Health: Walnuts Contain High Amount of Antioxidants

When it comes to antioxidants, you can go nuts. Walnuts, specifically.

A study revealed at the Natioanal Meeting & Exposition of the American Chemical Society showed that walnuts are better for you in the antioxidant department than any other nut. Part of the reason is because they are usually eaten raw before roasting can erode the health benefits, unlike most other nuts.

We're not supposed to worry about the fat, either, because it's the good kind. Apparently you can do with about seven walnuts a day for the health benefits. A story in Science Daily remarks: "As for the calories, eating nuts does not appear to cause weight gain and even makes people feel full and less likely to overeat. In a 2009 U. S. study, nut consumption was associated with a significantly lower risk of weight gain and obesity."

And I know you're going to ask, so I'm just going to say it: Of course you can wrap chocolate chip cookies around your walnuts to help them go down a little easier.

You can read the full Science Daily story here.

Love: How to Help Japan One Sake Sip at a Time

A year ago, I was traipsing around Japan with seven other food writers and our beautiful hosts from JETRO, the Japan External Trade Organization, who wanted to introduce us to the unique food and beverages of their land.

We ate things we'd never imagined, drank new liquors we had no idea existed. We were awed by the Japanese art of living and being. Most remarkable, however, was that we met people who produced the food. A farmer of free-range chickens in the now-decimated Fukushima region that went to bed each night thinking about ways to make his chickens happier. He collected abandoned dogs as sentries, and they all lived in blissful contentment together.

The sweet and spunky septuagenarian woman uncrippled by a terrible cancer who opened her own restaurant in the middle of nowhere, filled with high art and low trinkets. She made the most vile milky sake but some ethereal pickled plums.

A couple who harvest bamboo shoots and roasted them fresh for us. The guy who landed in a small town and decided to learn to make sake. And so, so many others.

All of us from the tour felt so helpless after the devastation in Japan, writing back and forth, trying to find out what happened to the friends we'd made. Then one guy had an idea. W. Blake Gray, a wine writer who had lived in Japan, thought of a small concept that can have huge effect if enough people do it.

Drink Sake Tonight.

If you drink sake tonight, Friday, March 25, you'll be helping sake makers and importers. You'll be helping Japanese establishments in the US who can, in turn, send money back home.

One small sip for mankind.

Kampai.

Rum Balls

You are probably wondering where I am today. Well, I am over at Half-Assed Kitchen with my recipe for Rum Balls!

Enjoy!

Wines from Spain

My story on Bazaar by Jose Andres is in Wines from Spain magazine. It's a magical place and has informed my design sensibility going forward. I love it there. Need to go back!!!

Tequila's stunt double

Looks like bubble bath but it's really the natural color of the red shiso leaf infused in the shochu.

I’m a lucky person, it turns out. So lucky, in fact, that I was invited on a 10-day press trip to Japan, where the good folks of the Japanese External Trade Organization gave me and seven other American writers a crash course in Japanese food, drink and culture.

 

I came away quite captivated by the shochu. It’s versatile – a gritty stunt double for cheap tequila, or an airy, smooth alternative to vodka. A shocking-pink sweet version is flavored by the red shiso leaf; a mellow gold brew with faint coconut aftertaste has been informed by its aging in an oak cask. Shochu is infused with almost any fruit you can think of – my favorites are plum and yuzu, a citrus that’s kind of a cross between a meyer lemon and a grapefruit. >>> READ MORE OF MY STORY AT www.theliquidmuse.com

Noodles, Tokyo style

Orphan Christmas

First Annual Holiday Note to Self:

Each year, you try to have a lower-key Christmas. You try to lessen your waste footprint and do only the things that are meaningful. But it mounts. You think you can get off easy after the note to the friends and family, "Hey, I love you madly. But I am laying low this season and will get back with you in January!" You think you can hibernate and make recycled cards from two years' worth of cards collected for this very purpose. You are humbled that people you haven't spoken with in years still send you cards with their breathtakingly gorgeous and grown up children on them. (Hey! Those teen twins! Weren't they just, like, 2?")

