Did you know that mangoes are a part of the same plant family as poison ivy, oak and sumac? I just found this out recently, and in quite an unpleasant way. Apparently, a lot of people have allergic reactions to mangoes, especially from contact with the skin of the fruit. I got a lip rash a few weeks ago, blamed it on my nasty petroleum-based chap stick, and moved on. But I went and bought mangoes again at the grocery store, and lo and behold, I can already feel the lip itch begin. Damn it. Here's the
Wikipedia article about it. I basically have poison ivy on my lips.
This is really a mixed blessing for me--on the one hand, at least I know what has been causing this horrific and painful rash, but on the other hand, I probably won't have much of a taste for mangoes from now on. It would probably be possible to eat them occasionally if I was careful about the peel, but honestly the rash ruins all food (and romance) for me for about a week, so it's really not worth the risk. I've been so sensitive to foods since my little detox experiment, so I certainly won't be tempting fate with risky foods right now. (even regular old pizza makes me want to barf!)
So I guess this is goodbye forever, Mango, you sweet juicy poisonous treat. I'll miss you, but I suppose a smoothie made with other, gentler fruits will taste almost as good without you.
Some other kinks in the kitchen this week--I seem to be short on forks, I always run out of them first; my sink is leaking something fierce, and it's all full of dirty dishes; but mostly my new hotel job has been leaving me tired and achy (but not too hungry, so I guess it balances out!)
I've never worked in a hotel before, but in the past 4 days I've done some neat stuff. Plating salads and making Panna Cotta for a banquet of 150. I also helped as part of an assembly line of cooks plating the entrees--I somehow ended up as the person slapping a bloody dripping chunk of prime rib up against a rounded scoop of rice, trailing the copious blood between the pan and the plates, and side to side around myself as I slid the plates down. Panna cotta was definitely more pleasant than that, despite how much of the creamy custard mix clotted in the bottom of the huge, drum-like pot while I scooped it out by the pitcher, pouring it into dainty cosmopolitan glasses. Once set, they were elaborately topped, and finished off with a crispy triangle of bunuelo.
Banquet be damned, I came so close to snatching one and gobbling it while hiding inside the freezer! I may have to add panna cotta to my dessert file, just to toss it in the mix should I ever need to make a dessert. I've been systematically copying recipes down from all over the internet, and from all of my magazines and cookbooks (I know, it's going to take forever!) and I recently found myself 10 pages deep in pies in an issue of Gourmet from last summer. Being the finger-licking berry-lover that I am, I couldn't resist writing down all 9 or 10 recipes. You should've seen the pictures, it made me feel all bright and summery already. If I'm lucky, the price of berries will dip a little later, but for now, I guess I've gotta stick with the frozen stuff.
Speaking of frozen stuff, I made a wonderfully flavorful vegetable stock the other day, mostly from frozen vegetable scraps that I've been saving. And I'm pretty sure that my laziness played a big role in the big flavor of this rich, brown vegetable stock. First, I threw every spare trimming in the pot that I could find--I trimmed the woody ends off of some asparagus and broccoli, tossed in 2 tomatoes, smashed 3 huge garlic cloves, and added the stems from a pound of shiitake mushrooms, plus 4 dried shiitake caps. All of this in addition to the usual mirepoix (a fancy French term for onions, carrot, and celery) and bouquet garni (bay leaves, peppercorns, herb stems) that come standard for any type of stock.
I let the stock come slowly up to a simmer while I cooked dinner, and then totally forgot about it while watching Lost after dinner. By the time I remembered it, the stock had reduced halfway, and some smushy vegetables were now sticking out of the liquid like bones. By then, it was bedtime, so I put a lid on the pot and stuck it in the refrigerator, still in the pot, veggies and all. It sat steeping like this all night long, and I finally drained it at 7am the next morning before I left for work.
From a full stockpot, I ended up with only 6 cups of velvety brown mushroom-flavored stock, enough for one dinner for two of humble vegetable soup, but let me tell you that the flavor of this soup was far from humble. I further flavored the broth with red onion and garlic, some reduced sherry wine, the juice of 2 lemons, and a generous flourish of parsley. Then I filled the pot with white beans and all the bright green spring veggies I could find--asparagus, broccoli, zucchini, and peas. We had some warm, crusty buttered bread for dipping, and this simple soup came alive in our mouths.
As I greedily slurped down the last bit, drooling while trying to strain the little garlic chunks and excess parsley with my teeth, I reflected how mediocre this soup would have been had I used the canary yellow vegetable stock from the carton that I normally buy. Sure, this pot took a week or so to compose from scraps, and even at that probably cost more than the $2.99 for the yellow stuff; but gods, the dark clarity of the broth and the rich, herby, almost sweet flavor were worth that amount, however much it was!
I know that soup recipes often tell you that home made broth is preferable to packaged or powdered kinds, and while I agree, I don't always heed their suggestions. It's just simply easier to buy the carton than it is to watch that pot for an hour or two, strain it all out, and then find extra tupperware for storage. But I think I may have learned my lesson this time around; and although this soup is very much gone and digested, I'm already fantasizing about the next savory pot of home made broth.
