Pizza Adventures in Maine

Well I know I owe my devoted readership some closure on my oven build, but hey, the three of y'all will just have to wait. I'll post some photos in the near future.

But for now, lets talk serious production earthen ovens. Earlier this month we made our annual summer trek to the Great North. My cousin and her family were the real attraction in Portland, Maine, but a close second was the Flatbread Company's restaurant on the waterfront. Its proprietors have smartly placed a viewing bench in front of the "modified Quebec-style oven." Undoubtedly it was designed to entertain the younger patrons, but I was able to squeeze between squirmy kids for a good view of the pizzaolo plying his primitive trade. The restaurant, whose affiliation with the original American Flatbread Company remains something of a mystery to me, serves up the same genre of simple but inspired pizza, salads and desserts. The space is not bucolic like the Waitsfield restaurant, but is almost as appealing. The view below is from the restaurant's back deck looking into a thickening Portland fog.

Deep at the core of my being, I know that Richmond is ready for such an establishment. But who shall bring it to us?

The BackBou gets a little media coverage...

See the Style Weekly piece on my oven that has outed me at work...

The Second Layer

Last time we completed the first layer of the dome. This update brings us through the second layer. As you recall, the first layer is thinner with no straw added to the clay mix. The second layer is thicker and adds neccesary thermal mass to the oven.

We begin with more mixing. This time we are mixing true cob -- a mixture of Virginia red earth, sand, straw and water. Because I had some powdered Red Art clay on hand and little left over coarse grog from the first layer, I added it as well.

I learned an important lesson about oven-building collaboration. While these projects are great fun for the kids, adult helpers can actually make the project go faster and provide good company. In this session, I was particularly lucky to have two helpers with great attitudes and actual experience in working with clay. In the future, I shall encourage more adult collaboration in my oven building activities.


Here, Mr. J does the cobbers' high step with me.



As before, we patted the cob into mushy bricks to facilitate the orderly shaping of the second layer. At the beginning of the day, it seemed anything approaching a brick shape would do. By the end of the afternoon, Mr. J's standards had changed and the bricks seemed much improved in shape and integrity.




We laid the cob "bricks" in courses around the first layer. The trick is to proceed as though you are truly building one course on top of another, merely using the existing dome as a guide. Note how pressure is applied down and not inward toward the dome.

We mixed two large batches of cob and one tiny one just at the end because -- of course - we were a two bricks shy. Here, Ms. J and I put the last bits of cob in place.

The last order of business was to smooth the outside of the second layer using hands and a rocking motion with a flat board.

After drying out, which takes at least a few days, the oven is functional. However, a final layer of adobe plaster makes the exterior a little more presentable by, among other things, hiding the straw pieces. Next update will include photos of the "plastered" end product.

Il Duomo

Last time, we had just completed another course of stone work. So we start off by filling the top three or four inches of the foundation with concrete because, if you recall, I was determined to make a floor that would not cave in. The first layer of concrete had vermiculite mixed in for insulation -- a nice idea, but poorly executed. I don't think the vermiculite layer will be thick enough to have a material insulating effect. We made the concrete flush with the edges of the foundation.



Next I added a ring of bricks (salvaged from the yard) and two concrete pavers. The idea was to create a circular sandbox on which to lay my firebrick floor (sans mortar).



I dry-stacked a firebrick door frame using angle irons (as suggested by Kiko Denzer). I really wanted to make the entrance point of the oven a little more civilized this time.




I've been dying to try a little brick masonry and this seemed to give the dry-stacked firebrick arch a little extra support. I am hoping the mortar will be insulated from the most intense heat so that it will not degrade too rapidly -- even if it does, it won't seriously undermine the structural integrity of the oven. The paving bricks are stacked in the center to hold in place a piece of drywall that will prevent the sand form from spilling through the door.



I don't have a picture but I laid sand on the concrete floor until it was flush with the two front concrete pavers. This picture shows the firebrick laid on top of the sand. I took some scrap bricks and laid them to the sides of the floor to keep things in place and to support the clay walls.

We spent a surprisingly long time forming the sand mound. Kiko cautions that the form should rise very steeply and then round off gently at the top. For some reason, the temptation is to build a pointy form, which makes for a poorly shaped oven. He says to aspire to a pregnant belly shape, which is probably why it took me so long. Try though I did, my best effort was still a pretty scary looking pregnancy.