But then Annie, who is your inspiration and laugh-riot girlfriend, comes over and says, "Hey, what do you say we do Nochebuena Thursday night? I bought a ham! Can we do it here? And can I invite a couple artists who don't have anything to do?" And of course you say yes because you would never deny holiday orphans, which, by the way, you are this year for reasons too sad to delve into for this semi-humorous note.

And you go to the store and get a bunch of food to feed other holiday orphans you never met, and you make your fourth batch of rum balls this week (where DID they all go? Hmm?) so you are sure to not run out and so that you can bring some to the OTHER holiday orphan parties this year.

And you sit, scrunched over at your desk, developing a knot like a billiard ball between your shoulders, looking for the exact right funny Santa to cut out from an old card and paste onto a somber religious scene with a peacefully lit tree. Because it is soothing and arty and fun and nobody can tell you that you did it wrong.

And your dog has had a terrible time of it with something too gross to post publicly, and she is sleepy and hungry but you can't feed her per vet's orders, even though she's giving you that WTF look. And you are broke, broke, broke from said vet visit, but relieved that she will be OK for at least another 12 years.

And you remember the Christmastime you got away from it all and spent three months in Southeast Asia, swaying in a hammock on a Thai beach on Dec. 25, listening to Nat King Cole on your Walkman, scoffing at the lights wound round the palm trees. And so, so, alone and sad.

And this, dear Self, is why you are so very grateful to roast beets and clean spinach and go back to Trader Joe's yet again because you forgot the feta and the pecans. To feed people you love and people you never met.

Love,

Vanessa

A half-assed Thanksgiving

Here's my recipe for super easy cranberry sauce, posted by the amazing Angie over at Half-Assed Kitchen. You will never reach for a can of the red stuff again!

My past has caught up with me

For more than 20 years, I worked as a freelance writer. I covered all kinds of things -- schools, health, quirky country folk, crime, politics, oysters, food and art. I was very busy and very comfortable. And then I moved to California. And I was daunted at the prospect of finding new stories from a place where I couldn't even find Target and had to pull over and cry.

So I took a Big Corporate Job. Which has been very good to me, in so many ways.

But there is always the shadow of my freelance self. Sometimes it is large and looming and howling to get out. Sometimes it is a slight sliver that will give a little polite cough every now and then to remind me its there.

Somehow, the good PR people of Sonoma County found it fitting to invite me, based on my past and present freelance work, to a Wine Country Weekend. Yesterday we had a full day -- we began in a vineyard where the complexities of grape-growing were explained. And of course, we tasted a delightful pinot to help illuminate the lecture, and were each given grape knives to learn how to remove the delicate berries from the vine and toss them into a bin. It is the only time that I can think of when drinking wine at 10 a.m. is totally acceptable -- even expected.

And then it was off to the DaVero olive oil folks to learn about olive oil and rose, and because of this, I am forever ruined from my Trader Joe's $5.99 bottle. I also began harboring fantasies about running off to live the Sonoma lifestyle, which apparently includes TWO dogs, a biodynamic farm for chickens, pigs, olives, all vegetables, Meyer lemons and a house my husband and I build ourselves. And in this fantasy, I've let my hair go totally grey and long but I am still HOT and GORGEOUS in my farm dress and wellies. I'm digressing but I don't care, it's my blog.

Then to the MacMurray Ranch, where the intelligent, etherial curly redheaded Kate (the late actor Fred MacMurray's daughter) gave us a tour and sat us down in a redwood grove on the property to teach us about wine and cheese pairing. Which led to an alternate-reality fantasy about curling up under a tall tree, on a soft patch of needles and woodchips, while eating a Humbolt Fog soft goat's milk cheese and pairing with the MacMurray Vintner's Block merlot, and in my culinary bliss, and as I nod off to a nap of undetermined length, coming up with a brilliant idea for a novel that will be optioned for a rock opera.

Then dinner, with a well-known sommelier who pairs wine and movies.

I went to bed, full, happy, slightly queasy and a head full of pitches for my editors.

