Best Food Writing 2013

by Holly Hughes

  Serves 2

  2 not-so-fresh eggs

  1 tablespoon distilled white vinegar

  2 slices Canadian bacon

  2 slices bread of your choice (white is best, raisin is not)

  Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

  1. Carefully crack each egg into a small ramekin and set aside. In a small saucepan filled three-quarters of the way with water, add the white vinegar and bring it to a simmer over medium heat. While it’s simmering, place the Canadian bacon slices in a medium, dry cast-iron pan over medium-low heat; cook on one side for 4 minutes and flip.

  2. When the water comes to a rolling simmer, gingerly slide the eggs into the pan, and with the dowel end of a wooden spoon, flip the white over onto the yolk two or three times. Slap a cover onto the pan, remove it from the heat, and set your timer for exactly 3 minutes.

  3. Meanwhile, cook the bacon on the other side for 2 minutes, and simultaneously toast your bread. When the bread is done, the bacon will be done. As soon as the timer goes off, and using a slotted spoon, carefully remove each egg to a ramekin.

  4. Top each piece of toast with a slice of bacon, and top each with a poached egg. Serve with a bowl of coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper.

  WHAT I KNOW

  By Diane Goodman

  From Eating Well

  In Diane Goodman’s aptly-titled short story collections–The Genius of Hunger, The Plated Heart, and Party Girls–her characters’ lives revolve around food, nurturing, and desire. Her day job as a Miami-area caterer provides rich material–and sometimes it also leads her to make surprising friends.

  I met Edith two years ago when her daughter Ruthie hired me to cook her 30th birthday dinner. Ruthie had said, “Don’t be offended if my mother doesn’t seem appreciative. She’s a little . . . gruff. And she doesn’t like people cooking in her house.” Now you tell me?

  When I rang the doorbell, Edith called out, “Who’s there?” It was 3:00 and Ruthie wouldn’t arrive until 5:00 but I thought her mother would be expecting me. I said “the caterer?” as if I didn’t know who I was.

  I had imagined a big, intimidating woman, but what I saw was the reason I was there: Edith was ill. She was not old, maybe in her late 50s, but she was tiny and bent, thin and bird-boned. Her fingers on both hands were gnarled nearly into fists. She didn’t invite me in.

  “I hope you brought your own pans because you’re not using mine,” she said. “And what are you making anyway?” I stood on the porch and told her the whole menu, including her own Braised Chicken; Ruthie had given me her mother’s recipe.

  “That’s Ruth’s favorite dish. I invented it. You don’t know how to make that,” she snarled.

  I had all the ingredients it required. I knew how to braise. But I said, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Kassenbaum. I know this is intrusive, but . . .”

  “You don’t know anything,” she said.

  I knew one thing: I was in for a long night.

  Edith stepped aside and then hobbled behind me as I made my way to her kitchen. Her breath was short, but I could hear her swearing under it. She sat down at her table, glowering while I unpacked the ingredients.

  Edith said. “Are those leeks? Did you take the sand out?”

  I had. Of course I had. I almost said as much.

  “Don’t you know anything? You have to rinse the sand out of leeks,” she said again, but this time in a quieter voice. I thought maybe her fury had exhausted her but when I turned to answer, she was crying. She was so hunched over her face was practically on her knees. I walked toward her and when she didn’t react, I knelt down and put my hand on her back.

  She tried to shake me off. Edith didn’t trust me. She didn’t know me. She didn’t even know my name. I was a stranger in her home, about to cook her recipe for her family. In her own kitchen.

  “What can I do?” I asked. “How can I make this easier?”

  She said, “You? You’re making everything worse. It’s my daughter’s birthday. I make the Braised Chicken for her every year. Almost 30 years. Who are you? I don’t know what you’re doing here!”

  But she did. Edith’s hands were so deformed from her illness that she could no longer cook. She didn’t know what she would lose next.

  “I understand,” I said.

  She said, “What? You understand? What do you know?”