Once you sculpt a beautiful sand form, you promptly cover it up with ugly wet newspaper. Mine declared the immigration bill defeated. This helps form a clean break between the sand form and clay to facilitate removal of the sand.

We mixed dry clay and grog -- this is where I part company with purists like Kiko Denzer. I used one part Redart Clay, one part Hawthorne Fire Clay, one part 35 mesh grog and one part course grog that the ceramic supply store had lying around and didn't know what to do with. I measured the "parts" by volume not by weight. In the end I used 100 pounds of Hawthorne, about 85 pounds of Redart and 175 pounds of grog. Kiko uses earth and sand.


After adding water and mixing with our feet, we formed wet bricks.

McGee, desperate to be a part of the process, kept dropping his tennis balls into the clay mixture.

We encased the sand form with the wet clay. I made two larges batches of clay -- which ended up being about three bricks short (not reflected in the photo below - which was more like the halfway point). This was very frustrating. I made a third small batch of clay to top off the crown.

Once formed, I scored the sides with a trowel so that the next layer would have something to grip to.

Demolition Complete; Rebuild Begins

The demolition is complete. Assistance was had by two laborers with demonstrated skills in destruction.

I was impressed by the integrity of the inner layer (pictured below) and the outer layer (long gone in this photo). Curiously the middle layer (pictured above) -- which should have been the structurally most sound - was very crumbly.

Look how uneven my oven floor had become. The sand beneath the bricks sifted through the gravel bed and caused the floor to cave. This had been a constant headache for me in the early months after the oven build. I had to remove the bricks and relay gravel and sand, but it was impossible to make it level after the oven structure was in place. For the latter years of the oven, I lived with an uneven floor. Remarkably, it did not seem to matter as much as you might think. Nevertheless, I have vowed not to let this happen again. This time I will lay a bed of concrete for the sand to sit on.
The rebuild has begun. I added a course of stones to the base and added crushed adobe from the demolition as extra fill.

Rebuild?

We visited Vermont this spring to expose our southern children to snow and -- perhaps unwisely - to the supremely expensive pastime of downhill skiing. No trip to the Mad River valley would be complete without a pilgrimage to American Flatbread and it was thus that I found myself once again peeking over the shoulder of the pizzaolo, camera in hand.

For anyone infatuated with Adobe ovens, this is an interesting photo. Start with the proposition that this is a pizza oven that churns out hundreds of high-quality pizzas in a day and can cook multiple pizzas at one time. I am standing to the left of the oven's opening and looking back into the right hand side of an oval oven. The middle of the oven is dedicated to a fire "pit." On either side of the pit, is a raised shelf (soapstone, I think) on which George appears to fit up to three large pizzas. Because the heat source is in the middle, the sides of the pizza that are exposed to the pizzaolo are the sides that brown the fastest, thus elimating the guess work that is required when the heat sources in the back and browns the side of the pizza not visible to the cook. Raising the cooking shelves eliminates the volume of ash and other "fire waste" that invariably finds its way onto the cooking space.

I have grown weary of my own oven's shortcomings and, for some time, have felt restless to rebuild. The project will be modest and will include none of the more unique and admirable features of George's oven. I will retain my roof and the current pedestal/platform but hope to increase the floor space. Ideally, I'd like to be able to cook two 10-12 inch pizzas at a time but I don't think this will be possible. The limiting factor for me currently is the available surface on which to lay sand for the floor bricks. Unfortunately, when I built my rock "pedestal" for the oven platform I used large and irregular-shaped stones. The mere size of the stones left a relatively small area in the middle to place sand and firebricks for floorspace (imagine a sandbox with super thick walls and very little sand). Of course, the size of the floor limits the size of the oven. I hope to increase the height of the pedestal/platform with another ring of small rocks or bricks held in place with mortar, thus increasing the surface area for the oven floor (imagine a sandbox with thin walls but more sand.)

There are certainly many open questions for the rebuild. Among the foremost is choice of material. My current oven contains a thinner interior layer of commercial red art clay mixed with grog. The additional two exterior layers are locally dug clay (you can see the three layers above). The interior layer has worked well, but I'd prefer to use all local clay if I knew that it wouldn't crumble and crack, which I don't.

