Last Breaths of Portland

It's 4:30 pm and I'm queen of the unpacked boxes a moat of shite and I'm hungry. Gallant internet to the rescue; a search of "old school burgers Portland" yielding in a rejoicing chant of "Stanich's, Stanich's!"  20 minutes and a bike ride later.

Sometime you know.  You walk into a place and you just know.  I knew.
"PBR, cheeseburger with a side of fries, please"
Then this:
 
Good Lord.
Hands down, one of the best burgers ever.  No brioche, Kobe-milk-fed-hand-massaged, carmelized nonsense— just one carefully crafted burger.  Toasted top and bottom, even shmear of ballpark mustard and house-made sauce, oozy cheese, lettuce, tomato and onion.  That's it.  So impressed I introduced a friend 2 days later just to have seconds.  He ordered "The Special" an excessive contender topped with an egg, ham, and bacon weighing in at a reasonable $6.  So if you happen to find yourself in the ol' hood:

Stanich's
4915 NE Fremont Street
Portland, OR 97213
(503) 281-2322

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A Trek in the Park: the land of make-believe

It's 4 pm and I'm an hour early and the best spots are already taken.  I squeezed into a grassy patch front row stage left at Woodlawn Park's 2nd annual Trek in the Park, essentially a Star Trek play.  Today's episode: Space Seed.

Let me start by saying *gulp* I'm not exactly a fan of Star Trek.  But I 've always liked Spock's style and was curious, so I went.  This is what I found:

A gal who belts an impressive theme song. 

Spock and Captain Kirk.  Kirk seated in a chair very similar to these.  Other inventive props (enhancement via audience imagination) included a door frame establishing 'the Bridge' and painted retro kitchen chairs carried onstage by the actors.  Teleportation is apparently very simple process requiring standing very still and a request to Scotty to cue shimmering music, y voila arrival to your distant planet.

The scene was festively summer.  In the crowd, some sported homemade Starfleet uniforms, others munched on tamales and pasta salads.  I sat next to McCoy's dad a we chatted about the turn out and  the well trained agility dog running through the park.  Later a roller girl with rainbow-striped tights would climb a tree to get a better seat.   We all came for one purpose— to watch adults pretend they were on a mission in space.  I'm sure we did Mr. Rogers proud.

almost

Found this little lump tucked behind my car before a bike ride.

Caffeine Inspired Simple Sandwich

We stopped into little t american baker, a bakery/cafe in the Southeast today for a drip of caffeine and sweet treat. 

A cappuccino for Eddy

an espresso for me and a sweetly wrapped baguette for later.

Speaking of sweet, how could we resist this charming fellow.  He's a baked cinnamon doughnut, hole included.  We ate him to a Temper Trap serenade:


We picked up some housemade prosciutto at nearby Laurelhurst Market.  At home, we added a leaf of lettuce a few grinds of pepper and had an exquisitely simple lunch.

Curious and Hungry

Part of the fun of moving to a new city is unearthing its treasures and for me there's no better way to find my bearings than with my belly. The last few years, my love of good eats has led me to banal trolls of the "international" aisles in Missoula, to digging up steamers near Point Judith, to lunar landscapes in search of morels, to chatting up the Portuguese fellow selling fish out his truck; all over map I've been, thanks to a hungry belly and thoughts of I wonder...

Moving to Portland has been no different and I've been basking in the accessible Asian provisions namely from a gem of a grocery store/mall called Fubonn. Typical by Californian standards, Fubonn is large supermarket flanked by several small specialty shops catering to the Asian community. Need a cell phone? Tailored chi pao? 24 karat gold bracelet for your nephew's new son? Huge marble dragon? No problem, Fubonn 'N Friends gotcha covered.

After shopping at Fubonn's on Sunday I came home armed with banh mi makings. Banh mi (pronounced BUN-me) is the classic Vietnamese sandwich born of French colonization. There are infinite takes on banh mi, but the standard is typically composed of a lightly toasted baguette, a thin layer of sliced meat, a pile of sweet and tangy carrot/daikon pickles, a few sprigs of cilantro, sliced chilies, and a light shmear of pate. Fusion food never taste so good and here's how you do it:

Homemade Banh Mi
a hoagie sized baguette preferably with a thin crisp crust
thinly sliced deli meat (headcheese & cha lua are traditional, use what you have)
pickled carrots/daikon *see recipe below this can also be purchased
a few sprigs of cilantro
chilies, sliced
pate If you can't find the Vietnamese version use the French variety found in the deli case
mayonnaise
Sriracha hot sauce

Cut the baguette in half lengthwise and very lightly toast. Spread a light layer of pate to one half of the bread and if you like, mayo on the other. Add a thin layer of meat. Top with a generous pile of carrots/daikon, cilantro, and chilies. Eat.

