Pork Belly and Blood Sausage

Looks innocuous enough, doesn't it? A little something grilled, with some crispy kielbasa-like sausage atop a bed of lentils soaked in bacon... The other night at Solera, I wanted to try something new, so I ordered the Sherry Glazed Pork Belly with Morcilla and Lentils. I'd never had pork belly, but since I hear about it all the time, I thought it was time to check it off my list.

But when the server delivered our tapas, she said, "Here is the pork belly and blood sausage."

Blood sausage? I don't know why I didn't realize. Maybe I thought that morcilla was a red wine sauce or a type of Spanish cheese, but, relevant cognates or not, I didn't realize I'd ordered up such a culinary combo.

This pork belly and blood sausage virgin was terrified and thrilled.

My first taste of pork belly almost shut me down. Maybe the crispy edge could have saved the bite, but all I got was a thick slab of pork fat in my mouth. It melted easily, unlike the chewy fat that I always cut off my steaks, but the idea of eating pure fat made my stomach turn. Lucky for the pork belly, I noticed that the next bite actually had a bit of meat on it. Sure that bit of meat tasted good, but another chunk of melty fat came with it. That was it; I was done with the pork belly. Bring on the blood.

Morcilla is the Spanish version of blood sausage, which is made from the fat and blood of a slaughtered pig. My friend Brad, who drank rattlesnake blood in China, shrugged and said, "We had that all the time in the cafeteria when I was in Germany." All I remember from die Mensa was Mullermilch, pretzel rolls, and RitterSport, which tells you a lot about my dietary health at the time. As I sipped my wine, I imagined that big party for three days after the slaughter when the whole family celebrates by eating every part of the pig. That's sort of what I wanted for myself after a week of work. A night in the big city is a reason to celebrate; a night of tapas and puppet nudity at the Orpheum was about as good as it could get. Blood sausage was my celebration.

So I gently cut my morcilla in half, savoring the fantasy that I was, for the moment, even further from home than Minneapolis and trying blood sausage in Germany or Argentina or Spain. The insides crumbled slightly, but I choose a nice first bite. A little onion, a little sweet but rich, the sausage had a crispy edge. Like the pork belly, it melted in my mouth, but more like the melt of chocolate than fat. It was earthy, not meaty, and I would have been happy to finish it off, but instead, I passed the plate to share with my friends.

The lentils, by the way, were fantastic.

The Bee

This weekend I made a realistic to-do list, and Matt and I did nearly everything on the list. Even though it was "realistic," the tasks were not small ones.

I had to tutor a student, go to my office for a couple hours, cash checks at the bank, and jog a couple miles. Check, check, check, check. Matt and I cleaned the kitchen, used 1/2 of all the ground cherries from Thorncrest Farms in salsa, and rode 21 miles on the Cannon River Trail. I know, impressive, right?

On top of all that, we followed through on eating one of the three melons we got this week, fixed the screen that our beloved Bernie busted through, and made banana bread cupcakes for 31 teenage boys.

So, when late afternoon came around, and I wanted to take a break, I did. I got myself a beer and a book, and I went outside to sit on our patio. I hooked the dogs up so they could enjoy the weather too --- winter's coming to Minnesota very soon, and we want to hold onto every moment of late summer. Immediately, a bee started hovering around my Corona (probably the lime's fault). Thinking I was smarter than him, I sprayed myself with bug spray and opened my book. Happily, I took a swig of my beer...

... and found myself with the bee in my mouth. He panicked, I'm sure, and stung me inside my upper lip.

So much for a well-deserved rest!

When I posted this as my status update, a friend of mine responded. She and I recently and unexpectedly lost a very good friend, a friend who was well-known for her mishaps. Andrea simply wrote, "that sounds like a Kristen story."

And then I smiled, and I didn't really mind having a swollen lip anymore because I knew Kristen would have just toasted her Corona and enjoyed the moment, mishap and all.

Thorncrest Farms (and I am tired)

Inspired by our friends Theresa, Jamie, and Karl, who became members of a community supported agriculture (CSA) farm in New York, Matt and I researched a couple local farms in our area who had similar programs. We found a farm that would let us join mid-season, and last Wednesday, we picked up our first share of locally-grown, chemical-free, just-picked vegetables. We knew the share was large enough for a family of four, but it was summer, and we figured we could handle the challenge.

I was surprised at how excited Matt and I were about joining the program. After I made the initial calls to the farms, Matt asked me several times each day if I'd heard back from any of them. Then, on our pick-up day, we ended up so early, that we went to Menard's for light bulbs and Caribou for coffee.