We'll see and I'll keep y'all posted.

Malt-O-Meal

The contractions came late on a cold January evening in 2000. A blanket of snow uncharacteristically adorned the city of Richmond. Ann’s body was sending a clear message. It was time.

I had acquired a sports stop watch believing somehow that the simple act of timing contractions was going to be a task of near impossible complexity under the crushing stress of labor. After all, it did involve math. Gazing out at the quiet calm of our sleepy city neighborhood and listening to Ann’s softly uttered signals, I realized for the first time that the bright yellow stop watch was an acquisition fueled by anxiety. I had imagined myself hunkered down by the side of the bed gripping the stop watch with white knuckles as limbs thrashed on the bed tearing covers and frightening small furry critters nestled in giant pin oak outside our bedroom window. In my mind, I would be splattered with blood and saliva and god knows what else. It would be war. I chuckled at the ridiculous gleaming stop watch and lay back in bed completely unaware that my impression had not been that far off.

I logged on to my firm’s network and took advantage of the once in a lifetime opportunity to cash in on the valuable capital that a person has on the eve of their first child’s birth. “Dear Manager: Wife’s in labor and anything could happen in any minute. Please take care of all my deadlines.”

Smugly, I put the laptop away and poked around the kitchen. The culinary considerations were complex. I knew that Ann would be working hard. She would need energy. On the other hand, I had heard that labor could induce vomiting. I also knew that Ann was especially finicky at this point. With these thoughts in mind, I lined up some possibilities. An obvious choice was Pasta. Ann is half Italian and pasta is comfort food but then I envisioned regurgitated red sauce splattered on stark white hospital linens about to welcome my precious child into the world. I imagined her first breath fouled by the pungent smell of stomach acid mixed with sheep’s milk pecorino Romano, which, come to think of it, already had faint overtones of vomit. She could be forever predisposed against pasta and red sauce, an important identity peg for her mother. Worst case scenario, Ann would reject her as insufficiently Italian because she would never overcome her utter disgust over pasta and red sauce. It was pushing 3:00 a.m. and I wasted 10 minutes. Cold cereal with soy milk seemed too cold for blustery winter night. Eggs were stricken based on taste parameters alone. Finally, I stumbled on a box of Malt-O-Meal that my uncle in Minneapolis had sent as part of a gag Midwestern care package. This seemed perfect and I liked the idea of my child coming into this world under fuel of something as wholesome and Midwestern as Malt-O-Meal. In some way, this was my very first act of parenthood and that it was well-received was immensely satisfying to me.

For a short while, I would feel composed and confident, but that feeling (through no fault of the Malt-O-Meal) would not last long ...

Future of Food

If you have an interest in food and agriculture, I highly recommend the film Future of Food.

The film has an agenda, namely to promote what they term "sustainable agriculture" and to disparage the corporations and government regulators that promote industrial farming. It is, however, a very compelling look at, among other things, the frightening loss of crop diversity in American and increasingly in international farming. This loss of diversity is not only a travesty for culinary enthusiasts but also a palpable risk to our food supply.

Also very interesting is the film's coverage of the ruthless tactics that corporations such as Monsanto have employed to exert control over the marketplace by enforcing patents on their genetically modified seeds. The interesting thing about patenting life is that life, unlike, say, a toaster, replicates and spreads. Thus, according to the film, Monsanto's patented genes have found there way into unsuspecting farmer's crops after which Monsanto has had the unmitigated audacity to sue for patent infringement. Using these tactics, Monsanto has, again, according to the film, pressured farmers (who never actually purchased Monsanto seed stock in the first place) into agreeing not to save their own seeds, thereby ensuring the sale of Monsanto seeds. If these farmers are to be believed, this is akin to breaking into cars, installing your own patented stick shift, and then suing the owners for patent infringement.

Ice Cream for Your Health

I really can't think of any good reason not to make ice cream at home. No appliance could possibly be more widely-owned but under-utilized than the ice cream maker. So that's an excuse you probably don't have. Nor could there be more than handful of humans who could honestly claim to not have an affinity for the frozen custard that we consume in almost unspeakable quantities.

