she craves

The Thing About Tea

Or more specifically, green tea (dried leaves shown above) is that like red wine, chocolate, coffee and anything with several polyphenolic compounds (read, layers of flavor and nuance) green tea never simply tastes like green tea.

Behind the simple careful cuttings of the tender new growth of camelia sinensis leaves, particularly those of Japan, is a subtle study of terroir and the basis of a age-old way of life. Kay Hoyama is the founder of Goko Tea. I was fortunate to sit down with her and taste some of the rare varieties of sencha, genmaicha and matcha she imports from Japan. Most only available in very small quantities and more never before seen in the states.

Caffe d'Bolla [Salt Lake City, UT]

Here's the scenario: For whatever reason (new job, vacation, work trip, acid trip) you find yourself in Salt Lake City, Utah. Yes, that Salt Lake City. Put aside the stereotypes or the general fears about being accosted by polygamists in long skirts and braided hair (that's only on the news and in remote pockets of Arizona and Utah). And fret not about finding a drink, especially a caffeinated one.

Whatever people might think, Salt Lake City loves its coffee. We have virtually every type of java you can think of. Drive-through kiosks. Corporate brands. The scenester lounges. Lately, a new breed coffee house can be found in this city. These are the dens of micro roasts, boutique beans and coffee talk that's more Robert Parker than Linda Richman.

Cherry Cordial

Another installation to my cherry resourcefulness. After reading what Ian Knauer's piece on Gourmet.com, I felt a tinge of inspiration. It helped that I had an abundance of cherries leftover from Cherry Almond Cake, an upcoming post about Cherry Granita and general consumption. It also helped that there was some booze involved. In this case, some Stolichnaya vodka.

Last year, I had tried the same thing -- taking some cherries, muddling them around a bit in a jar and then adding some alcohol -- to no avail. I had chosen brandy and thought it would turn out rather classy and elegant. By the time I opened up for a celebratory sip at Thanksgiving, I had discovered I could make cough syrup.

Ian Knauer's piece went for vodka. His fruit came from an abundance of wild cherries he discovered on a walk. "Almost black," he wrote. Mine weren't foraged, but rather bartered for my meager cash at the Farmers' Market and were deep mahogany, soft and glossy. I wasn't sure if the wild specimens he found were the sour or sweet variety. The Bings were staring at me in the face and I couldn't forsake them just to find fresh sour cherries that are a rare find in my part of the world. In the article's comment string, one lucky reader posted about her amarena (sour cherry) tree outside her house. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders and then reached for the vodka.

A Spontaneous Cherry Cordial

This isn't a recipe, more like a conversation over the fence, if I had a fence and a neighbor who would actually talk to me. Nevertheless, I consider you my neighbor for now. Here's what you do.

Take a few cherries (sour or sweet) -- perfect for the battered, bruised and juicy ones, the inevitable casualties from the market or a foraging expedition -- and with an actual muddler, a rolling pin end or in my case, the handle of a bamboo rice paddle, smash them around to break up the fruit and release the juices. I mean it. That's it. Seeds and all.

Pour in enough vodka to fill your jar, container or whatever you're going have the fruit hang out in. Give it a shake after sealing it tightly. Leave it alone for a week or two, paying attention to it every couple of days to give it a shake. I have it standing with my other bottles of booze to influence its maceration and progress. See that framboise? It's from Bonny Doon and it is SO good. Can you be that good? Then open up the jar and give it a whiff.

The vodka plays well with the cherries, not asserting itself, just hanging out in the background and providing a kick right at the end of the sip. 

Before you serve it, I've taken to straining the pulp and seeds

I have visions of flambéeing the mixture after it's been spooned over a simple, butter cake. Or better yet — drenching a chocolate layer cake. Or sipping the stuff by the fire from small elegant glasses I have yet to buy. (I also envision the very likely possibility that the consumption of the stuff will most likely neither elegant, nor show-stopping, but that's what day dreams are for.)

Doesn't matter. For now, I'm making the stuff of memories and when it comes time to open up the a jar/bottle alone or with friends, I'll take another whiff and think or say aloud, Remember that time in the summer when I bought way too many cherries? Yeah, this was a good idea.

The Short List: SLC Eats [Downtown]

People can think what they want about this adopted city of mine. We, like Buffalonians and Oaklanders, travel beyond our city limits with stereotypes and a barrage of lame jokes. The reality is, Salt Lake City is a bit of secret. Some of us like to keep it that way (those who already think there are enough California refugees in state limits) and some who love to preach the affordable cost of living, gorgeous landscape and the fact that not everyone is "of the faith."

I often tell my baffled out-of-state friends to think of SLC (all cities seem to have a hip or diminutive moniker, NYC, Sac-Town, Philly...) as a Chicago. A cultural — and in Utah's case, a political — capital surrounded by perceivably less enticing realms. The only difference: Red rock is infinitely cooler than acres of government subsidized corn.

