PASSIONATE RATIONS

I just realized my favorite dance lends itself extremely well as a name for a micro-brew: Lindy Hops.

Not only does the name reference the great swing dance known as Lindy Hop–with all the style and bold flavor that implies (to the delight, I am sure, of any would-be marketers)–it also plays on a key ingredient in many beers (hops).

Unfortunately, I hate hoppy beer.

As my friends and more dedicated readers know, I’m into the smoother, sweeter stuff (all hail Belgian ale).

Still, it might be worth it just to use the name. I’ve been wanting to try home brew….

Alliteration is fun food for thought. From time to time I look up words in the dictionary, even when I know the definition, just to see them placed in their alphabetical context, surrounded by similar sounds and shapes. Sometimes, doing this results in happy surprises, such as today, when I discovered the word “savior” before “savor.” Is there a savior for savor? There really should be. How about a savor saver? Or a savvy savior?

My sentence, constructed primarily of words from today’s dictionary page:

A sauceboat, saucepan and saucer sat on some satin atop the savannah, with some sauerbraten, sauerkraut, sausage and savarin, accompanied by sauternes and sauvignon blanc, awaiting some savvy savage or savior with savoir faire to sample and savor the flavor.

Mmm. Mmmm. Good.

I’m taking an on-line writing course. For our first assignment last week, we were tasked with writing a 500-word piece in which setting was of primary importance. This week, it’s two 250-word character profiles. I love reading about characters and (separately from my class) I even started writing a food-related story involving a certain special character which I thought I’d share with you here. What’s copied below is as far as I’ve gotten. Although I have some ideas where I’m taking this, your comments and ideas are welcome.

Bully-Bob and the Culinary Canine Caper

Bully-Bob had a problem. He’d just eaten the lipstick out of his mistress’ handbag, which she had foolishly left on the floor next to the couch, and he was feeling a little ill. Bright red smears stained his drooping muzzle, alarming evidence of his indiscretion. It was her favorite shade—Candy Apple Kiss—but he supposed she’d prefer to wear it herself. It hadn’t tasted at all like either candy or an apple. He hung his head in shame and did not look up when he heard the inevitable shriek.

“Bully! What…? Oh my God, you ate my lipstick!”

He heard Caroline rush over, saw the tips of her red patent-leather pumps come into view, and dropped his head even lower. She knelt, picking up the violated plastic tube. “Bad dog,” she reprimanded and lifted his chin. Shocked by the color’s blood-red vividness, she softened. “Are you okay?” she asked. Then, to herself, “Lipstick isn’t toxic, is it? No, it can’t be. Right? Of course, it’s not meant to be eaten in large chunks. Oh geez!”

She called out to her sister in the other room, “Darlene? Darlene, I’m going to need some paper towels!” Bully-Bob felt better when Darlene rushed in and promptly burst out laughing. He’d always liked Darlene. “Silly-Bob” she called him, for reasons that were abundantly apparent at this particular moment.

The sisters cleaned him up and called the veterinarian, who assured them that Bully, an English bulldog of long and sturdy lineage, likely would survive the incident, if with a little indigestion and temporary facial discoloration.

He hadn’t meant to eat the lipstick. Well, not initially anyway. No. He’d been overcome by the lingering smell of the artichoke langostino from Pepe’s and thought, perhaps, that some had escaped the doggie-bag Caroline had brought him last night.

Caroline, to Bully-Bob’s never-ending delight, was a food critic. Last night he had been, as he often was, the beneficiary of one of her many culinary excursions. She had tucked the doggie bag of leftovers into her over-large bag. So, it was really her fault this had happened at all. Unable to find the langostino, or even a bit of day-old artichoke cream sauce, Bully-Bob had resorted to the lipstick. Any self-respecting dog would have done the same.

There is a political-social movement known as “eco-feminism” that explores the link between the historical oppression of women and humankind’s degradation and domination of nature.  I first learned the term in an environmental ethics course I took many years ago and was startled by the view provided by this particular filter for understanding the world’s complexities. 

Ultimately, life is about applying our closely held theories to the way we live our lives, including its intimate details, such as the food we eat.  This is the lesson of Bloodroot.     

Bloodroot is a feminist vegetarian restaurant in Bridgeport, Connecticut.  I first heard of the eatery in 1992, when I went with a friend to visit a mutual acquaintance who had become a chef there.  I only vaguely remember that visit, mostly by the snapshot in my head of the feminist and lesbian literature that decorated the walls of the lavatory and the cute little feminist bookstore attached to the restaurant. 

My parents live quite near the place, so it’s something of a puzzle why I hadn’t returned until a couple of weekends ago, particularly since I’ve been a feminist (read:  “someone who believes in social, political and economic parity for women and girls”) for as long as I can remember and have always, even when a card-carrying meat eater, enjoyed vegetarian fare. 

Suffice it to say that I didn’t think a feminist vegetarian restaurant would appeal to certain members of my immediate family.  Imagine my surprise when my mom, in gracious consideration of my spouse’s and my vegetarianism, suggested we go there.  I readily agreed.  Now one rich slice of parsnip pie later, I can say I’ll definitely return more quickly the next time.