Do Chua, Carrots & Daikon Pickles
1 large carrot, cut into matchsticks
an equal amount of daikon, cut into matchsticks
2 T. sugar
1/3 C. rice vinegar
1/2 t. salt

Place veggies in a non-reactive bowl. In a separate bowl mix remaining ingredients until sugar and salt are dissolved, pour over veggies. Marinate for at least one hour before serving or store in a glass container for up to 4 weeks.

Sunday Drive: Desperately Seeking Chanterelle

It's wet here, really wet.
But one of the perks of living in perpetual dampness is that it provides the perfect conditions for our favorite fungal friends; mushrooms. Last Sunday we took a drive out to Tillamook State Forest to search for the delicately flavored chanterelle. Both our local Whole Foods and farmer's market confirmed chanterelles were in season, so we read up on them and went a huntin'.

The day started off slowly with gray skies overhead but brightened as we found our first few.

In the end we collected a sizable stash, enough for me to whip up our favorite mushroom pie. The recipe below is an adaptation of one I found years ago in the comprehensive Sundays at the Moosewood cookbook which calls for a sour cream and butter crust but I've substituted my stand-by tart crust recipe with no complaints.

Welcome to Oregon Chanterelle Tart
1 tart pastry recipe see Oh So Good Cherry Tomato Tart recipe or use any savory pie dough

6-8 C. fresh mushrooms Use what you have on hand I usually like to mix it up portabello, crimini, dried morels, white button, chanterelles...
3-4 big shallots, minced
1 T. butter
8 oz. cream cheese
1 t. dried thyme or Herb de Provence
lots of freshly ground black pepper
1/2 t. Kosher salt

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the crust dough and pat it into a deep tart/pie pan, cool in refrigerator until ready to fill. To prepare the filling, melt butter in a large frying pan on medium heat. Add shallots and saute until translucent. Add herbs, then mushrooms and turning up heat to medium-high. Cook the mushrooms down until most of the moisture is absorbed. Cut the cream cheese into chunks and melt into the mushroom mixture. Season with salt and pepper and allow the mixture to cool 10-15 minutes before filling tart. Spread mushroom mixture into shell place into preheated oven. Bake 25-35 minutes until crust and top are golden. This pie is rich so serve it with a light salad.

Is There a Doctor In The House?

It's always good to have a doctor in the family or a mechanic. Flashback to Thursday, while dropping off books at the library my car began dry heaving in idle. Crap. I drove straight home (several blocks) and watched the thermostat climb while from beneath the hood wisps of steam puffed suspiciously like smoke from girls' bathroom. Crap. At home, a quick look in under the hood revealed a massacre of neon coolant. Crap.

So I did as I always do with anything car related I called my little brother, my own guru of cars. He's earned his title from years of tinkering (or as he says wrenching) with cars which includes his current Subaru where he's performed a minor engine swap and started a small business modifying intakes and exhausts. I mean this kid pays to spend a sleepless night driving in a road rally for entertainment. Credentials aside, I requested a telephone consultation. The diagnosis: an absolutely fixable repair, likely a cracked hose or radiator, after inspecting for faulty parts replace them, conventional shop costs: $300, herbal DIY remedy: $100-150. The home remedy will take some time but scores low on scale of difficulty meaning the risk of screwing up anything major was fairly low. Being the parsimonious gal I am and my penchant for learning how-to-do pretty much anything, the decision was an easy one; let's do it.

A salvage yard sold me a replacement radiator for $75 and we picked up a pair of jack stands and some coolant. Today we woke to gorgeous weather a lovely site after a few days of gloom and it was all around good juju for our swap. We spent a good part of the day under the car, much to the chagrin of our neighbors many of which, drove by with expressions of bewilderment and perhaps disapproval at the site of a car on stands in the street. What will become of our property values? We just smiled and waved.



Eddy was in charge of the camera today and decided to take a picture that incorporated a rather unflattering shot of my lower back, thus my friend Photoshopped Crow. This was the only shot of the car so I included it, back and all.

I like to think that I'm a fairly capable gal but this job would've been impossible without Eddy,for as strong as I like to think I am, I would have never gotten the hoses off (or back on for that matter) I simply don't have the brawn. Eventually, with a lot contorting punctuated with deep grunts we got the new radiator into her new home and with fingers-crossed we took a test drive. We were rewarded with a steady engine temperature and a feeling of satisfaction that comes with acts of I-did-it-myself-AND-it-worked. Thanks to the Edo's muscle, little bro's brain and the smoky grease monkey who sold me the radiator my car has recovered. In other news that same little brother of mine will soon fill the other "good to have in the family" role as he's well on his way to medical school. I'm so stinking proud.