Now, hold on. I know what you are about to say. But its not true. For most of us -- yes you too, there -- making our own ice cream has a net positive impact on our health. "Mais Non! How can this be Monsieur le BackBou?" you ask. But the answer is simple. The very act of preparing a classic ice cream recipe of necessity changes a person's relationship with the product. My typical one quart recipe goes like this -- 6 eggs yolks, 1 cup whole cream, two cups half and half and 2/3 cup sugar. Ever since I started making ice cream (which, not coincidentally was shortly after I got married) the notion of consuming something close to a pint approaches the impossible. And this, I will tell you, represents a significant change in my ice cream eating habits. Now perhaps you were never the gourmand that I was, but I'm willing to bet a little quality time in the kitchen with your ice cream maker will change your relationship with the stuff.

But wait, that's not all. It is also really easy to make, much less expensive than Ben & Jerries and extraordinarily gratifying in every respect. Basically, you just cook the half and half (or other dairy), sugar and yolks over a double boiler until it thickens some, then you cool it, add some whole cream, and then after some refrigerator time you toss it all into the ice cream maker. Of course, there are the embellishments -- melted chocolate, coffee beans, vanilla, hazelnuts, Oreos and what have you, but they add no complexity to the process.

The real reason to make ice cream, of course, is to enjoy the end product. A simple homemade vanilla bean ice cream is its own reward.

Churning thoughts of restless mind

This is what goes through my head as I try to fall asleep…

Hmmm it’s a conundrum. If I see a person in terrible pain, I experience anguish which inspires compassion. Intellectually, though, I know that this suffering occurs around me all the time. Since I know this, why shouldn’t I be constantly plagued with such anguish? Maybe I am. I kinda feel that way right now...

Maybe we're programmed to be able to “deny” this suffering as a defense mechanism that lets us focus on the logistics of survival. Absent the gift of denial, we would all dissolve into useless puddles of despair in recognition of the pain inflicted on our innocent fellow creatures. While this justifies the denial from an evolutionary perspective, it hardly provides comfort. Instead it suggests we live our lives as comfortably numb zombies unaware that we walk in nightmarish world of pain. Only now I am aware, which makes me not so comfortable... yikes!

But here is another take. This entire discussion assumes that minimizing human suffering is the “Right Thing To Do.” Presumably we can all agree that we are all humans and that experiencing a sort of constant anguish because of an awareness of suffering in the world is itself a form of human suffering. Pretty clever, huh? Thus, perhaps the ability to insulate ourselves from this despair is something we ought to celebrate as a tool that has the happy result of minimizing net human suffering. It is hard to feel good about this line of thinking so long as you are thinking in terms of insulating yourself from feeling anguish about the pain others experience, but turn the tables for a minute. Assume that you’re the one experiencing some unjustifiable terrible pain. Most of would consider it a blessing if we could find a way to protect, say, our children from witnessing and despairing because of our own pain.

But it seems hard to celebrate this gift of denial because one tends to think that if humans do not despair at their fellow creatures' suffering they are not apt to do a damn thing about it -- heck I do despair and I barely do a damn thing about it. As mentioned above, what little compassion I can muster seems to emanate from a sense of distress generated from others' suffering. But here’s the thing: perhaps one should be able to cultivate that compassion on its own for its own sake without having it be the product of your own anguish, despair etc. Aha! (Maybe everyone else can already do this and its just me...)

I am not sure but I think all of this leads me to the simple conclusion that we would all be best off if we could cultivate the ability to not despair at others' suffering (i.e. what I was calling the ability to “deny” above) and at the same time nurture the instinct to be compassionate to our fellow creatures nevertheless. This would seem to have the positive effect of minimizing net human suffering (allowing ourselves not dissolve into puddles of despair) without stripping us of the motivation to ameliorate the suffering of our fellow creatures.

I’ve always wondered about reconciling the Buddhist notion of nonattachment with its celebration of compassion. They seem in conflict but I think the exercise above gets me a little closer to understanding. In other words, there is no value in being so attached to this world that your awareness of the world causes you distress. Indeed, shunning attachment fosters a net reduction of suffering in the world so long as – and this is the big one – so long as you nurture compassion for your fellow creatures. The compassion component is really important to balance out the nonattachment. Huh, I've never really seen it this way! I'll probably forget about it in the morning, though. Maybe I've forgotten it a bunch times... Nah...

Now I can sleep, anyway. I bet you're already there....