The restaurant is tucked into a residential enclave along Long Island Sound.  If you didn’t have directions, you’d never guess it was there.  The building is, on the outside, reminiscent of old-timey Cape-Cod beach cottages.  I couldn’t help feeling as if I’d stepped back into the 1970s as I got out of the car; the very air of the place causes one to expect long hair and bell bottoms and the unrestrained social energy of that vibrant and explosive time. 

Entering through the front door, a tiny bookstore occupies space to the left.  In front of you is a large window opening onto the kitchen.  To the right is the wide-open space of the restaurant, featuring high, beamed ceilings and peppered with mis-matched tables and chairs.   The walls are covered with black-and-white and sepia-toned pictures of women that would be at home in the Victorian age.  Though a Saturday evening, the surroundings were relatively quiet, with only three or four couples seated in the dining area and a couple of larger groups occupying the open space.

Bloodroot offers a unique dining experience.  The seasonally-changing menu is handwritten on a chalkboard above the window that looks into the kitchen.  Beer and wine is on a handwritten menu next to the door and features organic wines.  Customers order their meals at a small desk next to the entrance before being seated.  If you want bread or dessert, you have to order that separately too. On this night we were honored to be attended to by one of the restaurant’s founding matriarchs, Selma Miriam.

We ordered our food and a 2005 organic pinot noir from Oregon’s Cooper Mountain winery and took our seats. My partner and I ordered, to share, a seaweed and watercress salad.

For entrees, and because it seemed the perfect dish to say goodbye to the long and dreary winter, I ordered the parsnip pie with a house salad. My partner ordered the feijoada (Brazilian black beans and rice with kale, spices, lemon-pepper hot sauce, and manioc—a grain-like meal made from dried cassava) and, for dessert, their cheese plate. My mom ordered the Mulligatawny soup and a salad, my dad the Thai “chicken” stir fry and a slice of banana cream pie. My brother, ever the picky eater, ordered only a house salad.

Although my mom found her salad disappointing, expecting more than greens, I found my house salad fresh, with a satisfyingly light and tasty dressing. However, I expected more from the seaweed/watercress salad. Although it was presented beautifully, the watercress was less tangy than I expect of the usually potent little green and, since I’m used to seaweed at my fantastic local Japanese restaurant, my standards are high for seaweed.

However, my spouse and I found our entrees extremely flavorful and satisfying. The feijoada was beautiful, with dark onyx-like beans and an enticing aroma that didn’t disappoint upon tasting, bringing forth visions of colorful Latin American celebrations. It probably doesn’t hurt that rum is used in the recipe.

My parsnip pie came as an unadorned triangle on a light blue plate. As a French Canadian, I was reminded of the pork pie my mom used to make when we were kids. This was as rich and filling, though the flavor was completely different. I love parsnips in most formats, but this was one of the most interesting I’ve seen. The crust was thick and flaky and the filling slightly sweet, with hints of peanut, onion and ginger.

Unfortunately, for entrees, my mom also proved least satisfied with her meal, indicating the soup was bland. That being said, I note my dad ate all of his stir-fry before I had a chance to try it, so I’m assuming it was good. It certainly looked and smelled great. The cheese plate came with a nice array of several cheese, which my spouse refused to inquire about so, dear reader, I don’t have more information for you on that, except to say it’s worth a try. And the banana cream pie was fantastic, totally unlike the instant-pudding versions you often see. This was full of real slices of banana bathed in creamy white softness. It tasted of fresh bananas with a tangy side note. I’d go back just for that.

Despite some disappointments in the meal, as noted above, this place is worth giving a try, if only for the experience. Overall, I found the meal satisfying on several levels—for its food and for its principles.

And if you’re interested in finding out more, Bloodroot just released two cookbooks for your culinary foray into eco-feminist cuisine.

by Muriel Rukeyser

After you finish your work
after you do your day
after you’ve read your reading
after you’ve written your say —
you go down the street to the hot dog stand,
one block down and across the way.
On a blistering afternoon in East Harlem in the twentieth century.

Most of the windows are boarded up,
the rats run out of a sack —
sticking out of the crummy garbage
one shiny long Cadillac;
at the glass door of the drug-addiction center,
a man who’d like to break your back.
But here’s a brown woman with a little girl dressed in rose and pink, too.

Frankfurters, frankfurters sizzle on the steel
where the hot-dog-man leans —
nothing else on the counter
but the usual two machines,
the grape one, empty, and the orange one, empty,
I face him in between.
A black boy comes along, looks at the hot dogs, goes on walking.

I watch the man as he stands and pours
in the familiar shape
bright purple in the one marked ORANGE
orange in the one marked GRAPE,
the grape drink in the machine marked ORANGE
and orange drink in the GRAPE.
Just the one word large and clear, unmistakable, one each machine.

I ask him: How can we go on reading
and make sense out of what we read? —
How can they write and believe what they’re writing,
the young ones across the street,
while you go on pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE —?
(How are we going to believe what we read and what we write and we hear and we say and we do?)

He looks at the two machines and he smiles
and he shrugs and smiles and pours again.
It could be violence and nonviolence
it could be black and white women and men
it could be war and peace or any
binary system, love and hate, enemy, friend.
Yes and no, be and not-be, what we do and what we don’t do.

On a corner in East Harlem
garbage, reading, a deep smile, rape,
forgetfulness, a hot street of murder,
misery, withered hope,
a man keeps pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE,
pouring orange into GRAPE and grape into ORANGE forever.