That's how you know

The last 24 hours have been pretty fantastic.  I'd love to tell you about them.

We'll start with yesterday morning, at a meeting for work.  I know, I know, it doesn't sound like a very promising place to begin, but hear me out.  So remember how a few weeks ago I mentioned that I had started at a new job?  What I didn't mention then is that I'm working for Zingerman's Mail Order.  ZMO is one of the Zingerman's Community of Businesses here in Ann Arbor, an organization that makes and sells some superb, full-flavored, traditionally made foods.*  Being knowledgeable about the products we carry is an important part of my job, and consequently there are frequent tastings both at ZMO and at other Zingerman's businesses.

After nearly thirty years in business, Zingerman's is something of an institution here in Ann Arbor.  On a national level, Zingerman's also has a reputation in the food industry as a well-respected purveyor of excellent-quality goods.  As you might imagine, we're contacted fairly frequently by folks who are interested in having us sell their foods.  But how do we decide what products we'll carry?  We taste them, of course.  Once a month, an informal group called the tasting team gets together to taste through all of the sample products that have been sent to us.  It's an hour-long gustatory marathon.  And that, my friends, is the meeting I attended yesterday morning.

I didn't take any pictures of the event, but I'll try to paint the scene for you.  Imagine a small room, maybe twelve feet by eighteen feet, the north and west walls lined with windows providing good natural light. The center of the room is filled with six IKEA tables, all pushed together one after the other to form a large conference table.  Scattered around the tables are twelve or fifteen black rolling chairs, in which sit ten or twelve employees of different Zingerman's businesses.  The tables have all but disappeared beneath piles foodstuffs (and associated informative literature) to be tasted: two dozen olive oils, tinned fish, cured meats and salamis, fruit preserves, honeys, crackers, olives, chocolates, peppermint bark, fruit syrups, cookies... the selection is daunting.

Armed with a cup of ice water and a loaf of good - but thankfully relatively neutral-tasting - bread, at ten a.m. we began.  While our palates were fresh, we launched right into the twenty or so olive oils vying for our attention.  For half an hour, the routine was the same: tiny tasting cups of an oil were poured and passed around the table, we briefly warmed the cups between our hands, stuck our noses in for a deep inhalation or two, and then took a noisy sip, slurping through pursed lips to mix the oil with air in our mouths and maximize the flavors, like you would when tasting wine.  After a thorough and thoughtful tasting, we'd start discussing what we smelled and tasted.  Most of the oils were fine, running the standard gamut of grassy or citrusy or peppery, while a few boasted more unusual flavors, like mango.  A few oils were, unfortunately, rather unpalatable.  But a few others were fantastic, set aside to be remembered later. 

Once the oils were finally done, the table dotted with tall, tilting stacks of tiny tasting cups as a testament to our dedication and iron stomachs, we devolved into semi-organized chaos.  Jars and bottles were uncapped and passed around the table all at once, while we tried to taste everything conscientiously, and then tried to remember the tastes and opinions we had noted for that bottle or jar when it finally made its way down to the notetaker.  A nibble of cranberry ketchup might be followed by a taste of tikka masala sauce, which in turn was followed by a tiny spoonful of acacia honey.  Cornichons, olive tapenades and jams, marmalades, and a pistachio pesto were all passed, one after another, to be tasted and considered.  Eventually we moved on to tinned anchovies and tuna and fish pates, and then finally to dry-cured salami, prosciutto, and bacon.  By eleven o'clock, tasters started to leave, but not before sliding a favorite jar or two into their pockets to take home with them.  By eleven-thirty, essentially everything had been tasted, most of the remaining foods had been packed up and the room cleared.  As I waddled home, my mind swimming with flavors and aromas, I felt only mildly sick to my stomach.  It was a great success.

And what was the best thing we tasted?  In my opinion, it was a pistachio cream.  Pale green, sweet and nutty and utterly delicious, I wanted to dip my tiny tasting spoon back in the jar and savor another bite or five before passing it along.  That's how you know when something is great, I think: when, even amid this outrageous gluttony, you want to just keep eating more and more, straight from the jar.

~*~

As you might imagine, I didn't eat much that afternoon.  Instead, I spent my afternoon picking up photos I'd had printed, mailing a few of them off to a friend, and then taking down old pictures and putting up the new ones in their places all over my room.  It was a perfect afternoon, filled with beautiful memories and, thankfully, very little motion.