For The Love of Spoilage

This is a pretty nice loaf, eh? The color is dark, it has a clever design from the proofing basket and the shape suggests a vigorous oven spring. You can't tell from looking at it, but its interior was nothing to scoff at either. And, so long as we are not being modest, the flavor was first class -- complex and sour with an aftertaste that lingered for at least of quarter of an hour (I'm not kidding about the after taste -- its a curious thing about real sour dough.) While the key to the loaf's appearance is probably the adobe oven, the key to the flavor is the living beast pictured below -- my starter -- a frothing colony of hungry bacteria and yeast that thrives until it can't tolerate its own excreta any more.
Its an interesting observation, I think, that many of the foods about which we obsess the most involve a culture or a fermentation -- think wine, spirits, cheese (and sourdough). Part of it is the complexity of the resulting taste, but part of it also, I think, is primal. There is something darkly appealing about a delicious flavor that flirts with the taste of spoilage. How else can one account for the beloved french cheeses such as morbier, which have distinct overtones of toenail clippings and dead animals.


My well-researched and scientifically-supported theory suggests this results from natural selection. The BackBou and his team of dedicated research assistants postulate that a preference for the spoiled-food-that-won't-kill-you is evolutionarily selected for. Back in the day, pretty much everything was spoiled (this is fact). If it wasn't spoiled when you found it, it sure as heck was spoiled shortly thereafter. Finicky humans who couldn't stomach the taste of spoiled stuff died out -- except for the people who settled Iowa. Most of the folks whose palates couldn't distinguish between the deadly vs. edible spoiled food also pretty much died out, though enough of those unrefined palates lived on to support, for example, the deadly American fast food industry. That left the rest of us. Now, not everyone has awakened his or her inner love for the benevolent spoiled foods, but rest assured it lingers somewhere in all of us.

Homage to 'Cakes

Honestly, now, consider the pancake. Humble but proud, the pancake was born of rustic griddles and coarse-milled grains but passes effortlessly into the uptight company of creme fraiche, fancy berries and bad coffee in silver service. When I was child, my mother made fine buttery pancakes on most weekend morns. So dedicated was my family, that when we were unable to acquire even imitation maple syrup in our home of central Africa, we made do with homemade sugar syrup flavored with maple extract. The 'cakes were still good.




The virtues of the pancake are so many they defy listing. Inexpensive and easy to make, they taste rich and complicated. They can be made healthy and nutritious or decadent and fattening. My rule of thumb is two cups of flour (plus salt, baking powder, sugar) to two cups of wet stuff. The wet stuff can be comprised of a great variety of things including but not limited to eggs, milk, butter, oil, apple sauce, apple butter, soy milk, buttermilk, goat milk, cream, or yogurt. I literally take my Pyrex 2 cup measure and start filling it up with what I have around. The results vary but are usually quite good.

Many people believe that buying a pancake mix is a good idea. It is not. They are very mistaken. Pancakes from mixes are not easier to make, they are not as tasty, are more expensive and probably less healthy. So lets see .... They are fun to make, fun to eat, cheap, healthy (or not), oh yeah and generally good for the family. Children love to assist in all aspects of the pancake ritual which, of course, translates into a "teaching moment." What is not eaten at breakfast, becomes the kids' afternoon snack to be gobbled down amidst inquiring glances and raised eyebrows at the park.

Thus, when ZenCamel delivered to us one bag of stone-ground organic wheat flour (with germ) from the Littleton, NH Grist Mill, it was not long before my family turned to making pancakes. The results were superb -- a delicate 'cake with a hearty whole-wheat flavor punctuated by nutty bits of wheat germ.



Thank you Mr. Camel.

Taste of the Valley

Our trip to Vermont's Mad River Valley happened to coincide with the regional Taste of the Valley event, during which over fifty local culinary businesses set up stands at the Inn at the Round the Barn. The sheer number of establishments in this relatively rural valley that are doing remarkably interesting things with food is almost enough to restore one's faith in future of American food. There were locally made cheeses, micro brewed soft drinks, artisan bakers, fine patisserie's, Ben & Jerry's (from right up the road), and of course -- our personal favorite -- the American Flatbread "festival oven" set up. Every time I go up there I am surprised to learn that some local culinary establishment makes a product I recognize from shelves of Elwood Thompson, our local natural foods store hundreds of miles away. The product that got me this time was Liz Lovely's Vegan Cookies.

