"If I can go that distance, you see, and that bell rings and I'm still standin', I'm gonna know for the first time in my life, see, that I weren't just another bum from the neighborhood." -Rocky

Recently, I did a lot of thinking about the cultural and geographical importance of food. Where we live, who we live with and around, and what we eat help define who we are. Obviously, this takes place on a grandiose scale and manifests itself in a whole host of really awful chain restaurants and brings to light some broad ethnocentric questions (What does "Qdoba" mean in Spanish? What does the P.F. in P.F. Chang's stand for? Does everyone in Australia wear khaki?)

But it takes place on a much smaller, regional scale right here in our own backyards. What sociologists refer to as "urban neighborhoods" have defined human behavior since early civilization. In these areas, residents seek to socialize youth, maintain social control, and, more often than not, share common values, traditions, and culture, such as music, religion, and cuisine.

Philadelphia, especially, is a city made up of neighborhoods. Second only to "Eagles fan" and "Phillies fan," Philadelphians often define themselves in the context of their geographical location. "Northern Liberties," and "Fishtown," denote a much different (and often smellier) demographic than "Rittenhouse" or "Queen's Village."

I have recently myself become a "South Philadelphian," and along with a two bedroom home, walk-in closet, and basement washer and dryer unit, also adopted the cultural context, and plenty of hackneyed "Yo Adrienne" jokes which came along with my new neighborhood. I find this endearing, and have decided to fully embrace it.

How, you may ask?

Step One: Pimp my 2'x2' concrete backyard.

Well, not really "pimp" it, but at least let everyone know that I am a die-hard Eagles fan (I'm not), I bleed green (I don't) and that I would sell my kidney on the black market to sit on the 50 yard line and dump my beer on a Cowboys fan right before I beat the crap out of him in front of his kid. Or his grandkid.  

Step Two: Hit up the CVS on 10th and Passyunk and round out your collection of "Horses Thundering Across The Ocean" paraphernalia with this blanket, designed to be, what I suspect, is an exact replica of something off the set of Rocky III. It is honestly, the best $2.50 we have ever spent





This week on MTV's Cribs...



The last step was going to be a bit trickier.  

See, this is the view of Cheesesteak Vegas from our house:

Seriously. Walk out our front door and inhale and you, too, can experience the sweet smell of fried onions and tourists in the morning. Last week, we walked outside and the line at Pat's wrapped around the entire building twice. Twice! Because who comes to Philadelphia and doesn't eat a cheesesteak? And yet here I was, masquerading as a South Philadelphian, never having had one.

Honestly, I never really got too stuck on it before. I didn't really think I was missing out. In college, my roommates used to get drunk and bring back Larry's cheesesteaks at 3:00 AM, and it never really smelled like something that I wished was gluten free. The cheese wiz was all congealed and a gross orange color that even I would be questioning of, and the meat was always a curious shade of gross. I mean, with all do respect to everyone who gets wasted and craves greasy mystery meat deviously nestled in a day old bun- I'm sure the grill drippings do wonders at slowing down your Blood Alcohol level, but I just didn't feel...well, jealous.

But when you see and smell something every single day, you tend to become a bit curious. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't curious enough to take the plunge and commit glut-icide just to eat mass produced meat crap (Revelation: I think I may actually be evolving into someone with a pseudo-adult palate), but when Paesano's ran a cheesesteak special, I had to order one.

Their sandwich, the "Gizmobocuz" officially puts all of the other cheesesteaks (yes, none of which I have actually eaten, but have certainly smelled and seen smashed on my sidewalk, so I feel comfortable making a blanket declaration here) to shame. I mean, Holy. Shit. It is a rib eye cheesesteak with bits of chopped salami mixed in, slathered in garlic mayo and cheddar herb spread, warm roasted tomatoes, sauteed onions, and broccoli rabe. If that isn't enough to have you salivating over your keyboard, it is all glued together by warm, gooey, delicious melted provolone. And, it's all on a gluten free bun.

