Can You Tell I'm a Women and Gender Studies Major?

I have been horribly remiss in updating this blog choosing instead to fill my free-time with the wonders and frustrations of furnishing a college apartment (think weekly trips to the Salvation Army.) Yet the time that has passed (four months) since I last blogged has been marked by many a wonderful food experience and I find it a shame that I have not shared these experiences here. As this is a blog about food in Charlottesville, however, I will spare you the details of wild boar sauce on pici pasta in Medieval Italy and I will refrain from gushing to you over the Istanbul's tea bazaar and the world's most perfect lamb kebob. In fact, I won't even talk to you about my continued love affair with San Diego's The Linkery (if ever you find yourself craving boutique charcouterie). I will instead reinvigorate this blog with a discussion of gendered bites. Thus, I present to you:



FROM FALLACY...

TO OVATION:

A Redemption Tale

So, you all get it and I really don't have anything all that interesting to say about these pictures outside of the fact that I was tickled to discover that in a period of less than twenty-four hours the symbolism of my two main meals was glaringly lewd.

The Wurst Sampler plate was eaten over a Friday night birthday dinner at The Bavarian Chef in Madison which I would recommend if not only for the experience. Highlights included two liter beers in boot shaped glasses and never ending veggie side-dishes. The wurst themselves weren't all that bad, though the fat red one in the center tasted a lot like a ballpark frank and the browned white one was suspiciously slimy and even in texture. The sauce and the garlic mashed potatoes on which the wieners lie, however, were exemplars of the definition of flavorful. The figs were then picked the next morning on Steph and my way back from Pancakes for Parkinsons (good-eat in and of itself.) They came from the tree on the south side of Pavilion 9--I think...I often get my UVa geography confused. As the suggestive split in these ovular little gems indicates, they were deliciously ripe. We went home and sprinkled honey and sunflower seeds over the figs and a good dollop of Greek yogurt. A combination I highly recommend.

Next time look out for my entry on the Nelson County Sorghum (that's molasses to you) Festival...

During Finals One Orders a Lot of Pizza.

Not much exciting going on in my food world other than the revelation that, if Mellow Mushroom delivers to your area, you should always order from them in place of Domino's or Papa Johns. The medium 14" pizza I had delivered to my place the other day is the same size as a Domino's large and cost me a mere $13.69. Taking into consideration the five fresh toppings decorating my Kosmic Karma and the fact that the crust is made with spring water (!!!!) and a mix of whole wheat flours, a Domino's pizza that would surely cost as much and would never include fresh spinach and pesto seems paltry in comparison.

Ode to a Biscuit

The Bluegrass Grill and Bakery is tucked into an inconspicuous corner of the Glass Building on Second Street. It serves up hearty three egg omelets and makes all its breakfast pastries in house. I have dined there twice. On the first occasion, I and the lovely Ms. Julia Schumann indulged in the more starchy offerings--I with the honey wheat pancakes and she with the French Toast. The pancakes were the size of 7 inch vinyls and made with buttermilk--a delightful combination of hearty texture (whole wheat grains) and fluffy satisfaction (the acid in the buttermilk reacting with the baking soda--a leavening agent.) Topped with strawberries, butter and real maple syrup, my pancakes were an experience worth returning for and the next day I did exactly that. This time, however, i set out intent on tasting the three-inch tall biscuits I had seen the day before.

I ordered my biscuit alongside a cheddar cheese and sausage omelet and a side of cheese grits. (A heart healthy breakfast...) The grits and omelet were fine but the biscuit...oh the biscuit. It was, as I have mentioned, three inches tall and endearingly lopsided. At some point in the baking process it had reached a point where it could no longer support a vertical climb and veered off to the right like an extended jack in the box. What's more, this biscuit was made with a good portion of whole wheat flower and looked like a scrumptious nugget of earth. Steam fogged my glasses as I broke the biscuit in half and spread butter atop it's cloud-like layers of buttermilk pastry. I liberally drizzled each half with honey before the first bite, which once taken, resulted in my most cherished of masticatory sensations--when what you are biting into is so thick and airy that a condensed version of it ends up stuck between your front teeth and your upper lip. There is, in my opinion, nothing more indicative of true comfort food than the need to swipe away food lodged in said space with a thorough sweep of the tongue.

The impression this biscuit made on my taste-buds was otherworldly. So, I leave you with a little haiku, the form and content of which is intended to express my serenity and contentedness in having had the privilege to eat such a glorious feat of American cuisine.

three inches giant
broken in two, honey topped.
I eat all of you.

God Bless America

I am usually the type to laud the merits of things locally produced, organic and whole wheat. But sometimes one gets sick of this sort of politically sensitive ingestion and craves things bleached, colored and lacking in nutritional value. So it was that yesterday morning I, feeling gustatorially irreverent, ate a grilled egg sandwich with bacon and American Cheese on White. Genius.

