So, remember back in the spring, when Filly Film Cult threw our most successful micro-film festival to date: The Quickie: An Evening of Disappointing Porn? If only someone had been running a camera while CH and I made Pork Adobo and Masta Khair and Pornographically Good Macaroni & Cheese, that would have made a great entry for next year’s Quickie. If you’re an instinctive and happy cook (like CH), then all of these recipes are awesome. If you’re make-the-recipe-exactly-as-it’s-written-with-exact-measurements cook (like me), plus you’re suffering from morning sickness, and don’t really feel like you can stand up for a long time, then you might have some problems. Originally CH was supposed to made the Macaroni and I was in charge of the Pork Adobo. I managed to get the meat all cut up and into the pan for its first half-hour soak, but I constantly found myself stymied by anything-goes instructions like, “add some more water and soy sauce.” I had never thought of myself as uptight before, but apparently I am when it comes to cooking. “How much more? I don’t know!” I kept saying until CH threw in enough water to submerge the pork and a lot of shakes of low-sodium soy sauce. I was worried about the sauce being low-sodium and the pork butt actually being pork shoulder, b/c the grocery store didn’t have Boston pork butt and CH looked it up on his iPhone and they said pork shoulder was a good substitution. Also, I nearly fainted while standing over the hot stove, trying to brown all pieces. How did pregnant slaves work out in the fields under these conditions back in the day? That led to a discussion about how they were probably younger and stronger than me and...

So yesterday, we went grocery shopping for a big experiment of cooking all of the recipes tha Roya has featured on Fierce Foodie. The main difference between Roya and me I found — other than her being a great cook, and me just being a mediocre one — is that she actually likes the process of cooking. A lot. All of her recipes call for things like freshly chopped tomatoes (with admonishments not to used canned) or onions or hand-grated cheeses or meats lovingly cut into chunks. I, on the other hand, have never met a pre-chopped vegetable or a can of diced tomatoes (they come in so many convenient varieties!) that I didn’t love. Actually buying tomatoes to chop up seemed gross, and  made me a little queasy as I imagined the mess they would make on my cutting board. I plain old ignored her directive on the onions and just got them pre-chopped. And the only reason we’re having asiago in the macaroni, and not all shredded (though the recipe calls for grated) cheddar is because CH agreed to grate it himself. He’s a nice guy. Though, not so nice, when we were standing at the meat counter, waiting for the butcher. “What do we need from the butcher?” he asked. He used to trust me when I deviated from my usual routines, but that trust has died a little every day that he has actually gotten to know me, and I’m afraid that he’s learned the hard way to always ask, when he’s confused about something I’m doing. Me: I’m seeing if the butcher can cut the Boston pork butt into chunks for me. Him: Are you kidding? Me: (seriously confused) No, he might do it. You don’t know. Him: (leading...

. A blogumn by Roya Hamadani As a child I never needed to check the expiration labels in my mother’s pantry.  But now as a returning adult, I find that a walk through her hoard is a stroll through the Museum of Old Food.  Cake mix boxes are yellowed with age and smell of mildew, while the date stamps have faded off the cans.  On one trip home I found a hefty glass bottle of Heinz ketchup.  This was long after the switch to plastic.  Instead of the usual cheery red this ketchup was dark brown like the color of old blood.  I could find no expiration date, but the washed out label did offer me a chance to win tickets to the Superbowl – for the year 1982. When I approached my mother with the over twenty-year-old condiment, she told me not to throw it away because she could still cook with it.  Cook what? I asked.  What recipe calls for 60 oz of ancient ketchup?  I eventually made her admit that vinegar does not confer immortality, and that even if you heat something for a very long time and at a very high temperature, you can not through sheer force of will compel it to be edible again. Quite simply, my mother has become a collector of food.  She simultaneously practices frugality and over-consumption, which translates into the buying of a lot of cheap stuff.  She especially stockpiles the food of a simpler time, that which must have larded the shelves of bomb shelters: kidney beans, chickpeas, canned tomatoes, corned beef, canned tuna and condensed soups, as well as her all-time favorite and my childhood nemesis, Vienna sausages.  She is a victim of culinary nostalgia. But I can’t be too hard on...

. A tasty blogumn by Roya Hamadani Okay, so here it is: my best recipe.  This is my shining star, the dish that generates rave reviews from everybody who has tasted it, the dish that elicits cries of joy due to its sheer awesomeness.  I almost can’t believe I’m sharing it.  Maybe it’s the cold I’ve had for three weeks running that’s making me so generous.  Right now all I can savor is lozenge de menthol.  Somebody else ought to put their taste buds to good use. Now to happier thoughts:  I first ate something like this dish at a Peruvian restaurant called La Feria, which, if you are ever in Pittsburgh you should definitely, definitely try.  (Besides serving a fresh and constantly changing daily menu, it’s also artisan gallery of Peruvian handiwork so you can shop while you wait for your food – two great activities in one.)  I loved the crunch of the roasted peanuts and the sweetness imparted by the tender raisins, all plumped up with pan juices.  But it was the combination of flavors in the dish I had never before tasted that made me hungry to know more.  Later research revealed a curious blend of basil, cumin, and cinnamon with perhaps my favorite ingredient of all time, parmesan cheese. Dried basil, cumin and cinnamon – this unlikely grouping is the crux of the dish. Basil, native to Iran, has been used in cooking for 5,000 years.  Cumin from India entered Spanish cuisine via Arab rule in the 15th century.  Cinnamon, also native to India, has been known since 2000 B.C. and made its appearance in Europe during the Middle Ages.  Cumin and cinnamon I have often used together in Indian curries; it was the basil that was the key,...