I really think that the invention of the basic principal of food mathematics which states that bread+meat+cheese = happiness was a revolutionary concept which modernized the way that man enjoyed food. And I really think because that the first bite of cheesesteak I took, when soft, cheesy goodness and the tender, salty harmony of ham and beef hit my tongue sent electric waves bouncing around my cranium was a taste bud rebirth. I have been walking around this city blind to the beauty that is the cheesesteak. And now I can see.

The garlic mayo and herb spread elevate your basic cheese plus meat equation to a level thats quantum physic-like. It adds a lucious herbatiousness that lingers with every bite, taking the grilled ribbons of meat and skyrocketing them to the top of the flavor spectrum. And the onions, with their carmely, syrupy deliciousness, are as subtle and unassuming as fried onions can be- unobtrusive to the basic flavors of the meat but bursting with mouthwatering flavor that coats your mouth as you chew.

So this is what everyone has been talking about all this time.

Some people can't believe that I have lived in the Philadelphia area my whole life and had never had a cheesesteak until I was in my 20's. I, for one, am glad that my cheesesteak exposure has been closely monitered, as I now feel that I have expierenced a cheesesteak in it's purest form, and now would be a crime to consume anything less. I don't care how drunk I am. I can say "witout" (oh, come on...I had to) a doubt, that it's just not worth it.

Really. Stop reading and go to Paesano's before they change their special.

"You can't have Thanksgiving without Turkey. That's like Fourth of July without apple pie or Friday with no two pizzas" -Joey Tribiani

Every Celiac I know has a "First Thanksgiving" story.

I know that there's a real "First Thanksgiving" Story, thank you very much. I, too, stapled construction paper feathers to a paper headband in Kindergarten and learned all about the Autumn of 1621, when the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag slaughtered a turkey and sat down to celebrate the English Colonists' first successful harvest (a story which, unfortunately, ended about as well for the Wampanoag as it did for the turkey).

My First Thanksgiving has less historical importance, and certainly much less ethnic diversity, but it is, nonetheless, something I think about religiously every November.

I mean my first Thanksgiving after my diagnosis.

For Celiacs, the cultural significance of food will always be a struggle. The table is a mecca for family, friends, laughter, tears, celebrations, and, of course, holidays. Each one of us has unique, individual ways of celebrating Thanksgiving. Some dust off the good China and dress up in their Sunday best and crowd around a beautifully decorated table. Others pile their paper plates until they sag in the middle and file into a basement or garage filled with folding chairs. Some only eat cranberry sauce out of a can, pull the wishbone after dinner, watch a football game, pray, dance, or play drunk charades. But all of these celebrations typically revolve around a table filled with a cornucopia of gluten, and often, the first one we experience after Celiac doesn't always give us that warm, fuzzy, Thanksgiving-y feeling.

For me, that first November, my diagnosis was fairly recent. It was hard for me to wrap my own head around the idea, much less explain or expect my family to understand. To be honest, I don't think anyone even stopped to think how a holiday centered around food might be at all problematic for me. I remember my heart sinking as I stood in front of a delicious buffet, the warmth of the oven and smells enveloping the kitchen in homey warmth and holiday cheer, and came to each gut-wrenching realization, one by one. All I needed was a Sarah McLaughlin tune humming softly in the background to complete my sad little montage of food that I would not be enjoying that year. Cue the music: The turkey was stuffed. With bread. The mashed potatoes were from a box, which someone dug out of the trash and announced had wheat starch in them. The Brussels Sprouts had bread crumbs. The gravy was thickened with flour. The dinner rolls and stuffing were obviously, out of the question. As was my grandmother's pumpkin pie. And her apple pie. And pretty much all pie moving forward. It was absolutely crushing.

