BOSE SETS THE DIRECTION FOR U DISTRICT INDIA HOUSE RESTAURANT

He is as fluctuating as light. Animate and solemn, he accelerates around the room like a beacon; he is high energy yet focused. Tapan Bose is a man who found the American dream.

Bose, 45, originally from Calcutta, India, is the new owner of the India House Restaurant on Roosevelt. Newly remolded with a new chef and new and updated menus, India House is one of Washington’s oldest Indian restaurants.
Bose’s love of good food comes from years in the industry, where he started in India, literally at the bottom in a five-star hotel.

“I was a dishwasher,” Bose said, grinning, “at the famous Taj Mahal hotel in Bombay, India. It has 1,500 rooms and famous people come there to vacation.

Promoted to waiter, he attended the hotel’s course on hotel administration and food technology which led to a position as bartender of the Holiday Inn in downtown Bombay.

To full fill his dream of coming to America, he spent his off hours in an Indian-American library, soaking up information on American culture and learning the language. His time and effort paid off. When he was 29, Holiday Inn promoted Bose. He was sent to White Plans, New York, U.S.A.

“My goal was to own a restaurant,” Bose reflected, “where I could serve Indian food that was fresh and savory with India’s wonderful spices like Garam Masala, a blend of cardamom, cinnamon, cumin, and cloves. Good wine, like a Paul Thomas pear wine, complements the fire of Indian food.

Bose moved to Seattle in 1990 to help a friend run Ragu India Restaurant in Bellevue. He found employment with the Olive Garden and the Space Needle, where his talent for food and wine pairing grew.

Confident and experienced, Bose knew he was ready for his greatest challenge, to own the restaurant of his dreams. His first step at India House – was to create an exhibition Tandoor kitchen.

The Tandoor kitchen used throughout India is a rounded-top oven made of clay. “Our oven is always at 850 degrees, and it is enclosed in glass for people to enjoy as they walk by,” said Bose as he instructed one of his chefs to prepare “Papadam” (Indian crispy bread). The Chef took the dough, slapped it directly onto the inside oven’s walls, and left it to bake; in seconds, it began to bubble and brown.

The Chef expertly peeled it off in one piece and then sliced it neatly into quarters. Meat is usually skewered and thrust into the oven’s intense heat. “A chicken half can cook in less than five minutes,” Bose beamed proudly.

The house specialty “Barah Kabab” (rack of lamb) is first marinated for 24 hours in olive oil, lemon, and fresh garlic. Then it is covered in a paste of tomatoes, onions, and yogurt. After roasting, it is brushed with ginger, cumin, coriander, and dry mango powder.
Delicious!

Vacation?

I know, I know. But, school has almost started, and like parents throughout the country, we can now look back and calmly recall our worst or best summer vacation.
My vacation? Or like Tim Hunter said in last week’s Nosin’ Around the Northshore.’ What was the highlight of your summer?

Well, mine was a toss-up between going dozing in a beach chair and enjoying the warm sweet days of a carefree summer or putting in a new lawn. My spouse has a reputation for practicality, and that is where we’ve come to the heart of the matter. Because – Oh, all right – let’s face it, physical labor, and I have an understanding. We hate each other.

I can kill spiders in the bathtub and scrape hardened cereal out of the bowl, but do not make me rake.

And that is where a new lawn begins–with a lot of raking. But your professional (NOT!)lawn landscaper husband, on the other hand, does not even think about raking until he has conducted a complete study of the site. Then, checking it out from every possible angle, squinting and squatting, laying face down in the dirt to decide precisely the mathematical count of each pebble that HAS to be removed.

And suppose your raking is like mine–no offense intended–and the off chance one rock happens to fall out of those rake claws and this expert starts to constantly badger you with tips on rake management, carrying of the rake, and other trivia.

I knew I was in trouble right off when he came up off the ground for air. He looked me straight in the eye to see if I was going to violate the marriage code: Thou shall not look away when free labor is right in your yard.

There was a respectful silence, and then I popped a piece of spearmint gum in my mouth and set to work.
Dim now are the memories of the long, humid, tedious hours of hard labor. The flying dirt and dust that settled on top of cars, pets, and me.

The seven days of waiting, hoping that one blade of green grass would rise up in that ROCKLESS soil. The endless hours holding the hose gently spraying each seed. The nods to each other as we passed the hose and took turns on the morning shift, the afternoon shift, and the evening shift. Flagging the area to keep out all dogs and one obnoxious neighborhood kid.