Coffee Break

Espresso and siphon-brewed coffee in the late afternoon at Caffe d'Bolla. No mere quick fix caffeination. More like hard core education. The lowdown on beans, roast and brew to come. In the meantime, behold the leftover crema.

Mid-Afternoon Pick Me Up

A cup of Choffy (Ivory Coast, medium roast) with a big spoonful of light muscovado sugar.

What is Choffy, you ask?

Think of it as a cross between coffee and hot chocolate, which should appeal to caffeine junkies and chocoholics out there. Organic, fair trade cacao beans are roasted and ground in such a way that I can pop spoonfuls into the coffeemaker and in the usual coffee brewing time, get some soothing warmth with cacao vapors.

It isn't sweet or creamy on its own, so I add a scraping of sugar. But it's lovely and nuanced on its own -- a dark brew with enough oopmh to get me through a few more hours with less jitters. I won't quit coffee completely, but my gut thanks me for this choco-substitution.

Plus, the organic cacao beans are roasted, ground and packaged down the highway in a place called Orem, Utah. If anyone knows anything about the city, you know enough to be somewhat surprised, yet not. The city is also home to a fine restaurant, Pizzeria 712 and what I consider the best U.S. artisan chocolate maker, Amano.

My Chai Caddy

In the kitchen there are a few things you hold dear. They're priceless much in the way an old Aunt's wooden spoon is priceless or an old cast iron pan bought from a flea market. For me, one of those things is my spice caddy.

It's an unassuming thing. Cirucular in shape, flat-topped and silver all round. But it's what within the lid and the 3-inch high container that's pure magic. Seven little tins, empty and ready to be filled with whatever aromatic you wish to have. In my case, it's whole spices: coriander, cumin, brown mustard, black onion (nigella) seeds, cardamom and cloves. Plus, there's a diminutive spoon to scoop out whatever you need. That's the closest thing to a measuring spoon I use.

My dear friends, Amber and her family, gave this to me as a house warming gift, back in the day when I was ecstatic to grow up and move into a place of my own. Now, after a rancorous year or so, I'm now part of Amber's household and so is this caddy.

It's been with me since my first cup of chai. It was a recipe I wasn't particularly fond of and from there I improvised and riffed until something I liked came about. It was with me through every pot of dal, curry and the like. It was also there the first time Andy, my boyfriend, and I hung out together, making Thai curry paste from scratch with the mortar and pestle that usually sits next to this shiny caddy.

Little comforts are of monumental help when you think the world will crumble around you. Whether it is making a cup of tea for yourself or friends or simply opening up this little container and breathing in all the Scheherazade-storybook scents or taking in the simple beauty of a few spices arranged, by chance, the way they are in your kitchen, you take them the way you would a friend's or lover's deep embrace. When you feel as if you can no longer hold the worry and fears in.

So I open the caddy, take in the view and inhale.

A Cup of Tea & A Plan: A Glutton with Brains ... On A Budget

Every so often, I get the organizational bug. When this rare instance happens, I sit down with a cup of tea and make a list. Lots of lists. Whether or not they are ever fulfilled is of no consequence, because at this point, it's about getting ideas down, releasing omnipresent anxieties and hopefully, paving the way for new flavors. This time around, no list. But a manifesto, of sorts.

So here goes ... SheCraves has always been about food. Good food. But now, SheCraves will also conform to the realities of my life -- and many others, I suspect -- by sharing honest to goodness food for less.

FLASHBACK: Hot Chocolate, Plain and Simple

[Eating is either the first thing on your mind or the last thing. Whichever it is, this recipe may do you a world of good since it is: 1.) Wonderfully simple, uncomplicated; 2.) Still holiday-appropriate with its few decadent ingredients; and 3.) Who couldn't use a sip of something hot and comforting this time of year. When the post originally came out, I was in a time where I sought extreme comfort, hence the cream. If you are less of a pig, milk of any fat level should be fine. Except skim milk. You might as well use faucet water.]

So much for the promise of spring. It's coming down like a snowglobe outside. Driving would be suicidal considering my neighborhood rests at the top of a hill. The place where I'd like to go to get some hot chocolate conveniently at the bottom of said hill. I don't want it that much. Wait. I lied. I so do. Luckily, there's a pantry to raid. Thank god for those random bits of chocolate scattered at the bottom of the Ziploc storage bag. Hey, at least I saved $20 (gourmet hot chocolate ain't cheap, folks).

It's Sunday morning. I'm kind of hung over. And I'm really tired. Should I really be playing with fire? Dairy products heated over a fire, no less? God help me if I burn down my house. But it would be absolutely unforgiveable if I scorched the precious cream from the Brown Family farm in Coalville, Utah.