I walked back to my seat at the table, my gold trimmed Lenox China Plate piled to the top with the only thing I could eat that year: peas. I decided once and for all that I hated Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, unless you are one-quarter Wampanoag, it's hard to boycott a holiday that your entire family insists on celebrating. And my dad, so wracked with guilt about the sad little sight of his favorite (sorry, Catherine) daughter sitting hunched over a chair pushing peas around her empty plate, vowed to never let me experience another disappointing Thanksgiving again. And so, first, we learned how to scrape together a mostly-edible gluten free dinner with boxed and pre-purchased products from Whole Foods. Then, we learned how to make pretty decent gluten free food from scratch. And now, thanks to almost ten years of trial and error product testing, some amazing recipes, and, of course, the help of Aaron's culinary skills, the gluten free Thanksgiving that my family has managed to create is something that I genuinely look forward to for eleven months out of the year.

So, Aaron and I put together some tips for a delicious gluten free Thanksgiving.

• We do NOT stuff the turkey any more. You can tell the rest of your friends and family to quit bitching because it dries the turkey out anyway.
• When translating a regular stuffing recipe to a gluten free stuffing, you need to increase the amount of liquid by 10%-15%. Gluten free bread absorbs significantly more liquid and has a tendency to dry out. Whole Foods Gluten Free Bakehouse makes a toasted gluten free stuffing mix, or you can dice one loaf of Schar Bread and transpose it to your favorite stuffing recipe.
• Mashed Potatoes are made from scratch, or, use Betty Crocker Potato Buds. ALWAYS check the label of any boxed mashed potatoes, as wheat flour, starch, and other glutonious evils often hide out there.
• Aaron's Brussels Sprouts prove once and for all that if you put enough bacon in anything, you do not need bread crumbs. He slices them in half and adds them to a pan of rendered bacon fat (just cook bacon, remove, and keep all the juicy love thats left). He adds shallots and apple cider vinegar, removes them from the pan, and transfers them to a baking sheet. He roasts them for five minutes and tops them with the crispy bacon.
• Aaron also makes Creamed Pearl Onions that I literally begin dreaming about sometime around August. He sautees peeled onions in that glorious rendered bacon fat (are you sensing a trend?) and olive oil at medium-low heat until they start to carmelize. He adds heavy cream, nutmeg, chives, and finishes with crispy bacon. Seriously, I would go gluten free for this dish.
• For gravy, mix about two tablespoons of all purpose gluten free flour with a quarter cup of ice cold water.  Whisk the mix into one cup of the simmering turkey drippings. Finish with your favorite herbs like fresh chopped thyme, rosemary, and a tablespoon of heavy cream. Trader Joe's also makes a gluten free gravy that you can pour right out the box (way more my style)
• Pies are no longer out of the question. Whole Foods Gluten Free Bakehouse makes an amazing frozen pie crust that you can dethaw and fill with your favorite pie filling. It is flaky and delicious and the texture is just right. My dad makes a killer pumpkin pie using the recipe from Libby's Pumpkin Pie mix. I also make (that's right, I am officially using the words "I" and "make" in the same sentence) a Pumpkin Cheesecake with a Pecan Shortbread Crust. For the bottom, I crush an entire box of Pamela's Pecan Shortbread Cookies with a two teaspoons of butter and bake for 10 minutes.Then, I fill the pan with Betty Crocker's Pumpkin Cheesecake recipe (omit one egg for a denser cheesecake)

Above all, make sure you talk to your friends and family about the importance of incorperating gluten free recipies into Thanksgiving. Understand that the first Thanksgiving, well, it will probably suck. Don't get discouraged, even if you expierence your own version of what I like to call "The Year of The Peas." And just remember, it gets a lot better for us than it ever did for the Indians.

"I feel a very unusual sensation- if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude." -Benjamin Disraeli

It took me a long time to realize that I was lucky.

I was sixteen years old, hormonally unstable, riddled with teenage angst and, quite frankly, a huge pain in my mother's ass. I glared at the woman in the lab coat as she read off the metal clipboard in her hand. "Your endoscopy confirms the diagnosis," she said, in a tone that I still remember being irritatingly chipper. She began to explain the disease, lapsing into medical jargon that seemed way more interesting when it was coming out of McDreamy's mouth on Greys Anatomy, and I intentionally (and indiscreetly) tuned her out. I turned my head and fixated on a spot on the wall where the paint was peeling. "...oats, barley, rye..." Fuck her. "...processed foods, modified food starch..." Fuck this disease bullshit. "...pastas, pizzas, cereals." I snapped back.