Bright are the memories of that special morning. We cheered, sang, and jumped for joy. We grabbed the video camera, the camera, and the neighbors because in the middle of that familiar dirt was a blade of waving grass, even though it took only two seconds for the obnoxious neighborhood kid to step on it.

No matter because now summer is almost over and there is lots of grass. In fact, we even need to mow (hint). So I have decided on one last picnic before we bid summer adieu. So enjoy your lawn and this fun, easy yet elegant, and a special recipe for your outdoor soiree.

BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE PARFAITS
1/2 cup ricotta cheese
1/2 cup cream cheese
4 tablespoons sugar
2 cups fresh blueberries (Frozen/thawed, OK)
4 tablespoon blueberry jelly or apple jelly
3/4 graham cracker crumbs
4 tablespoon whipped cream topping
Blend the first three ingredients with an electric mixer until smooth; set aside.
Combine blueberries and jelly and stir gently. Evenly divide the blueberry mixture into four parfait glasses or other decorative cups.) Layer with two tablespoons ricotta mixture, two tablespoons graham cracker crumbs, followed by two more tablespoons of ricotta mixture. Refrigerate for 1 – 1/2 hours.
Let’s see. If school starts now and ends in June…”What–“Nuh-uh it can’t be. But it is time again to come up with over 200 school lunches! Please share your recipes by e-mail to OUCook@aol.com

Running Out of Excuses for Not Staying in Shape

One of the most overzealous groups of people I know are ex-fatty’s. They have gone from plump to pumped. No longer does a hot fudge sundae rule their life. They have learned the secret to controlling their weight by getting control of themselves.

I hate ’em. They no longer go blindly through their day with their mouths open, chewing and swallowing whatever comes through their path. Instead, they walk by the refrigerator and don’t open it. A treat is not candy but bottled water. They would never think of putting an M&M found under the couch into their mouth.

Don’t misunderstand me. I have nothing but respect for these truly unpleasant self-disciplined people. I was once one, but then something happened. No one told me I was getting older, and without informing me, my body took it upon itself to re-adjust my metabolism from hamburgers and shakes to don’t eat a pickle, you’ll blow up.

Because I am basically a strong person, I was able to resist a lifestyle change. But, unfortunately, my husband’s addiction to exercise grew steadily worse. And to make matters worse, he is also a black belt in Karate. So naturally, for the last several years, I have tried to ignore this.

The keyword was ignored, but he has become right-out obnoxious about the benefits of sweat. Very frankly, I don’t feel the problem of chubbiness will be worked out in my lifetime. This seemed to be my answer until recently when I had to admit my cases of convenient excuses were growing thin while I ……

On my first day in Karate class, I was devastated. First off, this outfit has no shoulder pads, and hiding your waistline is impossible–they make you wear a belt!

Forget combing your hair. In less than 15 minutes, you have an entirely different hairdo–the wet look.

Of course, getting in shape doesn’t happen in a day. Instead, you have to build up to it through a series of self-inflicted and crippling body movements that immediately cause pain.

Normally articulate and well-spoken, after a one-hour class, exhaustion sets in, loss of appetite, and all direction.

Unfortunately, by 8 p.m. that evening, I’m ready to eat a horse, and that one hour is long forgotten until morning, when everything, including things you never think of like wrists, shriek and creak.

My friend says, “Have a tummy tuck; it’s less painful.” I say as long as I stay a white belt, my waistline won’t be as accentuated. I’m trying to be a good sport, but you see, that is one of the problems, it’s a sport, and I have always been a spectator. They say that studying martial arts is a lifetime experience.

I will need that time to get a black belt.

QUICK DINNER WHEN EXTRA TIRED

4 Bratwurst

One large apple cored and sliced.

Six small Yukon gold potatoes

1/2 medium size cabbage cut into small wedges.

sour cream

Bring water to boil and add potatoes. Last 10 minutes, cook the Bratwurst in the same water as the potatoes. Drain and set potatoes and Bratwurst on a warm platter.

Bring hot water to boil in a large pot. Place steamer inside and add apple and cabbage over low heat until apple is soft—season all with salt and pepper. Serve warm on a platter with the Bratwurst and a dollop of sour cream.

Local Author Lives Her Own Unsolved Mystery

Here’s a question: You are a published mystery writer. But for 50 years, you lived an unsolved mystery.

What do you do?

Like an old-fashioned homily, you turn a lemon into lemonade.

