During my time at sea in 1994 and 1995 I learned a great deal about the seafaring traditions that give the maritime life its great character and flavor. I am proud to say that I am a trusty shellback, having crossed the Equator not once but four times aboard ship. One becomes a shellback after going through a unique initiation ceremony that involves a great deal of custom, tradition, and, well, ingenuity on the part of the initiating crew. Sailing in Brazilian waters shortly after my initiation in 1994, I quickly learned of the international flavor of the maritime traditions; in short these provide a common ground (if you will) that make it very easy for sailors from varied nations to share their sea stories and tales.
That said, there are several traditions within the US Navy that give a particular appeal and camaraderie to our service. For example, young Marines embarked on amphibious ships transiting the Straits of Gibraltar will often be called to the deck of the ship, handed baseball bats and instructed to ensure that none of the Gibraltar apes are allowed to board the ship. The fact that the ships pass several hundred yards from shore is not introduced for consideration in this. In the days of steam-powered engine plants, newly reported personnel would frequently be handed a bucket and sent to the engineering section of the ship to collect a "bucket of steam," with very explicit instructions to not return to their duty station until the task was complete. Nowadays they are more likely to be sent off to collect twenty feet of waterline, or to stand the "mail buoy watch" on the bow of the ship.
During our first underway during my deployment in 1994, the more seasoned officers on our staff spoke eloquently of the "green flash," supposedly a bright shot of green that would appear on the horizon just as the sun set below the edge where sky and water meet. I spent a number of evenings on the main deck of our ship, gazing at the setting sun and hoping to see this elusive maritime phenomenon. In 1999 I moved to Monterey, CA and my mom and I spent a memorable evening sitting on the edge of our continent, eyes out across the Pacific, hoping to see the famed Green Flash.
I never have seen one and to be honest I'm not sure that it is an actual phenomenon. It may just be one of those shared myths, a story made up to give lonely Sailors something to think about as they scan the horizon looking for and thinking of home.
The other night here in Manhattan I discovered a different green flash. The Blind Tiger Ale House in the West Village serves a Green Flash IPA, brewed by a small company on the west coast. Drop in some time and find your own green flash!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Plimsoll Marks and Pisco Sours
If you've ever spent time looking at the hull of a ship, you may have noticed a strange mark at the waterline, something that looks like a circle with a series of arms extending out from it. It's called a Plimsoll Mark, and it is used to measure how a ship is sitting in the water. Very simply put it gives a picture of whether the ship is loaded such that it can maintain its proper buoyancy.
I first learned about Plimsoll Marks while paying a call for cocktails onboard a South American Navy destroyer (a ship) during a deployment in 1994. The cocktail glasses were adorned with a Plimsoll Mark. My boss, a very salty US Navy admiral, was quite taken with them. In fact his admiration of the glasses was so pronounced that one of the South American lieutenants offered to get my boss a souvenir or two to take home. As my boss made his goodbyes, the lieutenant ferried me off to a separate part of the ship. He passed me glass after glass that I tucked into my handbag and then, running out of space, into my pockets. I finally made my way topside and joined the Admiral on the pier. He didn't have the most patience in the world and started to bellow about why I had keeped him waiting. I quickly quieted him, whispering that it would be worth the wait. As I emptied my pockets his bemused look quickly turned into a smile. For the rest of our five month deployment in South America, he took great pride and pleasure in showing off the prized treats from the cocktail party.
During another part of our voyage in South America, my boss again learned about speaking too favorably of things in our host nation. In our efforts to be gracious guests we often paid many compliments to our hosts, in the name of forging friendships and strengthening relationships, which was the overarching mission of the deployment. During a visit in Peru, the Admiral spoke highly of Pisco, a local brandy made from grapes. As a reward for his enthusiasm for the spirit, he was presented with a case of Pisco bottled especially for one of the Peruvian ships. It had a very entertaining label that said it was "bilgewater" from the ship and had several custom features identifying it as such. It was a very special treat, and one that the boss was very careful to share with those of us on the staff. (Although in keeping with our strict regulations, I must point out it was never enjoyed while onboard our Navy vessels!)