Anyway, back to the pizza ... this festival oven is, I think, a semi-permanent fixture at the Round Barn because American Flatbread caters so many weddings and other events at the Inn. But George and his crew can also set one of these ovens up in an afternoon. They arrive with rough hewn wooden logs to build a sort of lincoln-log platform on top of which, as I recall, they create something like a big sandbox. They lay fire bricks in the sand for a floor and then they stack bricks in diminishing concentric circles, which they plaster with cob (mud and straw). Typically, they use the festival ovens just to finish par-baked pizzas on site. It may sound like cheating, but keep in mind that the pizza is par-baked in an earth and stone Quebec style oven. Trust me, the product is good. I recall a pizza topped with a basil and sunflower seed pesto. It was good enough that I made a mental note to experiment with it, though I haven't yet. There was also a very memorable Vermont sausage pizza.

It was a nice event, though the limitations of my stomach capacity were frustrating. There was plenty more good eating to be had that night...

The Curious Incident of the Backpack

So last week I arrive at work, park my car and proceed towards my building when I see this guy standing in the middle of parking lot staring with a look of utter disbelief at a backpack lying about five feet in front of him in a traffic lane. It's early but this registers as odd. I proceed with caution envisioning corporate security squealing onto the scene in an armored golf cart to unleash a barrage of automatic weapon fire at the suspicious bag. But it's not that early and I recognize this as highly unlikely. I approach the man. Nearby a car in a different lane slows down for a look. The man looks at me, shakes his fist in the air and in a deep voice with a thick Russian accent proclaims loudly, "eez thurd day een row ... bee has landed on bakpak!."

"Oh how very curious," I say, thinking to myself that the curious part had little to with the bee.

Pizza Pilgrimage

Last week we made our annual pizza pilgrimage. Every pizza I make aspires to the perfection of George Schenck's "American Flatbread." Not the frozen ones at supermarket in his signature black and white boxes -- though those are good too -- but ones like I sampled last week (pictured above) fresh from his modified Quebec style oven (pictured below) in the Mad River Valley of Vermont.

On our visit last week, we sampled the veggie special:

Look at that thing! You can almost taste the smoky overtones of the wood grilled ratatouille "sauce" mingling at the back of your mouth with the clean flavor of the fennel -- interrupted for a second by a soft creaminess that is the ricotta salata. Sometimes, all is right with the world -- even if just for a fleeting moment.

The Thing About Naked People

I am told that most Native American men of the Pacific Northwest nations went naked whenever they could. Apparently, given their hardy demeanor and the temperate climate, this was often. Surprisingly, however, such was not the custom for women. Despite their best efforts over the generations, the men simply could not convince the women to shed their garb and prance about naked collecting salmon berries in the temperate rainforests. This particular problem, I found out, is virtually unknown to the modern-day menfolk at Doe Bay Resort and Retreat on Orcas Island.

The resort is primitive but splurges on the creature comforts. A sort of crunchy fine dining restaurant - "haute-hippie," if you will -- occupies a rustic wooden lodge perched above the bay. Nestled on a steep hill overlooking the bay are three slate-tiled hot tubs which look like something constructed by that civilization of furry forest creatures in Star Wars. The area is designated as clothing optional and the designation seems to work (if only we had known in college that it was as simple as "designating" an area ...)

I don't know about you, but when I think clothing optional, I assume that the only people apt to exercise the option are those who -- at least according to our dubious cultural body ideals -- should not. Not so on our visit. Our stay coincided with a yoga retreat attended exclusively by very attractive and fit alternative professional types who, after a day of feeling great about themselves and their yoga practices, simply could not get their clothes off fast enough.

The thing about naked people is they are remarkably engaging conversationalists and fascinating to be around on a great many levels. Honestly -- and this will come as surprise to my readership -- I really don't see a great variety of naked women (or men, for that matter) on a regular basis. So in a way, it was not unlike a good birdwatching trip (you gotta admit its better than the zoo analogy). "Say ... look there... did you know that the Purple Billed Tanager had such a prominent tail feather ... make an entry on the life list honey ..."