It was there, in that cold, sterile, metallic doctor's office, as the list of foods I could no longer eat hit my ears with a dull thud and fell to the floor, a useless pile of past pleasures at my feet, that my world, much like the bottom of my food pyramid, dropped out from under me. I pouted. I sobbed. I screamed and yelled and cursed at every Dunkin Donuts I passed. I didn't feel lucky. I felt hungry.

Nine years later, I wish I could go back and apologize to that doctor. It wasn't her fault and I was, by all accounts, a total bitch. It's Celiac Awareness Day, and I feel lucky. No, I'm not lucky to have celiac. It's not a "great way to cut carbs," and it irritates the hell out of me when people say it is. It's an incurable autoimmune disease, and it sucks. But it sucks a lot less now.

It sucks less because there are people in my life who have worked hard to raise their own awareness, and it never ceases to impress and amaze me. This awareness goes beyond my parents and Aaron, who as I have said countless times in my posts, have offered me more love, support, and gluten free food than I could ever have asked for. I try to thank them every single day.

But there are others in my life who I don't always take the time to thank for being such a huge part of stabilizing my post-celiac world. My family members- grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins- for whom the terms "celiac" and "gluten free" are now second nature. I am so grateful for the first Thanksgiving dinner which my grandmother made entirely gluten free, the freezer full of Schar's bread that my aunt keeps stocked at her shore house, or the watchful eye of my cousin who caught me just in time as I, deeply engaged in dinner conversation and on my third glass of wine, blindly reached for the "gluten butter."

My best friend Ciara, who has known me before, and after my diagnosis, and who has been one of the most supportive to my cause. I mean, how many other friends would bake a trial cake the week before your birthday just to make sure it tasted good? I have never been struck with such an amazing appreciation of her unwavering friendship as I was when she told me she likes to order gluten free food when she goes out to eat because she wants to raise awareness. She muddles through as many gross gluten free products as I do trying to find the pastas and pizzas and chocolate cake mixes that taste the best.



Birthday Cake 2.0



And all of the other friends and coworkers who I have met along the way and who have, even in the smallest and most seemingly insignificant ways, educated themselves and me: passed along restaurant recommendations or websites or recipes, and have made this journey easier and infinitely more fun. Servers and chefs who I don't know, but who have taken a genuine interest in making it less challenging and more delicious to dine out on a gluten free diet. And anyone who is hanging in there reading this, you too, have unwittingly entrenched yourself in this sappy post and learned a little more about Celiac. 

I'd like to say thank you, from the bottom of my little gluten free heart.

"Dining with one's friends and beloved family is certainly one of life's primal and most innocent delights. One that is both soul-satisfying and eternal" -Julia Child

This post is not about food.

I know: you're doing a bang up job, Emily, writing a food blog that isn't about food.

Well, it is about food, in a way. But more importantly, it is about why food matters.

Some people say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Here, I must disagree. I believe that it is taste. Let me explain: The act of eating is one that is both primal and communal, and has brought so many people together, it is no wonder that we often associate food with our past. Meal time is such an elementary universal truth. Sometimes, something so simple, so elegantly uncomplicated and downright pedestrian, can bring the joy of taste-bud memory, which hits your tongue like a lightening bolt and sends an electric shock all the way to your Temporal Lobe, triggering immediate warm and fuzzy thoughts of your grandmother as you bite into a warm piece of apple pie. Tasting your past is just so much more corporal than recalling a memory on your own.

For me, one such memory had laid dormant in my cerebrum for the past 9 years.

My dad used to take me camping. He was proud of the fact that we were "real" campers- no trailers, air mattresses or portable grills hitched to the back of your car. We camped at French Creek State Park with tents, sleeping bags, and stuck our dinner into the campfire because, damn it, we are outdoors and that is what you do.