It is probably fair to say that, taken straight, Pisco is indeed bilgewater. But when prepared in the national traditions of Peru and Chile, a Pisco Sour is a delight. The "sour" preparation provides enough sweetness and smoothness to mask its true strength. It becomes quite easy to take and to drink without really keeping count, one pisco sour, two, three.... At that point it can be dangerous. You don't feel a thing and then you stand up and .... well it's a different matter altogether. How do I know this? That is another story, for a different time....
In recent years it has become quite easy to find Pisco - Peruvian or Chilean - at liquor stores in the US. Here's a recipe for you to enjoy:
PISCO SOUR -
Ingredients
2 oz. pisco
1 tablespoon superfine sugar (regular will work, in a pinch)
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
1 teaspoon pasteurized egg whites
Preparation
In a cocktail shaker, shake 3 ice cubes, pisco, sugar, fresh lime juice, and egg whites. Strain and serve straight up in a martini glass with a dash of aromatic bitters atop the froth.
I first learned about Plimsoll Marks while paying a call for cocktails onboard a South American Navy destroyer (a ship) during a deployment in 1994. The cocktail glasses were adorned with a Plimsoll Mark. My boss, a very salty US Navy admiral, was quite taken with them. In fact his admiration of the glasses was so pronounced that one of the South American lieutenants offered to get my boss a souvenir or two to take home. As my boss made his goodbyes, the lieutenant ferried me off to a separate part of the ship. He passed me glass after glass that I tucked into my handbag and then, running out of space, into my pockets. I finally made my way topside and joined the Admiral on the pier. He didn't have the most patience in the world and started to bellow about why I had keeped him waiting. I quickly quieted him, whispering that it would be worth the wait. As I emptied my pockets his bemused look quickly turned into a smile. For the rest of our five month deployment in South America, he took great pride and pleasure in showing off the prized treats from the cocktail party.
During another part of our voyage in South America, my boss again learned about speaking too favorably of things in our host nation. In our efforts to be gracious guests we often paid many compliments to our hosts, in the name of forging friendships and strengthening relationships, which was the overarching mission of the deployment. During a visit in Peru, the Admiral spoke highly of Pisco, a local brandy made from grapes. As a reward for his enthusiasm for the spirit, he was presented with a case of Pisco bottled especially for one of the Peruvian ships. It had a very entertaining label that said it was "bilgewater" from the ship and had several custom features identifying it as such. It was a very special treat, and one that the boss was very careful to share with those of us on the staff. (Although in keeping with our strict regulations, I must point out it was never enjoyed while onboard our Navy vessels!)
It is probably fair to say that, taken straight, Pisco is indeed bilgewater. But when prepared in the national traditions of Peru and Chile, a Pisco Sour is a delight. The "sour" preparation provides enough sweetness and smoothness to mask its true strength. It becomes quite easy to take and to drink without really keeping count, one pisco sour, two, three.... At that point it can be dangerous. You don't feel a thing and then you stand up and .... well it's a different matter altogether. How do I know this? That is another story, for a different time....
In recent years it has become quite easy to find Pisco - Peruvian or Chilean - at liquor stores in the US. Here's a recipe for you to enjoy:
PISCO SOUR -
Ingredients
2 oz. pisco
1 tablespoon superfine sugar (regular will work, in a pinch)
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
1 teaspoon pasteurized egg whites
Preparation
In a cocktail shaker, shake 3 ice cubes, pisco, sugar, fresh lime juice, and egg whites. Strain and serve straight up in a martini glass with a dash of aromatic bitters atop the froth.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
safe harbor
My two worlds came together today. I was logging in to send an email to my former First Sergeant, who is now stationed at Fort Hood. When I went online, I saw the news about the shooting that happened there today. Fort Hood is our nation's largest Army base, and so from a reasoned perspective the likelihood of her being one of the victims was pretty low. But from another perspective the other possibility hit me hard.
We were both in DC on 9/11. We discovered when we started working together in 2006 that we share a pretty incredible bond from that day. The possibility that that story was ending in a new, unexpected chapter today was very painful to consider.
I am like many military people, balancing that tough act of preparing for the worst and embracing the best. Over the past few years I've watched as people I know have had to carry out the incredible duty of accompanying the remains of their friends on the final journey home. And I've prayed to have strength should the time come that I am called into that service. I've held my breath for months on end as friends and family have deployed overseas. I've said countless prayers. And tonight the unthinkable was happening on our own turf.