It's true, though. This cream really is worth it. I've been to the dairy, just a few minutes drive outside that glitzy Park City mountain hamlet, with its hybrid of modern technology and cow surveillance with good old fashioned family dairy farming. It isn't industrial by any means, though the bigger guys would love to drive them out. After one day with Mr. Brown, Jr. (never did catch his first name) I left with a lot more respect for farmers who stick it out on their own with threat of corporate takeover and buyout. This cream is pure lactose heaven. It's thick. Makes the best creme fraiche. And if you can imagine it, one step below that on the dairy scale is their "Farmstyle milk." More milk fat than their whole milk. But today, I play with cream, picked up on last week's meager grocery trip (again, I can't really cook in the pig-sty, er, kitchen).

I've come to the conclusion that a lot of the gourmet drinking chocolates I've been investing in are just glorified shaved or pellets of chocolate. Maybe dusted with some sort of flavoring and put into a much prettier package than my trusy Ziploc storage bags. Because this El Rey shaved on my cutting board and thrown into a warm pot of cream (loose ganache, here folks) tastes a lot like (mmm, maybe even better) the stuff I bought the last time I hibernated in a blizzard.

I just like the idea of using one ingredient for several things. Like one huge chunk of baking chocolate for dessert, baking, snacking, and now, drinking. I'm all for paying for good things to eat, but by jove, I've gotta be practical, too. Plus, the whole tactile practice of chopping the chocolate and having some of it melt onto your hands, minding a warming pot of cream, and stirring until the chunks just melt into the white cream, makes you feel pretty damn special. I drink out of bowls because I like to. Cups with handles are perfectly fine.

For one
2 ounces dark chocolate, chopped finely * 1 cup heavy cream OR 1 cup of milk, if you must * slightly sweetened whipped cream * cinnamon, vanilla, or booze like Grand Marnier, to taste (optional)

In a small saucepan over medium low heat, warm the cream slowly. It should never boil. Maybe the circumference will quiver a bit, but it should heat up without much commotion. When you can't leave your finger in the milk for more than 10 seconds, add the chocolate and stir with a whisk (this is the only time I ever use "egg whisk") until the chocolate fully melts into the cream. Add whatever seasoning you desire. Serve warm in mugs, bowls, or cups. Add whipped cream if desired. But I like mine just plain.

The Carrot, So To Speak (A Week in Oregon Wine Country)

Most of that Thursday night was a blur. At least, that's what it felt like. Day to day interactions blur at the 24-hour margins. The underappreciated working life builds the thickest of shells until you end up with an unnatural anaesthetic numb feeling that gets you through most days. To break out of that shell, you need something to shock you back into your senses, to lure me out. So, I got on a plane, endured a drowsy commute next to an effeminate Korean hair dresser (who stole my issue of GQ) and a very late night in Portland. By the next day I found myself in completely unfamiliar territory. The sun was shining, 70 degrees. And this was staring me in the face. Acres and acres of it. Pinot noir. In the heart of the Willamette Valley. With this alluring dark purple bunch, the shell was cracking.

Hot Chocolate Plain and Simple

So much for the promise of spring. It's coming down like a snowglobe outside. Driving would be suicidal considering my neighborhood rests at the top of a hill. The place where I'd like to go to get some hot chocolate conveniently at the bottom of said hill. I don't want it that much. Wait. I lied. I so do. Luckily, there's a pantry to raid. Thank god for those random bits of chocolate scattered at the bottom of the Ziploc storage bag. Hey, at least I saved $20 (gourmet hot chocolate ain't cheap, folks).

No Meme Immunity: Common Cold Remedies

Mae at rice and noodles tagged me a while back for this rather useful meme. It seems everyone has come down with some sort of infection, flu, cold, coodies, to shoot Kleenex stock through the roof. When it comes to comfort of the edible sort (Robitussin doesn't count), I wish I could say that I am a chicken-soup-from-scratch maker. But the sad reality is that the only times in my life that I have made chicken soup, I was perfectly healthy—the recipients usually being sick instead. And the effort, let alone time, involved to bung out one pot is preferably spent on laying down under the covers and not thinking about anything.

And I hesitate to call these remedies. I'm woefully lacking in the echinacea-popping preventative measures. And what I eat tends to console me in my pitiful snotty state rather then speed any sort of recovery. So, I'll call these my "comfort-ies." And at the top of the list...

Out & About and Back—San Francisco

Black sesame gelato with smatterings of green tea on the corner of Broadway and Grant

Don't try to take a photo of your goods at Yoogo Gelato. Because what you think is an empty table suitable for food photography will become a target for an eager Cantonese family with strong elbows, wondering why on earth this girl is giving her gelato the Kate Moss-treatment. There's better luck outside on Broadway and Grant, where Chinatown melts into North Beach. Beforehand, you will spend some time wondering whether to get limone with your avocado gelato or go for green tea with black sesame. Once you step onto the busy pavement, the flavors in your cup become emblematic of this piece of urban earth. The inaugural taste of black sesame gelato overtakes your mouth—a seedy crunch and hazelnut butter-like richness mingle with the exhaust fumes of the traffic. And suddenly, when a swarm of taxis honk at your intrusion into traffic you realize...Man, I love this city.