Bette Hagman had to grab the bull by the horns and be tenacious. This is a solemn testament to her adaptability because Hagman suffers from a Celiac Sprue disease, which is only cured by diet.

At 75 and looking smart in a white turtleneck sweater, blue jeans wrapped with a silver-buckled belt. And a June Allyson haircut. Hagman is in demand as a speaker and adds more traveling to her already hectic schedule.

She is a member of “Sisters in Crime,” an organization of mystery readers and writers. However, it is her famous cookbooks that have unlocked a mystery for thousands of people. As a Celiac, Hagman cannot eat wheat, rye, barley, and oats because they contain gluten. This is because the immune system thinks of gluten as a foreign substance and attacks the intestines.

“This is my 25th anniversary of great living,” she says.

She pauses.

“Actually, I was a lousy cook, and it was embarrassment that was my final motivator,” recalls Hagman.

When she discovered that grocery stores didn’t sell any bread, pasta, pizza, cake, or cookies without wheat, she tried to survive on rice cakes.

Hagman says with a sharp twinkle in her eye. “That there were times when she doubted she’d pull through if not for the love of her husband and daughter. She wanted to eat like a ‘real person and, in doing that, discovered that she would have to make up her own recipes.

Her first book took nine years to write. But now, just hand her a bag of gluten-free flour—no several different kinds—and she can create anything from crackers to bread to cake or pizza.

Her sunny expression turns grim. She recalls the years of mystery and misery that reached back to the early 1970s when she had withered away to 81 pounds.

Doctor after doctor had told her it was all in her head. But never mind all that. Putting the risks and worries aside, Hagman was already instilled with the feeling of complete helplessness.

She was always a ‘sickly child,’ she spent many days in bed, close to the bathroom. Her immune system was turning against her own body.

She had never mentioned the frequent bowel movements that led her to malnutrition and fatigue to the doctors. (She had lived with this for so long that she thought it was normal.)

Already in her early 50s and after a lifetime of not knowing what was happening to her, Hagman finds out that her mysterious illness has a name: Celiac Sprue.

Always hungry and never satisfied is one of the signs. As a Celiac, you can eat mountains of food and still be literally starving to death because your body cannot get the nutrients out of the foods that you have eaten.

Nonetheless, she says, these were the beginning times she had to learn to rise to the challenge.

“You can be completely overwhelmed by the restrictions in this diet,” Hagman says matter of factly. ‘Yet you feel so lucky. Finally, you know what is wrong, and you don’t need surgery, not even medication. All you need is to avoid eating gluten.

Finding food that did not contain wheat was like going after ants with dynamite.

Hagman wonders aloud what life would have been if she had not met Elaine Hartsook. Dr. Hartsook, a research dietitian at the University of Washington. She was the original founder of The Gluten Intolerance Group of North America.

The group, still going strong after 23 years, meets on the third Thursday of each month at Bellevue’s Overlake Hospital Medical Center.

With the help of the University of Washington’s diet kitchens, Dr. Hartsook created yeast-rising bread from rice flour and xanthan gum. The late Dr. Hartsook spent her life study on people with gluten intolerance.

Hagman, at the time, was a writing teacher at Lake Washington Technical College, and it just happened that six students in her classes had also discovered they were Celiacs.

All in the same boat, they started to exchange recipes. Hagman had nothing to contribute. Instead, she turned out inedible mess after mess and fed her omnivorous garbage disposal.

Considering herself a writer first, kitchen duty a necessary evil, she continued exchanging baking disaster stories with her students. As to why she wrote a cookbook, Hagman has a heartfelt answer.

“I was forced to cook if I wanted to enjoy eating, and in so doing got hooked on experimenting.”

Hagman quickly runs her fingers down over her chin and neck. Her movements are fast, her energy unflagging. Her first cookbook is; The Gluten-Free Gourmet: Living Well Without Wheat.”

It is more than just a collection of recipes, for in all of her books are short chapters on using the difficult flours of rice, tapioca, potato, bean, and sorghum.

There are hints on how to eat out, travel, and even try to explain to friends why you can’t even taste, let alone eat that wheat-filled cake or cookie, even if it was baked with love.

In a more serious tone, she lists “hidden” dangers that lurk in things like potato chips-which are dusted with wheat flour to “make them taste better.” The modified food starch (wheat flour) is added to things like split pea soup to thicken it and reduce cooking time, and confectioners sugar in Canada, which contains wheat flour.
flour.

So, a word of warning – don’t even eat the cake icing in Canada.