The 40licious take-away is this: By the time you are 40licious, you've done so much work laying your foundation that it will serve you as you coast along in your future. It's still just about saying yes.

The Sound of Love

The first time I ever tried making jam was in the spring after my dad died. I'd spent the winter getting his house ready. Painting. No less than five garage sales, plus a free-for-all at the end. Getting the floors finished and the mice gone. Screaming in the middle of the night as a bat whipped around the small room where I slept, alone, in the 3,000 square-foot house.

Spring came to Dad's plot of land, which sported a view of Puget Sound and a sliver of rocky gray beachfront and a towering cedar with a family of eagles in it. The warm weather brought out the blackberries that outlined his property, nature's barbed wire. A plum tree he'd planted when we moved there in the 1980s had been bearing lovely fruit for many years at the point -- jewel-toned orbs so bountiful that even those greedy fat crows couldn't take them all. That spring was also when the Californians came to buy the house, at a sad pittance.

One of the last visits I made to Dad's was to pick fruit. I spent the next several days making jam, scouring the instructions from the box of pectin. Plum-ginger jam for Christmas. Blackberry. Blackberry-plum. Plum-blackberry. All told, I ended up with several dozen very successful jars, plus a few that had to be trashed (don't try the all-natural hippie pectin they sell at Whole Foods, unless you like soap-flavored jam). I wanted everyone who came over to try the jam -- but not everyone was jamworthy. Some could only have a smear on a piece of toast. A lucky few could leave with a whole jar.

Now that I live in California, I am privy to people who have fruit trees. Last year it was peaches. This year, my friend Jessica has plums. Millions of them. Maybe even zillions. All from one big tree in her front yard. So I went over there with my empty tyvek Trader Joe's bag and came home with a tyvek Trader Joe's bag groaning with the weight of deep purple plums.

The first batch of my plum-ginger jam is more like sauce that might be OK for BBQ or over ice cream. This mishap was due to what I will admit was operator error. (Do not drink wine and make jam, as you just might skip over a few very important points. Making jam is 98 percent science and 5 percent art and 3 percent overlap). But tonight I tried again, and I could tell that the lovely ruby mix was just the right consistency that it will set beautifully.

As the jam cools, the metal lids make little popping sounds, sealing the jar. It's the sound of love, as I make a mental note of who in my life is jam worthy. I might have to make more.

Following Bliss

So this low-carb thing? There really isn't that much FUN low-carb food.

Almonds? Eh. I'm sure I've poisoned myself by now. I've eaten so much cheese the cows are on strike. And nobody would argue that cauliflower -- even braised in butter and hot sauce, liberally peppered and salted -- could be considered delightful in any way.

And that is why, on this sunny spring afternoon after several hours of IT challenges, I just broke my two-week winning streak with a pint of Ben & Jerry's frozen yogurt, and realized just how much FUN that is to eat.

After all, I'm not sure what happens when our heart stops beating. We might go to the big Sample Sale in the Sky. Or we might lie there and rot. So why not enjoy, at least a little?

Carbo Deloading

Is a low-carb diet any kind of living for someone who's 40licious? Especially when her father was co-author of the Pritikin Program for Diet & Exercise, which advocates no fat, no protein and high complex carbs?

If it means that dinner is half a bag of almonds, two glasses of wine, and The Office and 30 Rock, well then yes. Yes, it is.

Giving up Lent for Lent

Well well, it's that time of year again. Lent. We're really emergency Catholics in our family -- those of us that claim any kind of organized spirituality at all -- and so I can't really say with too much smugger-than-thou-ness that I've done such-and-such for Lent. I've occasionally given up an indulgence here and there, but I always need someone to remind me when Lent is over. I'm going to be all about the Master Cleanse next month, so maybe that will count. I don't really see God as a linear being, she won't mind.

But this year, I just plum forgot. So yes, I will have another glass of wine, thank you.

Change is a Comin'

One thing about 40licious? You get closer to your mother's age, even though, she is, technically, the exact same amount of years older than you than when she had you.

So tonight my friend calls and says, "What are you doing?"
And I say, "I am making a lovely soup."