A naked person, you see, takes a grave social risk when he exposes himself. When the anxious naked person is received by another in a socially appropriate manner (tip: eye contact only) an immediate bond of trust is formed. In the company naked people, the conversationalist wants desperately to avoid the most obvious conversation starters because, for example, "ouch sister! I bet that piercing HURT like the dickens" just doesn't seem appropriate. And so the conversations gravitate towards the abstract. It was thus that I found myself deep in conversation with two very naked European RNA scientists. I can tell you that my attention to the development of new computational tools in the field of bioinformatics was laser sharp -- it had to be -- for the alternative was to dwell on the more obvious matter at hand: "how in the world do shave in that spot -- seems a tough angle!" Truthfully, the conversation did degenerate once when someone from the resort approached the area and, pointing at a small boat adrift in the bay inquired: "Has anyone left their dinghy out?" Several gentlemen allowed that they had, indeed. In retrospect, I almost think this was intentional -- a sort of service the resort provides to entertain the guests. You can imagine the staff mixes it up from time to time: "excuse me people, but does anyone here have a small dinghy? No? A nice lady in a yacht in the bay called and she is very troubled by it ... "

Anyway, I've always found cocktail parties just a tad awkward but now I'm thinking if everyone would just take their clothes off it would be so much easier -- don't ya think? Probably a line the Pacific Northwest menfolk already tried, though.

Elmer's Jicama

I have been thinking some about why people like particular foods and I am struck by the extent to which food affinities are cultural constructs. Consider, if you will, the jicama.

I toiled in restaurants for a handful of years after college for which I was provided just enough income to support the debauched lifestyle that it promoted -- a happy circumstance that capitalism seems especially well-suited to foster. Among my misfit compatriots was Elmer, a teenage El Salvadoran dishwasher. It was a subject of some debate whether Elmer expressed any emotion at all. If he did, it could only be characterized as disinterested depression.

One afternoon, on a whim, I ordered a jicama, sometimes referred to as a Mexican radish or yam bean root. The jicama is an unsightly beige colored fibrous tuber often described as an overgrown water chestnut. There is nothing sexy about the jicama, except perhaps that it apparently hails from the morning glory family, which, depending on your intimacy with the morning glory seed and some of its lesser known properties, may or may not rise to the level of sexy. Nor is there anything inherently comforting or reassuring about the jicama. It belongs to that class of food that is never described by its own qualities but rather as conglomeration of attributes drawn from other foods. "The skin of a Cuban potato," "the shade of ginger," "the flesh of a water chestnut," one would hardly be surprised to hear that it tastes like chicken, though it most certainly does not.

Elmer was putting away the produce order that afternoon and came upon the jicama. An unfamiliar intensity of movement flashed in his corner of the kitchen. At first he was startled. Then he was determined. He reached out to the jicama like a world cup goalkeeper bringing a soccer ball securely to his chest. He arched his back and lifted his chin towards the ceiling. Waitresses stood silently clutching hot plates as they looked on in utter astonishment. "Heee ... caaa ... maaaa!" exulted Elmer. With homesick watery eyes he set to work. Within minutes he had butchered the homely tuber and seasoned it with salt and lime juice. His eyes closed. His body shuddered. He swallowed. A look of peace overcame him. Then with solemn pride he offered his treasure to each of us. We took our jicama communion with respect, but it did not speak to us. The angels did not sing.

For Elmer, it seems the jicama was more than a vegetable. It was a symbol. He tasted things we did not. The jicama sang his national anthem while performing shiatsu on his tongue.

My "jicama," I suppose, is a fresh baguette with a rich aroma and strong chew. I don't know what my children's "jicama" will be. I only pray it will not be branded by Frito Lay, Hostess or Nabisco.

The BackBou Knits!

Now that team BackBou has returned, we've run the numbers and discovered that we are not hitting the growth targets we set first quarter of FY '06. Unfortunately, these metrics have not been lost on the "street" and -- well -- its time for drastic measures.

Apparently references to nudity are insufficient to attract readership (Liz excepted) and so we are going to try something truly base. We shall fake some "knit-speak" -- the number one siren song for the masses. Here we go:

So ... Then I knit three and purled 4 and repeated that, decreasing on each row until I turned the heal with my nimbus 2000 gingko/bamboo hybrid 5 pointers (which by the way I picked up for a steal at the the Knit Witt Stitch Bitch Galleria of Stix for Chix (dot com)). The sock turned out great mostly I think because Arnakua'gsak and Tekkeitsertok's Magnificent Mammoth Wool -- you know the stuff handwoven by Inuit elders out of wooly mammoth fleece remains discovered on a remote island off Greenland.