  I knew I was petrified and didn’t want to do anything else to upset her, especially not being able to make her dish exactly the way she did.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know . . . how do you make your Braised Chicken? Can you walk me through it?”

  And out of my fear came the fix. Edith sat up and used her twisted hand to gesture me back to the stove. Then she walked me through every step of her recipe until it was simmering and the house smelled delicious. I covered it and sat down with her at the table. She looked completely spent. But she was smiling.

  “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Water? Tea?”

  “Didn’t you bring any wine?”

  Edith is confined to a wheelchair now and she rolls herself into her bedroom; I follow, carrying two glasses of Merlot. Tonight we are cooking her Beef Stroganoff and she will walk me through it, as she has for hundreds of meals in the last two years. We clink glasses, then drink.

  “So go pick out my clothes,” she says.

  I select a lilac dress that matches the table linen and the tulips. Ruthie and her dad will be home soon. Edith does not leave her house anymore.

  She lets me undress and then dress her. She lets me comb her hair, apply some lipstick. She tells me where to find her pearl earrings and I put them in her ears while she finishes her wine.

  “You look beautiful,” I tell her.

  “What do you know?” she says. But she’s smiling.

  WHEN THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO DO, I FED HER ICE CREAM

  By Sarah DiGregorio

  From GiltTaste.com

  In various stints as a food reporter/editor/reviewer–at the Village Voice, Food Network Magazine, and now Parade–Sarah Di Gregorio focuses on gourmet trends and the latest developments in the national food scene. But there are some moments in life when all that becomes irrelevant.

  Cape Cod, where I grew up, is practically the ice cream capitol of the world, and my mother took full advantage of her adopted home. Unlike many women, my mother had an uncomplicated relationship with ice cream. She loved it and she ate it often, sometimes as a meal. She never missed an opportunity for soft serve, always chocolate-vanilla swirl. Her favorite summer lunch was a mud pie cone from the Whistle Stop in Monument Beach. That’s what growing up on a farm in Kansas will do for you: Food is for growing, cooking and eating, not for worrying about.

  The very idea that any woman would feel guilty about food was weird to her. Of course, it was easy for her to say, since she naturally hovered around 100 pounds. She looked at me like I might be adopted when I started hating my inner thighs—she claimed that, as a scrawny teenager, she would have given anything for her thighs to touch at the top. (She was probably the first woman in history to actually wish this.) She found any talk of dieting or aging boring and maybe even morally suspect. As woman after woman wailed about turning 40 or 50, she would quietly ask, “What’s the alternative?”

  She treated her cancer with the same pragmatism. She swelled with fluid; she shrunk to bone; she shook uncontrollably. If there was nothing that could be done about it, we didn’t talk about it. What was the alternative?

  We never managed to acknowledge to each other that this was not going to end well. Her silence on the matter was a non-acceptance, a refusal to go gently. It was also her deeply ingrained, farmwoman way of coping—and she was a master of coping. She could cope anyone under the table. If today was a day that demanded the insertion of a permanent catheter into an artery above her heart, the better to mainline chemo, well, that was just what we were doing today. Maybe we could stop for ice cream after. Meanwhile, I became an expert in m
agical thinking, a maker of deals with the universe.

  So at the end, when there was nothing else I could do, I sat by her bedside and fed her Hoodsie Cups, half chocolate, half vanilla. After all her other pleasures—even reading—abandoned her, this one remained. I’d get an armful of the single serving cups from the hospital refrigerator and just keep spooning them into her mouth, stashing the empties under the bed so she wouldn’t see how many she’d eaten. The ice cream acquired an imaginary power, like a garland of garlic or a nightlight. I thought it probably wasn’t possible to die mid-bite.

  About two weeks before she died, an occupational therapist came to her room. “I see you were a children’s librarian,” she chirped, consulting the chart. “I am a children’s librarian,” replied my mother. “Well,” said the therapist, flustered, “I see your daughter has been feeding you. Do you want to work on eating on your own?” “I like her to feed me,” said my mother. “But I can actually do it myself.” To my surprise, she then demonstrated that she could.