Tonight I held my breath, said many prayers, and I cooked. Two of my culinary school classmates are guest chefs for a dinner at our school tomorrow night. I was there for their first recipe test, and there at the second, when they nailed a wonderful three course vegan menu highlighting flavors of the American Southwest. Tonight I was supposed to go to a class I've been taking but my heart needed nourishing more than more my head. I joined my friends at the Natural Gourmet and worked side by side with them and their students, preparing the ingredients for tomorrow night's dinner.
My heart goes out to the families who tonight are being visited by strangers bearing unbearable news. I pray that they find the solace and strength to get through these dark days. I pray for my dear friend, now a Sergeant Major, that she too has strength for her new challenges, looking for answers to what happened and helping our Soldiers and their families.
And I say a prayer of thanksgiving for the safe harbor of the kitchen and the nourishing friendship therein.
We were both in DC on 9/11. We discovered when we started working together in 2006 that we share a pretty incredible bond from that day. The possibility that that story was ending in a new, unexpected chapter today was very painful to consider.
I am like many military people, balancing that tough act of preparing for the worst and embracing the best. Over the past few years I've watched as people I know have had to carry out the incredible duty of accompanying the remains of their friends on the final journey home. And I've prayed to have strength should the time come that I am called into that service. I've held my breath for months on end as friends and family have deployed overseas. I've said countless prayers. And tonight the unthinkable was happening on our own turf.
Tonight I held my breath, said many prayers, and I cooked. Two of my culinary school classmates are guest chefs for a dinner at our school tomorrow night. I was there for their first recipe test, and there at the second, when they nailed a wonderful three course vegan menu highlighting flavors of the American Southwest. Tonight I was supposed to go to a class I've been taking but my heart needed nourishing more than more my head. I joined my friends at the Natural Gourmet and worked side by side with them and their students, preparing the ingredients for tomorrow night's dinner.
My heart goes out to the families who tonight are being visited by strangers bearing unbearable news. I pray that they find the solace and strength to get through these dark days. I pray for my dear friend, now a Sergeant Major, that she too has strength for her new challenges, looking for answers to what happened and helping our Soldiers and their families.
And I say a prayer of thanksgiving for the safe harbor of the kitchen and the nourishing friendship therein.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Baking Beans...and making memories
The Navy has been a big part of my life; in fact, I wouldn't have one without it. In 1953 a Navy lieutenant from a small town in Indiana made a trip up to Boston with one of his buddies. They were serving on ships in Newport, RI and went to see some gals that the friend knew. The lieutenant was quite taken with one of them, a young woman who hailed from a very small town in very northern Maine. Unfortunately he didn't get her phone number, and his friend got underway on an around-the-world cruise before he could get it from him. This was well before the age of email at sea; after waiting six months and deploying several communications techniques, the young officer finally got a postcard containing the much sought after contact info. He called her, she remembered him, and on their second date they got engaged. They were married for nearly 50 years. I still have the postcard that brought my mom and dad together.
Mom grew up in Aroostook County, the largest of Maine's sixteen counties. Most Mainers refer to it as simply "The County." Having grown up in a predominantly agricultural area (potatoes were the big crop), one of the many gifts my mom gave us was an appreciation for where food comes from. No matter where the Navy had us living, we'd always venture out to farm stands and pick-your-own fields and enjoy local flavors. She was also a great cook, which was pretty entertaining given that her maiden name was Cook. Destiny perhaps? Our family developed a nice culinary tradition, rooted in our folks' Hoosier and Yankee backgrounds, and flavored by the influences of the places we lived and travelled and the many people we met, a sprinkling of Southern here, a dash of Phillippine there.
Being from Maine, Mom had a bean pot, of course. We enjoyed many a Saturday Night Supper of baked beans and brown bread. It was on a trip to Maine in the summer of 1993 that I got my very own bean pot. It was one of those moments when I finally felt like a grown up, even though I'd been out of school and on my own for a very long time. Mom gave me her mother's recipe for "Kosher Baked Beans" and we began our favorite little game. You see, the recipe instructs that "in the a.m." you put the ingredients in the pot and place it in the oven, and then "after lunch" you add the key ingredient, the molasses that gives the beans their delicious sweetness. Every time I baked beans, I'd have to call Mom. It went something like this: "Mom, when did your mother get up in the morning and when did she eat lunch?" answered by "Oh, you must be baking beans" and chuckles from both of us.
