February 2006 Archives

I'm not convinced that organic and natural foods are always better. Local is nearly always better, but sometimes organic doesn't necessarily equal quality. At its best, the word "organic" signifies that the product was loved and nurtured, cared for rather than doused in chemicals. At its worst, a zucchini is a zucchini is a zucchini, unless it's an organic zucchini, then its a zucchini that cost six dollars.

But when it comes to eggs, I'm absolutely convinced. I buy the fussiest eggs I can get my hands on. I like them cage-free, organic, antibiotic-free, fresh, local, and fed an all vegetarian diet. My reasons for this are entirely selfish. Sure, I guess I'm glad that the chickens that laid my eggs weren't confined to cages, but their chickeny happiness is not my main motivation. I like fancy eggs because they look and taste so much better. I guess that pampered chickens lay eggs that pamper me. Lately, I've been buying Rock Island eggs, produced just up coast in Sonoma.

The yolks are a beautiful, bright orange that makes cakes, custards, and mayonnaise equally richly tinted. They fry, scramble, and most especially poach better. They taste fantastic. I'm sure the freshness is a big part of why they're so good. Perhaps if I could get my hands on industrial eggs this fresh they'd taste every bit as good, but I guess I'll never know. For now, even if my zucchini are average, my eggs will always be fantastic, and yes, even organic.

In 1440, Henry VI founded The King's College of Our Lady of Eton beside Windsor. You know, Eton, school for the wealthy inbred, er, I mean, school for the young, leading boys of the world. Popular with the royals now, it began as a community of secular priests, a pilgrimage church, and an almshouse. Naturally, scholars came to be educated--all boys of course.

Later, in 1719, Francis Bird's fine bronze statue of the founder in Garter robes was erected in the school yard. Five and a half centuries after its historic inception, and a number of scholars, musicians, martyrs, saints, atheletes, politicians, civil servants, travellers, explorers, artists, historians, actors, and successful mathematicians have passed through its celebrated halls. It means so much to go to Eton, writers include it as a part of their fictional characters' history: James Bond, Captain Hook, Edmund Bertram of Mansfield Park, and Mark Darcy all went there. Enough said.

But don't be fooled by all that Etonian propaganda--for it is in those dark halls, twenty miles west of London, on the river Thames, that the Eton Mess was first put together, named and consumed by the posh, public school boys of England. Eton Mess is the trashiest of English puddings: broken meringues, whipped cream, and strawberries. Try and make it classy by reconstructing it, but you'll fail. Eton Mess is what it is--a Bourgeois blemish, some might say, on the impeccable history of the school but a fine pudding nonetheless.

I remember many evenings after dinner measuring out my own proportions of the three ingredients in a bowl before joining the rest of my family outside in the garden--everyone happy with the least amount of fuss. It remains one of my mother's favourite desserts, Marks and Spencers meringues in her case, and on occaison substituting the cream for vanilla ice-cream. Or the strawberries for bananas. Or in our case, the strawberries for raspberries plus a glug or two of stoli raspberry vodka and sugar. O.K, so it's quite a loose term for crushed up meringues, fruit and cream.

And if you're to take something, anything, English, to a Superbowl party, this is it; for nothing else will follow a bucket of chicken wings, spinach dip and a six pack of beers with the modesty, character, and tastiness required at such an event quite like a bowl of Eton Mess.

Lewis Black said that he watches the Super Bowl, not because he likes football, but because he isn't religious and humans need tradition. Personally, I enjoy all kinds of to-do, and I'll jump on almost any kind of event that allows me to get people together and eat certain things in celebration. Combine that tendancy with my love of sports, and it's hard for me to let a Super Bowl go by without some kind of beer-intensive gathering.

Yesterday I made the food that is to sports and beer as turkey is to Thanksgiving-- buffalo wings. The process was simple, albeit a little messy, as deep frying tends to be if you don't own a splatter guard. The chicken wings get cut up and deep-fried in 350-ish degree oil.

When they're cooked through and crispy, the wings are briefly drained and tossed with spicy buffalo sauce (a straightforward production of Frank's or Louisiana hot sauce, butter, and some extra cayenne if you're a bit of a masochist).

Since I cut up the wings before the game started, the whole frying and tossing part took me about half an hour, meaning it was a perfect distraction from the traditionally lame Half Time Show. I served them up with homemade blue cheese dressing and some carrot and celery sticks. Honestly, they were easy enough that I don't understand why I've had so many terrible, greasy, too-sweet or wierdly sticky wings in restaurants and bars.

Mine were crisp and spicy, delighfully messy, and pleasing in that visceral way that only really tacky food can be. There seems to be something special about the combination of peppery, vinegary sauce cooled off with a slather of blue cheese. Or maybe people just like to eat with their fingers. Either way, they were a perfect fit for this particular to-do.

(Added bonus: Don't Glyn and Stephen look manly eating wings and watching football?)