  Even after I knew she could do it herself, I couldn’t stop dishing out those Hoodsie Cups, like they were some kind of sweet miracle drug, and she never stopped me. I loved the reassuring schliiiick of the cardboard lid lifted from the plush ice cream underneath, the miniature wooden spoon that came with each cup.

  I don’t know if it made my mother think of the big, creaky wooden ice cream maker she grew up with, packed with rock salt and chunks of ice. I don’t know if it made her remember taking turns cranking the iron handle in the sticky heat of a Kansas summer, afternoons heavy with the hum of cicadas. I don’t know if it made her remember that barely frozen sweet cream, of licking it directly from the paddle. It’s one of the many questions I never asked her, one of the many things I’ll never know. But I hope it did.

  RECIPE INDEX

  Marinara Sauce and Putting It Up in Jars (from “Yes, We Can: Supporting Our Farmers, Preserving the Harvest,” 137.

  New England Clam Chowder (from “How to Make Real New England Clam Chowder”), 221.

  Monkey Lovin’ Mocha Mouthfuls (from “Cooking with Friends”), 234.

  Mimi Miller’s Long-Lost Gingerbread Cookies (from “The Gingerbread Cookie Reclamation Project”), 243.

  Hortotiropita or, in American English, Greens and Cheese Phyllo Pies (from “Hortotiropita and The Five Stages of Restaurant Grief”), 248.

  Pork Cooked in Milk (from “Lobster Lessons”), 257.

  Poached Eggs with Canadian Bacon on Toast (from “In Susan’s Kitchen”), 366.

  PERMISSIONS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to all those who gave permission for written material to appear in this book. Every effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders. If an error or omission is brought to our notice, we will be pleased to remedy the situation in subsequent editions of this book. For further information, please contact the publisher.

  Martin, Brett. “Good Food Everywhere.” Copyright © 2012 Condé Nast. All rights reserved. Originally published in GQ. Reprinted by permission.

  Clement, Bethany Jean. “The End of Anonymity.” A&P: Seattle Art and Performance Quarterly. Copyright © 2012 by Index Newspapers LLC. Used by permission of Index Newspapers LLC (dba: The Stranger), thestranger.com.

  Kummer, Corby. “Tyranny: It’s What’s For Dinner.” © 2013 The Atlantic Media Co., as first published in The Atlantic. All rights reserved. Distributed by Tribune Media Services.

  Wheelock, Katherine. “Is Seasonal Eating Overrated?” Copyright © 2013 by Katherine Wheelock. Originally appeared in Food & Wine. Used by permission of the author.

  Strauss, Erica. “The Terrible Tragedy of the Healthy Eater.” Copyright © 2012 by Erica Strauss. Used by permission of the author.

  Behr, Edward. “Slow Cooking, Slow Eating.” Copyright © 2013 by Edward Behr. Originally appeared in The Art of Eating. Used by permission of the author.

  McMillan, Tracie. “Cooking Isn’t Fun.” From Slate, August 27, 2012, © 2012 The Slate Group. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.

  Kliman, Todd. “The Meaning of Local.” Copyright © 2013 by Washingtonian Magazine. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Goulding, Matt. “Confronting a Masterpiece.” Copyright © 2012 by Roads & Kingdoms. Used by permission of the author.

  Wells, Pete. “The View from West 12th.” From The New York Times, May 22, 2013, © 2013 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copyng, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.

  Froeb, Ian. “Takaya or Leave Ya: Didn’t New Asian Get Old, Like, Ten Years Ago?” Copyright © 2013 by Riverfront Times. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Shilcutt, Katharine. “I Ate My First McRib, and I Regret It.” Copyright © 2012 by Houston Press. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Barry, Dan. “Back When a Chocolate Puck Tasted, Guiltily, Like America.” From The New York Times, November 17, 2012, © 2012 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copyng, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.