Hagman’s books, ‘Gluten-Free Gourmet: Delicious Dining Without Wheat” and “The Gluten-Free Gourmet Cooks Fast and Healthy” have sold more than 112,000 copies.

But she does admit there is one thing missing: the time to write the great American murder mystery novel.

No Utensils Needed

Flat on my belly on the cold linoleum and shoved against the mop head, the pantry shelves above me, I had not been able to move a muscle for three and 1/2 minutes.

Listening intently, I was awaiting the thieves who entered my kitchen. You know the ones: Husband, alias utensil robber of spatulas, cooking pots, butter knives all snuck out of the kitchen drawers and led directly into …The Garage.

And here’s the clincher. Once in the garage, these precious kitchen utensils instantly become grease scoopers and oil drip pans. And, worse of all, leather rippers. As a result, I have self-described him as a “kitchen utensil junkie.”

The other thieves? Children. From toddlers to teenagers, they are pilfering the kitchen scissors, twine, and spoons. Anything their little mugs can get a hold of and sneak upstairs to their rooms.

I had confronted, accused, and questioned to NO avail. All I ever received was denial. “I didn’t do it.” “I did NOT take it.” “What would I want with that…duh?”

This week, I made my biggest, most rewarding discovery in a time-honored way: watching and waiting, waiting and watching.

A couple of days before, I hunted in the teenager’s room. It was blatantly lying on the floor—number one: Evidence: of my kitchen scissors. I took a Polaroid shot. I continued the hunt with new appreciation, having now seen the competition.

Another Polaroid snapped in the garage under the car-my stock pot-with car oil dripping in it.

I waited until Saturday’s chores were completed. I’ am ready now for the confrontation. I dropped the ax on this one-time-only opportunity.

The tribe sat in a circle as I slowly revealed the pictures behind my back as evidence. They all sat there silently contemplating their destiny.

“This is proof of what I have been saying that you are thieves and have conspired to deplete me of any kitchen utensils.” I shouted.

“I know your trick, you think you have learned to be crafty by putting the dishes away in mysterious places. Well, you cannot throw me off the trail any longer I am on to you! Several behavior studies (I threw this in as their attention began to lag) says that…”

If you want to know the truth, I glimpsed around the room they were captured, pinned down, stunned. It was great.

“The closest you will come to life on this planet (home) I continued, is to admit to fault and I will go easy on you.” No one quarreled, no one disagreed. Call me cautious, but I’m always suspicious when everyone is so agreeable all at the same time. All at once.

I thought the case was closed until today, when I went to the cabinet to pull out my Jell-O mold…it was missing. I looked out the kitchen window and there it was full of dirt…with a spoon in it.

For obvious reasons, I’m resigned to the fact that my pantry is too small for stakeouts and I have learned to cook with…

NO UTENSILS NEEDED RECIPES

CHICKEN -HAM PINWHEELS

2 chicken breasts

1/8 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon dried basil leaves, crushed

dash pepper and dash of garlic salt

3 slices ham

2 teaspoons lemon juice

Paprika

Pound chicken breasts to 1/4 inch thickness. Mix salt, basil, pepper, and garlic salt; sprinkle on chicken. Cover each chicken breast with 1-1/2 slices ham; roll up length- wise. Place, seam side down, in 10×6 inch baking dish. Drizzle with lemon juice; sprinkle with paprika. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes. Cover; chill thoroughly. Before serving; cut chicken rolls into 1/4 inch slices. If desired, serve with bite size rye bread spread with softened butter and mustard. Makes 24 slices.

MEATBALL NUGGETS

2 cups soft bread crumbs

1/3 cup milk

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1/2 teaspoon garlic salt

1/4 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 pound ground beef

1/2 pound bulk pork sausage

1 5-ounce can water chestnuts, drained and finely chopped

Combine first 5 ingredients; add remaining ingredients and mix well. Form into 1-inch balls. Place on cookie sheet and freeze firm; wrap in foil or plastic bag and return to freezer. Before serving, place frozen meatballs on sheet baking pan. Bake at 250 for 35 minutes. Keep warm in chafing dish. Makes about 5 dozen. Serve with toothpicks.