Seriously though, when was the last time that you, a food snob, indulged in something a little bit plebeian for breakfast? Screw the granola made with unrefined sugar and no trans-fat, ditch the rBGH free yogurt and grab yourself an American classic. Cap'n Crunch, Pop Tarts, Wonder Bread and Welches grape jelly--they are all pleading for you to jump off the high horse and take a trip down memory lane. And I promise, if you throw aside your preconceived expectations, you will, as I was yesterday, be thoroughly pleased with your choice.

For a dining experience that serves up all things Bisquick with a side of chintz, be sure to hit up the Italian Villa.

Distant Future

Imagine: What would your life be like if you couldn't easily order some pizza?

This has nothing to do with Charlottesville. But it does have something to do with food and just how dire our lives would be without it...

Set to the wailings of Sigur Ros, my dear friend Alex and his pal Sebastian have painted a stark picture of the future of home delivery. This film won the UChicago 48 hour Film festival. Way to go boys.

POTLUCK

I delayed this post in the hopes of acquiring some digital images to post alongside. Alas, a) I was too lazy to ask people with cameras to send me stuff and b) no one posted any on facebook. So, you will have to survive without visual representation and rely solely on my prose.

SO! As I mentioned before, I attended a potluck this past weekend and it was everything one hopes a potluck will be--copious amounts of food, good people, cheap beer, and an impromptu dance party to top it all off. For my contribution, i set off in an attempt to recreate the DELICIOUS Korma I ate with Mundy at Royal Indian Restaurant (3450 Seminole Trail) last week. However, I ended up printing off the wrong recipe, and made chicken Masala instead. My expectations were a little deflated because the Masala used Yogurt in place of cream and the dish lacked the sweetness that had been so satisfying in the Royal Indian version. (Also, because I hadn't felt like spending money on ghee (clarified butter) and used vegetable oil instead, the flavor enhancing qualities of butter were lacking.) Nevertheless, I started to feel better when, to go alongside, I whipped up a batch of Jasmine Basmati rice, the smell of which rivaled that of the curry in terms of olfactory pleasingness. Turmeric, garlic, cloves, cardamom, ginger, and fennel ain't got nothing on white rice and jasmine.

Feeling satisfactorily confident in my dish, I awkwardly carted the giant pot full of curry three blocks to my car and strapped it into the front seat. When I finally made it to the third floor apartment to which i was headed, my glasses fogged with the steam of thirty friends and their thirty dishes crammed into a small room. After finding a spot to dump my pot and taking a chance to survey my surroundings, I saw that the contributions included a stick-to-your-ribs-sorta-comforting chicken, pea and pasta casserole, spicy gazpacho; a salad or two; Kyle's signature meatiferous lasagna and plates upon plates of rice krispy treats with M&Ms. We ate, we laughed, and eventually we danced. It was, in a word, awesome.

The Hungarian Walnut Torte Takes the Cake

Howdy y'all. I'm sitting in the alcove of the Tea Bazaar sharing a pot of Cocoa Rooibus and alternating forkfuls of orange poppyseed and double chocolate layer cakes. The wireless network making this post possible is called "The Crystal Passage" (enough said.) The lovely Ms. Steph Salter is sitting to my left and perusing internet job listings.

What is notable about this particular Bazaar experience is that it marks the day I have tasted all baked goods offered here. My conclusion? The gluten-free Hungarian Walnut Torte offers the most-scrumptiousest of gustatory possibilities. The cheese cakes and Chocolate-Chocolate cakes are close runners up but what distinguishes the walnut cake from the others is the sheer "wow" power of surprisingly spongey, gluten-free cake layers. I don't know about you all, but the last time I made a gluten (the protein that creates elasticity and allows a cake to rise without falling)-free cake, it came out of the oven looking less enticing than a hockey puck and completely lacking in fluff. In short, when layered with marmalade and covered in chocolate ganache, this cake wins the taste and texture award.

Welcome to The Sliv

Welcome to The Sliv: A Blog About Food in Charlottesville.

So, What's a "sliv?" A sliv is what my grandfather is referring to when he, ever so reliably, asks for a second helping of cake or pie at family dinners. This can be endearing and it can also be annoying ("Why did you ask for a small piece to begin with?!?!?") but, irritation aside, the sliv will always remind me of the spirit of communal food preparation and shared experiences with loved ones. So, I chose to call this blog "The Sliv" for a couple of reasons. The first pays homage to the spirit of occasional overindulgence in the things we love--such as a good slice of cake--and the second has to do with my mission for this blog. I want to create a forum where people talk about why its awesome to eat together, what they eat that makes it awesome, and how others might attempt to recreate the magic. Really, I just want to share my love for food--to promote a belief in the power of food and provide a glimpse (a sliver if you will) of the bountiful and sensational opportunities for community dining in Charlottesville.

In the future, I hope to compile lists of community friendly dining experiences, recipes, and ideas for awesome ways to share, buy, and make food. I hope that many a guest writer will contribute his or her delicious, disastrous, luscious and smell-rific shared dining experiences with us!

I'm on my way to a pot-luck dinner. I'll be sure to share what I made with you. Now then, GO EAT people.