. A blogumn by Roya Hamadani I’ve spent the last three days visiting family in Boston, sharing shrimp toast and candy apples and barbecued ribs.  For gastronomic adventuring I can think of no better partner than my sister.  One taste and she can accurately predict my reaction – “You won’t like this cannoli, it’s got anise in the cream” – and my visits with her consist of epic culinary tours of all her favorite haunts and newest discoveries.  The highlight of this go-around had to be the mob Italian restaurant that served her a mounded platter of seafood and linguini in spicy red sauce that would have fed a family of five.  As my sister peered over the tower of mussel shells and squid rings before her, I thought, “There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now.” At breakfast yesterday morning my sister’s brother in law asked for his left over cereal milk to be used in his coffee, launching us all on an extended fantasy in which “Uncle Drew’s Own Cereal Milk” outsold every creamer on the market.  According to our collective vision the logo pictures a bespectacled Drew smiling in his pajamas, milk dripping off his stubble, with a tagline that reads, “Made only with organic milk, natural sweeteners, and Drew’s own spit.”  It all ends in scandal after the emergence of a video showing Chinese factory workers chewing lactate by the handful and eating from huge vats of cereal which pour off the milky dregs into Drew’s bottles. Food love is a special love.  It is exponentially increased when you eat in the company of those you adore.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a frozen waffle or a chocolate Florentine, just find somebody you love and share a...

. A blogumn by Roya Hamadani FOOD FETISH A few weeks ago I went to my favorite kind of estate sale, the kind of sale where the treasured hoard of a lifetime shut-in is boxed up and marked with masking tape only to be pawed over by the curious and covetous.  This time the former occupant was a woman who had obviously spent most of her waking life watching QVC, and the rest ordering book club selections, the result of which was a cheap crockery collection and a library of about two thousand hard cover, glossy, full-color culinary tomes.  Cooking of the South, cooking of Spain, cooking inspired by Renaissance paintings, she had it all, and now so could we for 2 bucks a book.  What she didn’t have was any sign of cooking utensils, pots or pans.  Her kitchen was a tiny, unused affair, the ancient stove dusty with disuse. “She never cooked,” said a woman who was her neighbor, “never once in her life.”  This, I thought, was a notable thing. How many of us can stand up and say, “Yes, I admit it!  I like to eat instant macaroni and cheese while flipping through gourmet magazines!” Or perhaps you munch on cold cereal while reading about stuffed salmon pinwheels or triple chocolate mousse cake with extra dark ganache.  Me personally, I can’t say no to good glossy photos of brined turkey as I enjoy my peanut butter and jelly.  It’s food voyeurism, and it’s okay, you are not alone. Food voyeurism is what happens when you love good food, but have not the time, the talent, the tools, or frankly the inclination to spend hours making it yourself. Restaurants are pricey, so you do the next best thing.  You eat exotica...

So, Kelli Bielema, one our Fierce and Nerdy contributors, sent me the following urgent message yesterday: . Ugh. Who is the gal who did the To Google or not To Google article? This is upsetting!!! A site that can let you know who is Googling you. YIKES!!!!!!!! —— Well, Kelli, that gal was actually me. Read the original article here. . The link that she sent directs you to a local new story about a Ziggs.com, a social networking site, that allows you to see not only who googles you, but also where they live (complete with satellite pics) and what time they looked you up. . But before you panic, and decide to stop looking up your ex every month or so, try www.11mm.info. This is a site that allows you to anonymously use the Google search engine. So it’s pretty easy to foil Ziggs. Let cyber-stalking continue. . That all said, lots of Wow! Nerd Culture for you today. And make double-sure to catch Roya’s macoroni & cheese recipe at 1pm. Totally worth coming back for — unless you’re lactose intolerant. In that case, you might want to skip that...

. A blogumn by Roya Hamadani One thing about being half of one thing and half of another is that I’ve quite never fit into either camp very nicely. I keep getting little things wrong, or I should say little things to me, but apparently huge clues to other people.  However there are culinary benefits to a dual heritage, especially one as varied as mine. While Philippine cuisine relies heavily on pork and garlic, Iranian food is pork-less and nearly garlic free.  And while Filipinos prize balut, the nearly fully developed embryo of a duck eaten whole, the Persians love a good grilled lamb testicle. The result of this gastronomical dichotomy was that we often had two dinners on the table.  My mother ate her pork dishes, while my father ate his Persian stews of meat and vegetables, known as khoresh.  Rice was the land bridge between them. Me, I ate it all. And what I discovered can only be described as divine. My gastronomic breakthrough, made purely by chance, combines all the goodness of adobo, whose fatty cubes of pork are caramelized by frying and then stewed until fork tender in a refreshingly acidic mixture of vinegar, soy sauce, garlic and bay leaf, with masta khiar, a Persian yogurt dish of shredded seedless cucumber, salt and pepper and pinch of dried mint. Put it all over rice, the great communicator, and just like that, you have reached heaven. The fresh crunch of cucumber and the tangy yogurt cut the richness of the pork to create a transcendental taste much bigger than the sum of its parts.  It is manna, baby. And it’s this kind of moment, more than anything else, that makes me not only happy to be half and half, but a...