APPETIZER CHEESECAKE

2 cups dairy sour cream

1/2 cup finely chopped green pepper

1/2 cup finely chopped celery

1/4 cup finely chopped pimiento-stuffed green olives

1/4 cup finely chopped onion

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

Dash paprika

5 drops hot pepper sauce

1 -1/3 cup rich round cracker crumbs

Combine all ingredients except crumbs. Line 4-cup bowl with clear plastic wrap. Spread 1/2 cup of the sour cream mixture in bottom of bowl. Layer with 1/2 cup of the crumbs; then 1 cup sour cream mixture, 1/2 cup crumbs, and remaining sour cream mixture. Cover; chill for 24 hours. Store remaining cracker crumbs. Before serving: Unmold onto serving plate; remove wrap. Top with remaining crumbs. Serve with assorted crackers.

A season for pets

“You promised when summer was here!”

“Look outside.” I pointed to the window as I glared at my child, “You call that summer… it’s raining!”

My child’s bottom lip quivered, and her head hung on her chest.

What modern-day mother has never been intimidated when she realizes she is trapped; trapped by the promises of, “Yes, you can have a pet–BUT, not till summer comes.”

Summer’s here.

Wearing a grin and holding a large sandwich bag with a zip lock top, my 3-year-old proudly brought home her first pet. Not just one but two goldfish gleamed at me through the plastic.

“I promise to feed them and love them every single day,” exclaimed my child. Somehow I knew it would be a long, hot summer. So we plopped Salt and Pepper (the fish, not the spice) into their brand new fishbowl.

How can something the size of my thumb make so much trouble? By morning they were swimming gaily in fresh, clear water. By afternoon they were in LA smog. Every other day they had to have a major overhaul. My daughter’s eagerness to feed them left them, well…dead.

Every day during the entire third grade, every note to Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and birthday wish list all said one thing, “P-L-E-A-S-E when summer comes, may I have a hamster?”

I am as crazy about animals as the next guy but face it; you really know when a child is serious about a request because they become relentless. They keep their room neat, don’t slouch, stop snapping their gum and send you “Love You” notes.

That summer, we picked up the hamster for $1.50 and his bedroom set for $69.95. We let it run up and down our arms. In our sleeves and up and down our pant legs for about a week. He was cute. He was all furry with a twitchy nose: he had to have clean shavings and water—a little more complicated than the goldfish. But then our daughter was now older and more responsible. Right?

The darn thing about the hamster, though, was that it had this annoying habit of sleeping all day; as soon as the lights were out, he would hop into the driver’s seat of his exercise wheel and, like an army marching through potato chips, go around and around all night long.

Then one night, it happened. I was alone in the house, quietly sitting in my chair, when something scurried across the room out of the corner of my eye. My heart stopped. Yuck! A mouse in the house.

I heard it behind the fridge. I must have clipped it right with the broom because it lay in the broom straw, looking up at me. How could (Marshmallow) the hamster have escaped his cage of steel?

After the funeral, we were all too sick to think of getting another. So we took his deluxe condo, covered it with a towel, and put it in the garage on top of the fishbowl. We missed the sound of the wheel at night.

Thanks to a relative (you know who you are), our daughter got her first gift certificate…for a bird. Two birds, in fact, they were supposed to mate. Their cage was decked with all the latest amenities: nest fluff, egg and fruit sticks (to maintain strength), a nesting bowl, and plant foliage. They lasted for years and sang beautifully. Though they never did reproduce. We changed their names from Fred and Wilma to Goldie and Tina.

As your children grow strong and independent, you would like the summer pet urge to cease. This summer? Say hello to Chocolate (the brown kitty) and Peanut Butter (the orange calico kitty).

Here we go again!

A summer treat for Mom (AAT short for Alias Animal Trainer)

ESPRESSO ICE CREAM

2 – 1/2 cups sugar

2 tablespoons flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 – 1/2 cups hot espresso coffee

2 – 1/2 cups half and half

6 egg yolks

5 cups heavy cream

one vanilla bean, split in half

Mix together the sugar, flour, salt and espresso, half and half, and vanilla bean until well mixed with a wire whisk.

Add egg yolks and creme. Mix well. Freeze in the ice cream freezer. Before serving, remove the vanilla bean.

(Shanna Celeste is a Bothell resident who enjoys sharing her recipe ideas and stories with readers. Her column appears regularly in the Citizen.)

Marriage can be…fattening

Marriage is fattening…

Back in my unwed days, I would hop to the grocery store and merrily pick up a box of gourmet lobster tails, grab a can of imported artichoke hearts, and splurge on a $3.95 chocolate pound cake. And best yet…I would walk right out of that store with not one pound of guilt under my arm because that is all I would eat all day!

Suddenly, when you find someone else in your life and begin to discover the joys of cooking, you also find that you have a captive audience! And if you are one of the lucky ones, he is very receptive, and that is all it takes to acquire great inspiration.

