Pacific Bell Park down… SBC up
Or, how to avoid Ballpark Food with,
Chinese Chicken Noodle Salad
Way back in February when Spring Training was about to begin, the Giants held a FanFest and part of the deal was a five ticket package for April and May games in View (that’s up top) Reserved for $58, they pick the seats and the games. That’s a deal, and the seats and the games have been good. But this is about the food.
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Passing through the Farmers Market a couple Saturday’s ago; I noticed that the mushroom guy had fiddlehead fern and ramps. I’ve bought his fiddleheads before, and know what to do with those, but had never laid eyes on a ramp, although I had seen ramps in various recipes. The ramps cost nearly twenty bucks a pound (!) so I took about 8. They looked really fresh—they had mud on them, wonder what that weighed—and the guy carefully wrapped them in white paper for their journey to my pot.
When I got home, I did a little ramp research.
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I hadn’t intended to write about dinner yesterday (5/16), so I just went ahead and cooked and didn’t take any dinner specific pictures. But the dinner was so damned easy and good that I have to share it with you.
I saw this recipe in the NY Times for Roast Chicken with Fennel and it made me hungry, so I went out and got the ingredients and cooked it for dinner, accompanied by roasted asparagus and a cauliflower and pickled beet salad. It smelled so good and looked so good that I broke out the Retzlaff Sauvignon Blanc that I’d been saving for a special meal. My expectations were high, but it didn’t disappoint. Marvelous.
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Carol said, “You know what I want for Mother’s Day? A Quiche.”
The first time I remember eating Quiche Lorraine was at Pat’s house in Roanoke, prepared by Pat’s wife Pat for a Super Bowl III Party. If memory serves, I took the Colts, giving 19 points, and was devastated that the upstart AFL and the Jets loudmouth quarterback from hated Alabama, beat the mighty NFL.
At the same time, I harbored no love for the Colts. In Roanoke we got the Colts and Redskins—one or the other—on Sundays, and Sonny Jurgensen’s ‘Skins were my team of choice. I cursed when the hyper-babble of the fast talking Chuck Smith, the Colts broadcaster, came on CBS. We never knew which team we would get until the broadcast started, the TV listings were unreliable.
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Baby Artichokes at the Market
I don’t know when I “learned to like” artichokes. It was before 1977 when we took a three-week family trip from Boston to explore California. Driving on the Route 1, along the Pacific, we marveled at the artichoke fields around Castroville, the Artichoke Capital of the World.
All we knew then was the big ol’ Globe Artichoke that we boiled and ate, leaf by leaf dipped in a butter sauce, until we got to the “choke,” which we carefully removed with a spoon to attack the heart or bottom of the artichoke. Of course, we naively overcooked them, but they were good eatin’, nonetheless. Far superior to the only other artichokes we knew, which came in a jar.
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eats for one 