When it came time for dinner, I wanted something simple and comforting.  One of my standards lately is a dish I adapted from my host-mother when I lived in Paris in 2008, Catherine.  I'm not quite sure what I expected in a host family when I first arrived in Paris, but I don't think it was Catherine and Jacques.  Jacques, a soon-to-be-retired biology professor, was quiet and unassuming with a wry wit and a fondness for exchange students with hearty appetites.  (In this department, I was happy to oblige.)  Catherine was the more talkative of the pair, a friendly, welcoming sort.  I'm not sure what I expected of a host-mother when I arrived in Paris, but I don't think it was Catherine: slight of frame, with small glasses, a mop of short, curly grey hair, and a multitude of colorful Converses, she reminded me more of my own mother than of the chic, stilettoed Parisienne of my imagination.  Catherine and Jacques had four grown children, but there were always toddlers about since Catherine ran a day-care out of her apartment.  Every Tuesday and Friday, she'd take her three-year-old wards down to the local market and pick out fresh produce: baskets of fresh tomatoes or apricots were a constant adornment to the white kitchen counters, tempting me every time I walked through the apartment.

Every Tuesday, I had dinner with my host family.  It was always at least a three-course affair, starting at eight p.m. and almost always lasting at least ninety minutes.  I had been a picky eater before college, and though I had begun to eat a little more adventurously by the end of my junior year, I arrived in Paris still restricting myself to a fairly limited palate.  I told myself, however, that I would eat whatever Catherine served me at dinner; I would not offend her by refusing anything she cooked.  My first test came my very first night in Paris, when Catherine served a quiche lorraine - a dish I could not remember ever having tasted before (though my mom informs me that she made quiches when I was little, and that I loved them until the day I decided I didn't; who knew!).  I'm sure I'm the only one who was surprised to find that the quiche was delicious - because really, with eggs, cream, bacon, and pie crust, how could you go wrong?

Over the course of the next several weeks, Catherine opened up my eyes - and mouth - to many new tastes and dishes.  With her, I ate my salads with dressing (before, I'd always taken them dry); I ate fresh white asparagus from the market ("c'est le saison," she explained, "alors il faut le manger!"  It's the season, so we must eat it!); I ate my first ratatouille and clafoutis  and flan aux champignons and all sorts of dishes with names infinitely more fun to say in French than in English.  The dish that I make the most often now, though, was one of the simplest.

One Tuesday evening, Catherine announced she had gotten fresh peas at the market that morning.  She had shelled them while the toddlers napped in the afternoon, and in the evening she'd fried up some lardons (tiny bits of bacon), carmelized some onions, tossed in her fresh peas, and finally served up this mixture alongside rice.  Peas weren't on my list of Foods I Ate, but I ate them anyway and discovered that I liked them - especially with caramelized onions and bacon.  In fact, when made with good bacon and served over a fragrant rice, there's very little that I like better.

Last night, I used Nueske's applewood smoked bacon and Camargue red rice.  Unfortunately, my peas were frozen, not fresh, but that made little difference to the final product (and saved me considerable time, since there was no shelling!).  Even with a still slightly uncomfortable stomach, I was struck with each bite just how much I love this meal.  That's how you know your host-mother was a good cook, I think: when you're still following her recipes years after you've eaten her cooking.

~*~

This morning, I went to the farmer's market.  Hello, July - for the first time this year, there are blueberries and cherries for sale!  I quickly snatched up a quart of each, and I've been plowing through them ever since.  The cherries are so good, I'll be surprised if there are any left by the end of the day tomorrow.  That's how you know it's really summer, I think: not the solstice, not the heat, but the arrival of fruits that, every time you open the fridge door, you just have to grab a handful and pop them in your mouth.

A bowl of fresh blueberries and cherries were the ideal start to my day and the ideal end of an incredible 24 hours of eating.  Here's to hoping they've shown up at your market, too, perhaps alongside some pistachio cream and fresh peas.  Happy eating!


*For the sake of full disclosure, I'd like to note that though my day job is with Zingerman's, this blog is in no way affiliated with the company, and that all comments made here are my own.  I'm not being compensated in any way for anything I write here, so if I make a recommendation for a product that Zingerman's produces or sells, it's because I love it, not because I'm going to get a commission if it sells.