I discovered exotic dishes. If it wasn’t oozing in creamy butter, I would smother it in wine.
Breakfasts were fit for a King (and more). But, oh-the Piece De Resistance was dinner.
If it wasn’t flaming, it was on ice. Puffed or stuffed, it was delectable, delightful, and terribly fattening.

Unconsciously, as I stirred my Bernaise sauce, stuffed game hens, and dolloped cream on my meringue pies, I was popping crumbs and testing sauces until I was more stuffed than the game hens.

It is a good thing time cools everything. I’ve learned that it takes more than just good cooking to keep mystery and romance in a good relationship, and even delicious dishes don’t have to be rich and gooey to prove you’re a good cook.
A little variety now and then, plus one very special dinner a month, makes marriage a little less fattening on both of you.

And what a better occasion than St. Patrick’s Day!
Leafy vegetables are the best buys in March. Spinach is at the height of its season. Why not combine the two?
Spinach for the green of St. Patrick’s Day and Irish Pasta for a fun and special dinner!
Enjoy.

Have a Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

IRISH PASTA
Manicotti are pasta tubes about four inches long and one inch in diameter. They are filled with savory stuffing and served with tomato sauce.

8 Manicotti
1 pound fresh spinach
1 Tbsp. butter
1 cup milk
1/4 cup flour
2 cups finely diced cooked chicken
2 1/2 cups tomato sauce
1 cup Parmesan cheese
Salt and Black Pepper
Wash the spinach thoroughly and put it in a large saucepan. Add two tablespoons of water and cover with lid—Cook over low heat for about 10 minutes. Drain the spinach through a colander, squeeze firmly with a wooden spoon, and remove all the moisture. Chop the spinach and set it aside.

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the flour. Cook gently for one minute, then gradually blend in the milk, stirring continuously to get a smooth sauce. Bring to a boil, then simmer gently for two to three minutes, or until the sauce has thickened—season to taste with salt and pepper.

Take the saucepan off the heat and stir the chicken and spinach into the sauce. Put the manicotti in a pan of boiling salted water and boil until the pasta is just tender. Drain and cool for a few minutes.

Using a large pastry bag with a plain tube, pipe the stuffing into the manicotti. Arrange the manicotti in a buttered baking dish, pour the tomato sauce over them and sprinkle with half of the grated Parmesan cheese. Place the casserole on the upper half of a pre-heated oven and cook at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or until bubbling hot and brown.
Serve with the remaining cheese, and I suggest a good wine for this dish would be a red Bordeaux or a well-aged Cabernet or a real good Irish Beer!

Ice Cream Addict invited to taste 48! flavors and choose a favorite.

My curiosity, such as it is, was piqued the other day as I glanced at a flyer in the Sunday paper. Our own local Darigold was on a quest for a new ice cream flavor. So If you want to see a flagrant and spectacular violation of the known laws of physics, watch how fast a half-gallon of ice cream can disappear when I am near.

So being the ice cream hound that I am, I immediately sat down and sent them 23 flavors. I thought I had been clever with fun names and whimsical ingredients: Maui Waui, Shanna Banana, Seattle Grunge, and was counting the days until September 20 when the finalist would be notified. But as the countdown continued, the complacency gave way to the grim, clear-eyed reality that I lost.

Whipped into an emotional frenzy, I had almost succeeded in driving the thought of doing two of my favorite things–eating and eating ice cream goodbye, when I received this letter:

“Dear Darigold Concoction Contest Entrant: Congratulations! While your ‘flavor’ was not one of the winning entries, your letter convinced us that you deserve a seat on Darigold’s Feature Flavors Selection Panel as a VIP guest taster. You will be sampling 48 different flavors of ice cream to help us select the flavors that will be included in next year’s Darigold Feature Flavors program.”

I naturally was delighted, yet became delirious when Jan Roberts, consumer scientist for Darigold, informed me that there were over 10,000 entries!

“They had all been very clever,” she explained. “Some went as far as sending ingredients with their recipe. However, out of all the entries, there seems to be a trend towards coconut, pretzel, lemon, and mint flavors.” And she continued chuckling as it was quite a challenge to narrow 10,000 entries down to four flavors, one for each category of fruit, nut, chocolate, and candy.

How long did it take to compose one of the four winning flavors? Four weeks. The flavor was sent to the manufacturer, who took about a week with special instructions from Darigold. A quart would then return to the consumer science lab, where the staff would taste and approve the flavor. When approved, the design for the box would start, and ample ice cream would be made for the VIP taste testers who would choose the winners.