Mom isn't with us anymore, but every time I pull out my bean pot and read the recipe on the card tucked inside, I can hear the chuckle in her voice again. I hope to share many recipes in this space, and I think it's fitting that this is the first one. This is a direct transcription from my mom's handwritten recipe card, with some comments and clarifications from me in parentheses. I hope you'll enjoy these on a Saturday night - or anytime - with those you hold dear.
Kosher Baked Beans
1 pound (dried) beans = 2 1/2 cups
Soak beans overnight. In the a.m., put an onion cut in quarters in the bottom of the bean pot. Add beans and oleo (butter is okay) cut in pieces in layers. (Note: For one pound of beans, I use about 1/2 stick of butter.) Mix 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, 1/4 teaspoon pepper, 3/4 tablespoon salt with 1 pint of boiling water - pour over beans; may need to add more water to cover beans. (Note: I've taken to adding the salt much later in the baking, with good results.) Cover pot and bake at 300 Fahrenheit. Add more boiling water during the day if necessary. After lunch add 1/2 cup unsulphured molasses dissolved in a little boiling water. Bake 6-7 hours total.
(Another note: the best beans to use are Soldier Beans grown in Aroostook County. If you aren't lucky enough to take a trip to Maine to stock your larder, you can enjoy Yellow-eye Beans from your local grocer.)
Mom grew up in Aroostook County, the largest of Maine's sixteen counties. Most Mainers refer to it as simply "The County." Having grown up in a predominantly agricultural area (potatoes were the big crop), one of the many gifts my mom gave us was an appreciation for where food comes from. No matter where the Navy had us living, we'd always venture out to farm stands and pick-your-own fields and enjoy local flavors. She was also a great cook, which was pretty entertaining given that her maiden name was Cook. Destiny perhaps? Our family developed a nice culinary tradition, rooted in our folks' Hoosier and Yankee backgrounds, and flavored by the influences of the places we lived and travelled and the many people we met, a sprinkling of Southern here, a dash of Phillippine there.
Being from Maine, Mom had a bean pot, of course. We enjoyed many a Saturday Night Supper of baked beans and brown bread. It was on a trip to Maine in the summer of 1993 that I got my very own bean pot. It was one of those moments when I finally felt like a grown up, even though I'd been out of school and on my own for a very long time. Mom gave me her mother's recipe for "Kosher Baked Beans" and we began our favorite little game. You see, the recipe instructs that "in the a.m." you put the ingredients in the pot and place it in the oven, and then "after lunch" you add the key ingredient, the molasses that gives the beans their delicious sweetness. Every time I baked beans, I'd have to call Mom. It went something like this: "Mom, when did your mother get up in the morning and when did she eat lunch?" answered by "Oh, you must be baking beans" and chuckles from both of us.
Mom isn't with us anymore, but every time I pull out my bean pot and read the recipe on the card tucked inside, I can hear the chuckle in her voice again. I hope to share many recipes in this space, and I think it's fitting that this is the first one. This is a direct transcription from my mom's handwritten recipe card, with some comments and clarifications from me in parentheses. I hope you'll enjoy these on a Saturday night - or anytime - with those you hold dear.
Kosher Baked Beans
1 pound (dried) beans = 2 1/2 cups
Soak beans overnight. In the a.m., put an onion cut in quarters in the bottom of the bean pot. Add beans and oleo (butter is okay) cut in pieces in layers. (Note: For one pound of beans, I use about 1/2 stick of butter.) Mix 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, 1/4 teaspoon pepper, 3/4 tablespoon salt with 1 pint of boiling water - pour over beans; may need to add more water to cover beans. (Note: I've taken to adding the salt much later in the baking, with good results.) Cover pot and bake at 300 Fahrenheit. Add more boiling water during the day if necessary. After lunch add 1/2 cup unsulphured molasses dissolved in a little boiling water. Bake 6-7 hours total.
(Another note: the best beans to use are Soldier Beans grown in Aroostook County. If you aren't lucky enough to take a trip to Maine to stock your larder, you can enjoy Yellow-eye Beans from your local grocer.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)