Sure it costs $75,000 a skein (that just covers the cost of the transport choppers) but my stash was looking so puny, I just couldn't help myself. Also, I heard with the ice caps melting and all, the price might go down because Tekkeitsertok's little sister Torngasoak keeps finding more Mammoth remains -- so whatever-- I mean, all due respect to Al Gore and everything but a little less ice and little more stash can't be all bad, right? I mean, I bet if Tipper knit him a little something cozy out of mammoth wool he'd relax a little, know what I mean?

Anyway, I'd post a picture of the sock but the pattern is proprietary so getta outta here! I mean it, quit looking over my shoulder. Like it says in the upper right hand corner up there, "Get your own blog!"

I can feel the hits rolling in.... And hang in there Liz, we'll get to the naked people next post.

The BackBou Returns

The BackBou has returned from a mostly very enjoyable trip to the Pacific Northwest which included a great many colorful culinary experiences, virtually none of which involved pizza or bread and only one of which involved an episode of food poisoning wherein the BackBou mysteriously passed out making his way to the campground toilets. Awaking on a carpet of dewy grass, clutching one's roiling stomach in the wee hours of the morning on a remote island in Puget Sound is a once in a lifetime experience which I cannot recommend.

On happier note, my starter weathered my absence well and last weekend produced four nice crusty loafs with a fine oven spring (see above). Perhaps she needed the vacation as well.

My chief culinary observation from the trip was, in a word, gooseberries. I don't know if I'm just that far removed from the culinary scene these days or if its a Pacific Northwest thing, but this was new to me. Three very different establishments served gooseberry garnishes on both sweet and savory dishes. For those of you less well-versed in the gooseberry it looks just like a yellow tomatillo -- which is in fact a type of gooseberry. For those of you not familiar with the tomatillo, well ... go on out an' git you one, fools! At the Fairmont Empress in Victoria, BC, high tea began with strawberries and clotted cream topped with a single gooseberry, its papery husk delicately peeled back -- as much a pleasure to eat as to look at. At Doe Bay Resort on Orcas Island, the very refined hippie establishment (a genre unknown in these parts) a chocolate truffle cake was adorned with a gooseberry. Lastly, at the Tin Wis Best Western in Tofino, BC, which is entirely owned on operated by the First Nations People, we were served a peanut soup accompanied by a gooseberry. When we expressed an interest in the gooseberry, the waiter presented us with a whole bowl. By the way, its the best Best Western you will ever stay at, should you get the chance.

Another culinary takeaway from the trip came from our Israeli hosts in Seattle who turned me on to a tea combination worthy of sharing. Add a teaspoon or two sweetened condensed milk to a cup of smoked tea -- I drink a Numi smoked Lapsang Souchong. Our friend explained that he came upon the combination in effort to duplicate some of the teas he had traveling in the Himalayas. I was immediately reminded of the teas I had in East Africa -- very sweet and slightly smoky because the kettles, heated over open fires, were permanently infused with a strong smoke flavor. In any event, I highly recommend it.

Next time, more on all the very fit naked people in hot tubs (see if that doesn't get a few hits).

Abe, the Pizzaiolo

So the weather never cleared on Saturday and I forewent firing the adobe oven up despite having four loaves-worth of dough ready for baking and four neo-neopolitan pizza doughs ready as well. I let the dough rise on sheet trays free form instead of using my plastic proofing baskets, and baked it off in my conventional gas oven with plenty of water added at various intervals for steam. Aside from foregoing the proofing baskets, I prepared the dough in exactly my normal fashion. I created a sponge the night before with my starter and finished the dough off the next day, leaving it to rise for the bulk of the day. Thus, the only difference was in the oven. The end result, however, was incredibly different. The gas oven does not give me anywhere near the same "oven spring." As a result, the crumb is much denser, more cakey and less chewy and translucent. Very interesting.

The gas oven is a lot more forgiving with the pizza, however. As Abraham Lincoln, who learned to cook pizza on the back of an old shovel used to say, "Really great pizza is really hard to make, but really good pizza is really easy to make."