First, we started with fruit and used the two-spoon method. I was ready for the big one-spoon method, but rules are rules. We had 20 minutes to take ice cream from a big metal spoon and put a scoop of ice cream on a little pink plastic spoon. Savor the flavor (as many times as we wanted), then rate it on a scale of 1-5 for the overall reaction to the flavor, name, and carton design.

I will not here or anywhere describe what I remember of eating 48 flavors of ice cream in 2-1/2 hours, which is almost everything. But, enough to say that having not eaten 48 flavors of ice cream in one sitting before, I was surprised that by the time we had reached the fourth category (candy), I wanted to shout, “Enough already! My teeth are getting fuzzy!” But I did not because the four finalists and the 17 invited guests would have turned on me, and my lifeless body would have been found later in a butter vat, covered with tiny plastic spoons.

I was incredibly full. Me–and ice cream addict who in a million years would never have thought ice cream could be filling. But each taste was better than the last. Every bite burst with creamy, rich flavor. With wonderful ingredients and surprising names such as Mud Puddle, Cloudy With a Chance of Cookies, Chocolate Freckles, Muddy Snowshoes, and Cluster’s Last Stand.

The winning flavors for the four categories were:

Mad About Chew (chocolate category) with chunks of brownies, mini candy-coated chocolates, ribbons of peanut butter, and chocolate-flavored ice cream.

Red Hot Java (candy category) with cinnamon red hot candies and cinnamon-coffee-flavored ice cream.

Internut (nut category)with roasted almonds, white chocolate chunks, webs of chocolate fudge, and pistachio-flavored ice cream.

English Lemon Meringue Custard (fruit category) with lemon meringue swirl, pie pieces, and lemon-custard flavored ice cream.

They were all delicious.

My favorite. Even though I am a chocoholic, was the English Lemon Meringue Custard. It was delightfully different.
As a parting gift, Darigold each gave us a talking Ice Cream Man scoop.
It yells, “Ice Cream,” and then you hear bells ringing from an old-fashioned ice cream truck.

Unfortunately we ice cream addicts don’t like a lot of noise when we are sneaking the last bites out of the box, so I think I will keep that hidden in the drawer.

GOOD JOB. YOU NEVER GAVE UP!

There’s a lot of talk about mankind and all of his failures, but why do so many things in our world work? If people haven’t asked themselves these questions, perhaps they should.

Why, when nature blows, the power out for three days, we can’t live without our TV, microwaves, computer, we don’t consider what absolute horror is—living in the Middle Ages without hair conditioner.  We get angry at traffic jams and long lines at the grocery store. However, would we rather be trying to find a nut and berry out in the bog?

Never in the history of the world has mankind ever stopped and patted himself on the back and said, “Good job. You never gave up.”

Answer me this. Isn’t it time we started to have pride, and shouldn’t we be proud of our neighbors like Bev and Elias Meiki?   Elias is from Lebanon, where Kahill Gibran, the author of “The Prophet,” was born (another amazing human). Elias has been in America for 13 years and is doing what humans do best—trying.

Bon d’ Elle is a line of gourmet foods that the couple has owned and operated since 1987. After many years of hard work, they were able to design and build a commercial kitchen in their home.

The kitchen stocked like a miniature Middle Eastern Costco, with pounds of peeled garlic, small towers of sea salt, cases of frozen lemon juice, and bags of garbanzo beans.

Elias and his family are taking a gamble that the food that he ate 10,714 miles away in his hometown will find its way onto our dinner table and that we will relish it as much as he did when he was a boy.

His mom would serve the roasted richness of Baba Gannoj and the exquisite tang of Tahini sauce mixed with molasses and used as a dip with pita bread.
“Were these the traditional foods your mother cooked for you when you were little?” I asked Elias as we all seated ourselves in the comfortable living room of their home.

“The same food that made me homesick. I was 32 years old when I came to America. I was very lonely and very hungry for my home food, so I learned to cook myself,” he explained as he brushed his dark hair from his forehead. “Our table at home was always laden with lots of vegetables, cheese, beans, and beer.”

“Little boys drink beer?” I questioned mischievously. Elias looked at Bev. She was standing at the large picture window watching their two small children playing in the front yard. Then, pointing to his wife, Elias asked Bev to get the Arak.

‘In Lebanon,” continued Elias, ‘There are no age restrictions, and children never abuse alcohol.”