In all seriousness. In exactly the same earnestness and enthusiasm my mother would.

But you know what? That's completely, absolutely, totally fine with me. And it will be a lovely soup.

ALSO

Keep your eyes peeled -- 40licious will radically be changing soon, upon my 41st birthday in less than two weeks. While we're at it, what do you like about this blog? What could stand to take a hike? All constructively critical comments welcome.

Some Things Are Better Left Undone

Dear World Market,

I currently have, in my possession, an exotic chocolate bar from your fine establishment, which I frequent with great regularity to purchase below-market wine, Indian-patterned table linens, thoughtful gift items, Asian-themed paper lanterns, distressed espresso-finished office furniture, and my Myers natural cleaning solution. I especially love the wide variety of sauces, spices, treats and teas you procure from around the globe. I will admit to being adventurous when it comes to culinary pursuits. I love chocolate and pretzels, chocolate and fruit, chocolate and -- really, almost anything. I nearly developed a combo obsessive-compulsive/eating disorder from your spectacular dark chocolate and sea salt bar. One time I even ate a worm as part of a newspaper story on a guy who ate live worms for their enzymatic properties. (It was gross. It tasted like pine.)

However.

However.

I am writing today about your confection that involves dark chocolate and chipotle chiles. Perhaps it is my karma because it's not exactly mine -- I'd purchased it for someone else. But it was there, in my cabinet. I'd returned from a movie, hungry, and had been slightly off-kilter all day. So I thought I'd perhaps taste-test it.

Oh. My God.

Have you, yourself, tasted this? Or did you outsource it to a third-world country, using a Web-based translation program to discern the notes?

Imagine licking an ashtray from a cheap Reno motel.

Imagine inhaling the vapors of the underwear from Alaskan fishermen at sea for six weeks without showers.

Imagine whatever it is that makes you most prone to retching, concentrated, ground into a fine powder, and mixed into some perfectly innocent dark chocolate.

This was worse.

So, my dear friends at World Market, I beseech you to take this off your shelves. Or just rename it "Dark Chocolate and Ass."

Thank you for your kind attention.

Love,

Vanessa

PS -- to the friend whose chocolate I violated, you're welcome.

Follow the Recipe

One of the most profound lessons I learned this year -- and believe you me, there were a LOT -- was over Christmas. For Christmas Eve dinner, I made bouillabaisse from the New York Times Cookbook, as I have on dozens of occasions before. But this time, instead of using the recipe as a suggestion, I followed the directions to the letter. The result? SPECTACULAR. It was easy, took less than an hour, and the stew was a subtle yet jubilant celebration of seafood in all the right ways. But the true test was the next night, when I made it again for my lifelong French foodie friends, the Gayot family. (Running around LA looking for clam juice on Christmas, however, wasn't easy.) Never shy or retiring (Sophie told me flat out, "Do not bring wine or flowers. But bouillabaisse sounds fun"), they murmured praise in French and English. They loved it. Sophie has finally found a decent bouillabaisse in LA. And so on.

The lesson here? That Craig Claiborne probably knows, oh, a teensy bit more about food and how to make it than I do. It's his job, he's done it for 60 years, and look! He's written down what he knows in a book! Just there waiting for me!

I'm done reinventing the wheel, I think, and will take a good long listen to a professional, no matter what the arena -- food, financial, design, hair, whatever. But when it comes to INVENTING something else, something new, something that is busting to come forth from my deepest psyche, well, then, I'm all over it.

I Am Big In Texas

I'm here in Houston for training and feel somewhat confined to my not-quite-urban neighborhood. So I decide to walk around to get dinner and pick up a few things for folks back home. Best place to do that is a 20-minute stroll down the road to the Galleria, home of Neiman Marcus, Saks', Missoni, Jimmy Choo etc. My boredom and slight annoyance with the homeogenity of it all was dashed to the barnacle-ridden rocks below when I saw that Oceanaire also lived at the Galleria.

Now, when I was a food and travel writer for Sunset and other publications -- this is Seattle circa 2005 -- I did dine at possibly the best fish house in the country, the Oceanaire (and other fine establishments) on a regular basis. The chef there used to make me tuna poke when I asked for it, even though it did not exist on the menu.