Old Farts, Sunday Drives, & Demonstrating Near and Far

You should see us on Sundays. We transform into twinkly-eyed geriatric farts complete with snacks, a basket, and public radio; out for a leisurely country drive. Last week took us to Sauvie Island, a bucolic wildlife sanctuary 25 miles north of town where we met some cattle.

It's funny, how prior to living in Montana I would've called these guys cows but the West has taught me a bit of animal husbandry namely, that cow is a gender specific term. And this fellow was certainly not a girl, thus the proud moniker of steer: castrated male.

As we walked along the trail, these wee little frogs hopped into the nearby grasses to avoid being trampled beneath feet. How stinking cute.

This Sunday we headed to the beach. Yes, I said beach. As a native West coaster I've always referred to the combination of sand and ocean as such, but stood corrected upon moving to the other coast, where the term is apparently the shore. Right. At any rate our return to the beach reminded me of Eddy's days in Santa Cruz.*Cue Peaches & Herb* Here he is (unintentionally) doing his version of my favorite Grover lesson Near and Far.



I leave you with this.

Happy Sunday!

Nutz

Chestnuts remain one of my favorite nuts. I associate them with so many fond bits of autumn days past; of grandma patiently peeling them at Thanksgiving; or my kid brother's attempts at extracting a pristine nut; or my poppa's winning smile home from work a bag heavy with nuts. Available for a short time of the year chestnuts were a childhood marker of the transition into winter and the holidays to come.

But memories aside chestnuts are simply stinking good eats. At their best they're flavor is subtle and sweet and unlike most tree nuts they're starchy in texture more akin to a potato rather than a peanut. The month-long harvest begins in mid-September and ends by the mid to late October and I recently discovered on the return from a neighborhood run, they grow here in Portland. The inedible horse chestnut also grows here who's hull is reminiscent of a medieval flail, a contrast to the sweet chestnut's full head of spikes.


A search of "urban foraging in Portland" yielded Urban Edibles a comprehensive site with a map flagging all sorts of edible eats growing on both private and public lands. I set my sights on neighborhood Laurelhurst Park where trees on public lands wait a mere two blocks from our house. A drive-by recon mission would reveal that the neighborhood trees were already claimed turf. Two Chinese grannies well padded beneath layers of quilted vests stood sentry, one wielding a stick, the other wrist crossed at the small of her back, both guarding and waiting for falling nuts. Public lands you say, I know but we all know no one stands a chance against Chinese grannies in vests.

So Eddy and I consulted our map that told of another patch located in a cemetery and that's where we struck pay dirt.

We had so much fun hunting for these guys! While scanning the ground for fallen nuts we kept our ears perked for an audible; a crack, a shuttering leaves, then a delay followed by a solid dull thump and hop. The final thud is the kind of sound that elicits deep tireless satisfaction, like a weighty pebble tossed into a pond or the sucking pop of an extracted cork. I left the quiet cemetery with its giant trees and eroding stones feeling satiated; my basket heavy with memories and nuts.

Found

I'm back.
I blame my three-week hiatus on messiness involved in relocating to house #33 location: Portland, Oregon. Yes, we've moved yet again but this time we hope for a longer stint in the Pacific Northwest. A brief synopsis of our last weeks include; a comical dance with a 45-pound-ill-fitting trailer hitch; a finale fire in our beloved fire pit along with bowls of homemade huckleberry sorbet; a weekend yard sale; hours of head scratching moments of Where did all of this crap come from? chased with mad packing; highly unrecommended chlorine aromatherapy; repeated shuttles to local booksellers and the Goodwill; and a mind-numbing 12-hour night drive to the place we now call home.

And now that we've been here a week it's beginning to feel like home. Our little house is situated in the historic neighborhood of Laurelhurst right off the main drag of Burnside Street, the divider of the north and southeast regions. All this means is were relatively centrally located with the quiet perks of neighborliness. A portrait of the workhorses:

Now imagine the Jeep towing an overburdened 5' x 8' U-haul trailer Edo as pilot, following the taillights of a road weary red Civic. In the pace car, podcasts of arcane history about the Tuskegee airmen, Blackbeard, Bonnie and Clyde and a paper mache deer strapped in the front seat. The backdrop of night peppered with a few broken walkie-talkie chats and you have our Missoula-Portland trek in a nutshell. Welcome Home.