We both loved visiting the small farm and talking with the farmers. When we asked how to cook some of the vegetables we were less familiar with, a common theme emerged: pan fried in butter. We left with 19 pounds of food, and, like I said, we were ready to take on the challenge of using it. On the way home, I looked at Matt, happy and hopeful for our healthy choices, and he said to me: "You think we can use it all, don't you." I nodded eagerly but he shook his head and said, "I'm not so sure..."

Like we used to do at Halloween, we spread out the bounty when we got home to take it all in. We had beets, rutabaga, kohlrabi, potatoes, onions, broccoli, carrots, red cabbage, green cabbage, cucumbers, basil, zucchini, green beans, snow peas, and radishes.

That night, we stayed up until 1:00 am. We shopped for pickling spices and jars, and then washed, chopped, and parboiled. Since then, the introduction of 19 pounds of vegetables into my home has doubled the number of dishes I've had to do and left me exhausted each night. I've cooked dinner each night, snipped the ends off of an endless supply of beans, and made chocolate zucchini bread. I've got plans yet tonight to make coleslaw and pesto.

(I just had to run to the kitchen to put the wheat bread in the oven.)

We're trying so hard to eat better, cook for ourselves, and make sustainable choices, but I just don't know if this is a sustainable for me. Right now, I'm working shorter days, home usually by 3 pm at the latest. When school hits, especially in my first year as a dorm parent, how can we possibly cook 19 pounds of vegetables each week?

I think we needed to split the share after all. Any takers?

Venice Beach, California

This past weekend, I left a jealish* Matt behind and hopped on a plane, trading Minnesota for Los Angeles. Three days in sunny and warm California with good friends (Aaron and Maria) is definitely good for the soul. Each morning, Maria, my gracious host, said that she wanted to go to the beach, but the weather just wasn't cooperating. For me, of course, the weather was cooperating just fine.

Finally, on Monday, the clouds cleared, and the sun emerged. Maria, baby Adrian, and I piled into the car and drove to Venice to eat lunch, walk the beach, people watch, and shop the street market. Venice has that strange combination of upscale and downscale, where life is just a bit more on the edge than life here in Faribault. You wouldn't know it from the Rose Cafe, a hip brunch spot with a funky little gift store --- you could picture wealthy folk munching lentils and veggie burgers here. But just a few steps away, Venice Beach was a different experience....

So let me see if I can create a snapshot or two for you. On the bike path, cyclists of all kind rode among the strollers, the rollerbladers, and the walkers: regular ten speed bikes, recumbents, bikes straight out of the Brady Bunch, tandems, and bikes chosen to catch and keep your attention. Who knew that bikes could so help us create an image for ourselves? Serious bikers scowled at us as the path was clearly marked "bikes only," but those with the hip handlebars only smiled. Along the path to the ocean side, surfers were struggling to catch a decent wave, early birds worked on their bronze, and one man set up house right along the path (complete with soap, stereo, and snacks). Along the path to the boardwalk side, children swung and slid, a young man trained his dog, and skateboarders navigated ramps. Handball courts (new to me) were empty save for one teenage boy and his onlookers. Sleeping bags, rolled and unrolled, marked the spots of those who wander. Lots of sleeping bags.

Back out on the boardwalk, we stopped to look for art and skull caps and jewels and henna tattoos. Dogs on leashes found each other, peacefully. An elderly woman cooed at Adrian, and a fortune teller cooed at me. We couldn't help but ogle the tropically tan body builder walking the streets in only tight swimming trunks (not exactly a speedo) and a bandanna on his head. We couldn't help but adore the little girl with shorn hair, her tattooed mother sitting on the steps, keeping watch. I couldn't help but wonder, as I looked at the pierced and dreadlocked teens, why they weren't in school. The street wasn't quiet by any means; the buzz and hums belonged together--there were no jarring sounds, no din.

I didn't buy much. No tin can airplanes, no salt and pepper shakers, no surfboard clocks. What caught my eye was a small piece of art, orange and simple. It was just a print of a small pup affixed to a tile, bordered in gold, labeled simply with the word joy. The artist snapped my polaroid with the pup - "for my website," he said, and I smiled.

Maria plopped Adrian down on the sidewalk to bobble his way a bit. Afraid of nothing but the sun in his eyes, he reached out to a cyclist pulling his daughter behind him as they stopped to shop, waddled after pigeons, and threw his hip little cap onto the road. After a bit, we scooped him up and headed off to the airport, and I prepared to trade this little taste of life on the edge back for khakis, dining hall coffee, and a regular Tuesday morning.

*jealish (adj.) kind of a little jealous, but not really; coined by Maria Magana, 2008.