So tonight, I practically prance into the place, gushing about what a huge fan I am, and they show me to a table. Franken flops, cargo pants, dumb short hair pulled into a ponytail (I am desperately trying to grow it back, 2000 mgs of MSM a day), no makeup.

But after I ask the busboy to check if the chef will make poke, they switch into celebrity mode. My waiter insists that I try no less than four types of wine. The manger comes over with a little bow and hands me his card and asks if there's anything he can do. The chef comes out and shoots the shit as he hands me my poke. The waiter has me on his radar and gives me his card. The chef comes back after the subsequent courses and gives me his card too.

Did they do a retinal scan?
Did they tap my email to discover that indeed, I am writing for Sunset again?
Did they think I was someone else?

Probably, but I can't imagine who.

Regardless, tonight I fall asleep full and happy in my Heavenly Bed (TM).

Because in the state of Texas, I am alone and a star.

I May Move In With My Mother

Contractor shows up only sporadically these days. Still no water in kitchen, washing the few dishes I use in the bathtub. Dust is everywhere. My dog is pooping dust, I fear. Maybe it's good for her, I don't know.

Today I came home to find:

• kitchen cabinet doors on and painted the exact shade I wanted (good)
• outlets in kitchen and office blown out and not working (bad)
• workers thought enough to plug fridge into bedroom outlet with extension cord (good)
• attempted to put food back in finished cupboard but new door doesn't open right (bad)
• frozen lasagne! (good)
• outlet for microwave and oven is out, I forgot (bad)
• Kite Runner arrived on Netflix (good)
• Ate crackers and tapenade for dinner (bad)
• My Race for the Cure pledges are up to more than $1,200! (AMAZING!)
  
• Nat and SG and Connie call and force me to come out for late-night party in Los Feliz (I love my friends so much)

HOWEVER, the evening was redeemed when Angie turned me on to my new favorite time-waster, CAKE WRECKS, a blog about horrible professional cakes. This kind of blog, ladies and gents, is what makes our nation great.

Um, somebody has to cut into this, eventually. Hello? McFly?

A Dog's Life

This weekend I needed to get out of the house. It's about two weeks into chaos due to my kitchen remodeling, and at this late date, I am still insecure about my choice of countertop. I am closest to deciding on the granite that looks like early-morning television snow (if you are under 35, go ask your parents what this is), but I am still, ugh. I don't know. I had an anxiety dream about it last night.

So I packed up into the car for a vacation designed around LuLuBelle, the beagly mutt. Dog-friendly hotel. Hound-lovin' beaches. Porches for pooches. We drove up the coast to San Luis Obispo.

After looking after Lucy for 12 years or so, she still makes me laugh every day. And there are some things I learned from her in the past 72 hours.

Such as:

1. Act like you are running for mayor, all the time. Expect that everyone will love you. 99 percent of the time, people will. The remaining 1 percent, they will be a little bit afraid. That's not such a bad thing.
2. A nap is always better after a long hard run on the beach.
3. Insist on the long hard run on the beach.
4. Who's the loser? The dog who chases the ball, or the person that keeps throwing it, saying, "get it, get it, get it! Who's getting the ball? It's my ball. My ball." I'd say the latter. Especially when you decline to chase the ball.
5. There is nothing more perfect than a restaurant in Morro Bay that lets the dog hang out on the deck, listening to a folky singer warble kd lang tunes, while the people eat barbecued oysters and drink brown beer, watching the sun go down. Nothing in the world.

Law of Attraction

Last night, just as I sheepishly popped a couple two-year old frozen Trader Joe's burritos into the oven, my neighbor Mia called and invited me over for a beautiful salmon dinner.

My cousin Dan (I actually have TWO cousin Dans, but this is the crankier one) hates it when I talk about the Universe (and toxin cleansing), but I think the Universe (and Mia) really pulled through for me. And by eating the GOOD dinner, I completely avoided having to cleanse any toxins.

I love when things work out that way. Thanks, Universe! And Mia!