Bev returned with a bottle with a lot of Arabic writing on the label. “You must try our national drink, Arak; it is 100 proof!” Elias chuckled.
I asked if it had been a dream to come to America and open his business. Elias grinned and smiled at Beverly. “I had no plan to fall in love with an American citizen.” He smiled.

He took a deep breath, his voice touched with an accent, and spoke softly and very slowly. “I lived in Lebanon for 30 years and two years in France when I followed my younger brother to here. Bev and I met at the print shop where we both worked. I would bring my dinner, and all the other employees always teased me about the unique and different foods I brought to work. But Bev found them very interesting, and soon I brought a little extra to share.”

Bev shared that she often helped Elias figure out the right spices to use in his dishes during their courtship. She was translating English by the smell and touch of the spices.

After marriage and children, they started contemplating a business out of their home. “We believe in a close family,” Elias said confidently as he led the way downstairs toward their commercial kitchen.

“This is where we make our Bon d’Elie frozen food products,” Elias said, ushering me toward an enormous wok (big enough to sit in).  “Our most popular product is our Garlic Sesame Tahini sauce which has many uses.”

“Here is a taste,” Bev said as she came over with a spoon.

“Garlicky,’ I smiled.

Just before I left, Elias looked around at his clean, bright, fresh-smelling kitchen. He saw the refrigerator and brought out their newest product, Falafel, which is not a dip but can be shaped like a patty, fried, or baked in a muffin pan. It is rolled on top of pita bread like a sandwich, with or without tomatoes and lettuce.  “For you,” Elias said as he generously offered me samples of all his product lines.

As my car pulled out of the driveway, I thought how thankful I was that someone rolled up their sleeves and invented the freezer and all the other goodies of modern life that our ancestors had made a stab out of trying something else one day instead of the same old nut and berry.

If you are a garlic lover, you will most certainly enjoy Lebanese food. Here is a dish Bev serves her family often. Eaten hot or cold it is called;
LUBIA
12-16 oz Frozen green beans
20 oz can chopped tomatoes plus three large ripe, peeled, and sliced tomatoes
One whole head of garlic with each clove peeled
One large onion
One tablespoon olive oil
½ tablespoon tomato paste
One cup water
Chop onion and brown in olive oil until clear. Add all of the garlic–brown together. Add frozen green beans. Stir until soft and done. Add tomatoes. Salt to taste. Cook 10 minutes. Add tomato paste and water. Let simmer on medium. Add more paste or water as needed.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

When wrapping gifts in the spare bedroom,

Mom and Dad were sitting in a puddle of ribbon, paper, and warranties.

By midnight it was plain to see that they were getting cranky.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would soon be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

With flashlights and blueprint’s to catch Santa, danced in their sleepy heads.

And Mommy in her bathrobe, tape stuck on her nose, and I in my ski jacket
raced out into the cold.

The easy-to-assemble dinosaur diorama (with 99 parts and one -soon to find
out-missing) in the car I went to pluck.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I hit my head on the trunk, like to see what was the matter.
Away to the street, I flew like a flash.

I tore open my jogging pants and fell across the grass.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to our roof’s clogged gutter.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a lump in my throat and noticing a beaming light in the kid’s room, I ran

like crazy and tumbled into the living room.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

I gasped for air and calmed my jitters,

By laying underneath the Christmas tree glitter.

It was a shiny silver aluminum tree,

With red and green strobe lights sitting below, they twirled and danced and splashed all over me.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof.

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew out my head, from under the tree,

Down the chimney, Santa came to greet me.

Tarnished with ashes and soot, he was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf.

With a bundle of toys he had flung on his back, he gave me a lecture on yearly chimney cleaning, sighting a danger that was sitting there brewing.

We talked of life and what the last year had brought,

I told him we paid off the freezer and tried to be good.

He paused and drank the glass of milk,

And ate the plateful of cookies the children had left.

He went straight to his work,

Filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

He spotted the bowl sitting by the fireplace ledge.

I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

My wife’s homemade caramel corn had glistened from the bowl.

One bite and with a shout of glee,

He asked for the recipe, please.

7 quarts popped corn

2 cups brown sugar

1/2 cup white Karo syrup

One teaspoon salt

Two sticks butter

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

l teaspoon vanilla

Boil the brown sugar, Karo, butter, and salt for five minutes. Remove from heat and add soda and vanilla. Pour over the popcorn and mix well. Pour into cookie sheets and bake in a 250-degree oven for one hour. Stir several times during baking. Delicious!