leisurely stroll through the Olympic sculpture park, and then headed along the Sound waterfront toward Pike Place Market.  After balking at the ridiculous line to get into the original Starbucks shop, we entered the market in the middle of a long line of flower stands. 

Pike Place was filled with everything you'd hope for: farm fresh produce, hand-made soaps, cured meats, the occasional grocery-type dry goods shop, a coffee shop or two (of course), and lots and lots of fresh fish.

This stand is the home to the famous flying fish: when a purchase is made, the fish is flung from the display stand up to the center of the shop, where it's prepped and wrapped to go home.  We saw a number of fish go flying, though I wasn't quick enough to get a photo of any of them.

Jen and I bought a couple of beautiful coho salmon fillets (see, I told you we eat fish!) for dinner that night, which we prepared at Jen's house for dinner with friends.  We baked the salmon and served it with a simple lemon-brown sugar-butter glaze that I remembered from my first experience with salmon, which was at a salmon bake in Juneau, Alaska.  The fish was good, and the conversation was even better once we discovered that one of Jen's classmates in her department had gone to high school with my college freshman roommate.  Sometimes, it seems it's a small world indeed.

There's plenty more to be said about Seattle, and I'll say it all soon.  For now, though, I'll leave you where I wish I was: with Jen, looking out through a window at Pike Place, over the Sound and toward the mountains.

Endings

After a month and a half of summertime when the livin' was easy, the last two weeks have been crazy busy.  I've flown nearly 4,000 miles, and spent more time in cars than I care to remember (suffice to say, enough to listen to twenty-some episodes of A History of the World in 100 Objects and to sing along to all of BSB's Millenium, because really, who doesn't want it that way?).  I've slept in three different beds, and watched three Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers Movies and Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.  I've caught up with old friends and met second cousins I never knew I had.  You might say it's been rather exciting.

In the middle of all of that excitement, when one event began almost as soon as the preceding one finished, I didn't really notice the endings because there was always had something else to get ready for right away.  But when I dropped Kate off at the airport yesterday, and all of the hullabaloo finally died down, it was as if all of the endings of all of the last couple of weeks hit me at once.  I never do endings very well, but when they're all piled into one day, forget it.  Time to dim the lights, pour a glass of wine, and start eating gelato straight from the pint.  It's fitting then, I suppose, that the first ending I want to tell you about is not only the most important, but also the saddest.

On Friday, August 5th, my paternal grandmother passed away.  She had been struggling for some months now, and after fighting off bouts of pneumonia and suffering a broken hip this year, she was struck with a few seizures and never fully recovered. She spent a couple of weeks at the hospital before she was finally discharged and brought back home. She drew her last breath less than 24 hours later.  I think she must have wanted it that way.  After her death, the next few days were a flurry of preparations that culminated in a visitation, a funeral, and an entombment.

When I was growing up, the best part of visiting Grandma and Granddad's house was the moment when I was invited to enter my grandparents' bedroom, tiptoe up to the bureau, and select a Red Rose tea Wade figurine from my grandma's ever-changing collection to take home with me.  For years, those ceramic animals were carefully displayed on top of my own bureau, until I got too old for them and they were relegated to a cupboard.  I had forgotten how many of them I had until I pulled them all out again today.

At the luncheon at my grandparents' house after the funeral, I didn't creep into the bedroom in search of another figure for my collection, but I did eat a few Ruffles - a food I almost never ate, except when we visited their house - in memoriam.

After three days of memorial services and visits from extended family, I was exhausted.  But there was no time to rest, because the next day, I had a flight to catch to Seattle.  And with the promise of that happier topic to come soon, I'll bid you adieu as my grandma would have done, with a request that you come see me again soon.