  Jacobsen, Rowan. “Forgotten Fruits.” Copyright © 2013 by Rowan Jacobsen. Originally published in Mother Jones. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Byers Murray, Erin. “Earth Mothers.” Copyright © 2012 by Edible Boston. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Moskowitz Grumdahl, Dara. “The Cheese Artist.” Copyright © 2012 by Minneapolis-St. Paul Magazine. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Watson, Molly. “A Snail’s Tale.” Copyright © 2013 by Edible San Francisco. Used by permission of the publisher.

  O’Donnel, Kim. “Yes, We Can.” © GRACE Communications Foundation. Used with permission.

  Estabrook, Barry. “Hogonomics.” Estabrook, Barry, “Hogonomics,” in Gastronomica, vol. 12, no. 2, Summer 2012. © 2012 by the Regents of the University of California. Published by the University of California Press.

  Kessler, John. “The Upstart Cattleman.” From The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, February 14, 2013, © 2013 The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copyng, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.

  Hayward, Tim. “The Ibérico Journey.” Copyright © 2013 by Financial Times. Used by permission of the author.

  Brouilette, Alan. “Beer and Smoking in Danville, Illinois.” Copyright © 2013 by Blood and Thunder. Used by permission of the author.

  Sula, Mike. “Chicken of the Trees.” Copyright © 2012 by Chicago Reader. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Rinella, Steven. “Tasting Notes: Heart.” From Meat Eater: Adventures from the Life of an American Hunter by Steve Rinella, copyright © 2012 by Steven Rinella. Used by permission of Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Random House, Inc. for permission.

  Shaw, Hank. “An Awful Mercy.” Copyright © 2012 by Hunter Angler Gardener Cook. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Hamilton, Gabrielle. “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner.” Copyright © 2013 Condé Nast. All rights reserved. Originally published in Bon Appétit. Reprinted by permission.

  Lopez-Alt, J. Kenji. “How to Make Real New England Clam Chowder.” Lopez-Alt, J. Kenji. “How To Make New England Clam Chowder.” Copyright © 2013 by SeriousEats.com. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Pollan, Michael. “Step Two: Saute Onions and Other Aromatic Vegetables.” From Cooked by
Michael Pollan, copyright © 2013 by Michael Pollan. Used by permission of The Penguin Press, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  Arnold-Ratliff, Katie. “Cooking with Friends.” Copyright © 2013 by Katie Arnold-Ratliff. Originally published in Tin House. Used by permission of the author.

  Manning, Joy. “The Swedish Chef.” Copyright © 2013 by Table Matters. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Carman, Tim. “The Gingerbread Cookie Reclamation Project.” From The Washington Post, December 11, 2012, © 2012 Washington Post. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.

  Procopio, Michael. “Hortotiropita & the 5 Stages of Restaurant Grief.” Copyright © 2013 by Michael Procopio. Used by permission of the author. Originally appeared on FoodforTheThoughtless.com.

  Crapanzano, Aleksandra. “Lobster Lessons.” From The Cassoulet Saved Our Marriage by Caroline M. Grant and Lisa Catherine Harper, © 2013. Reprinted by arrangement with Roost Books, Boston, MA. www.roostbooks.com.

  Herman, Bernard. “A Bountiful Shore.” Originally published in Saveur. Used with permission of Saveur Copyright © 2013. All rights reserved.

  Swansburg, John. “Empire of the Burning Tongue.” Copyright © 2012 by New York Media LLC. Originally published in New York Magazine, December 3, 2012. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Gold, Jonathan. “The King of Food Trucks Hits Hawaii.” Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Gold. Originally appeared in Food & Wine. Used by permission of the author.

  Barrett, Peter. “Fish & Game.” Copyright © 2013 by Edible Manhattan. Used by permission of the publisher.

  Pang, Kevin. “His Saving Grace.” From Chicago Tribune, 2/14/2013 © 2013 Chicago Tribune. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this Content without express written permission is prohibited.