I have so many memories of camping with my dad. The time we forgot the tent poles and had to tie the tent to a group of trees with laundry line. The time we could only get one tent up before it poured rain, and so my dad, my uncle, and five of us cousins crammed into a four-man tent and waited out the storm. Hiking, and looking for Sassafras plants, which, my dad explained, when you bit into the stem, seeped out a sap that tasted just like root beer. The smell of the campfire clinging to my hair and to my dad's flannel shirt as we zipped up our sleeping bags and I, a somewhat precocious child, asked, for the millionth time: Are you absolutely positive there's no bears?

But my favorite part was the S'mores.

I mean, come on. What kid doesn't like S'mores? It's a chocolate and marshmallow sandwich, and you get to light shit on fire.

For me, eating a S'more was always about more than the sticky sensation of gluing one's fingers together with melted marshmallow. It takes me back to A-42, our campsite at French Creek, and I can smell that musty, charcoal smoke of the campfire all over again, feel the heat of the blaze on my cheeks, hear the dull, hollow drill of a woodpecker in the distance, and remember being with my dad, proud of the fire we'd built, and the fact that I could be like him, a "real camper."

I didn't think I was ever going to have something that tasted even close to a S'more ever again. I did not have high hopes for gluten-free graham crackers- it's hard to find a way to recreate a brand-name product which is so instantly recognizable. Some flavors are just too ingrained in us to reproduce.

The Grainless Baker however, surprised me. They make a graham cracker cookie that is pretty damn close. It's denser, and not as flaky as its glutenous equivalent, but flavor-wise, it was pretty dead-on. It's more substantial consistency makes it more durable, so the S'more doesn't break apart as easily. I bought them at Wegmans, one of my increasingly favorite place to shop for gluten-free brands.

I roasted my marshmallow over the open-flame of our gas stove which, by all accounts, does not even come close to the perfection of a campfire-char, but hey, I'm working with what I have right now. I gingerly slid my toasted beauty off the kabob skewer which I had improvised as a stick, and layered it carefully between two perfectly portioned pieces of Hershey's Milk Chocolate and smushed the pieces of graham cracker down so that the warm, gooey marshmallow insides exploded and began melting the chocolate on contact.

One bite, and I'm there again, in the middle of the woods, crickets chirping and whirring around me, listening to my dad tell his favorite ghost stories, and keeping a constant, watchful eye out for bears.

"Do you have anything here besides Mexican food?" -Chevy Chase

I was going to begin this post with a disclaimer: The fact that I worked for Garces Restaurant Group is in no way directly correlated to the fact that I consistently recommend their restaurants to anyone, but particularly those in search of a good gluten-free meal.

I had this whole brilliant manifesto penned in my head. I was going to write passionately and with conviction about how I do not speak highly of Chef Jose's food because I worked for him, rather, it was being given the chance to work around his dishes, and his employees, that made me care about food in the first place. I was going to offer my word that as I write about my meal last weekend at Distrito that I would absolutely give my impartial, unbiased opinion. It was all ready to go, and it sounded pretty damn good if you ask me, but when I sat down and started to type, I was struck with the overwhelming realization that it was all a bunch of bullshit.

I am not impartial. I have had the unique opportunity to pull back the curtain. I have seen firsthand how the dishes are prepared and the kitchens are run. I know with certainty that when my or any other ticket rings through to the kitchen with the words "GLUTEN FREE" printed in bold type-face that every single person in the kitchen knows what this means and, furthermore, will not sacrifice your dining experience because of it. I cannot offer an unbiased opinion because my opinion is unquestionably colored by a well-deserved, complete trust in each person in every restaurant in his organization.

Chef Garces' first restaurant, Amada, opened in October 2005 and since then he has opened 6 more restaurants in the city. Spanish, Peruvian-Cantonese, Basque, American, Mexican- Garces' current lineup reads like a culinary United Colors of Benetton ad. Each restaurant offers a distinct menu- rich in both cultural and seasonal influence, meticulously designed and executed by extremely talented Chef de Cuisines, yet all tied together by a commonality which can only be attributed to Garces' immeasurable talent and passion.

After a fairly terrible meal the previous night at a neighborhood Mexican restaurant, I left work last Saturday overcome with the urge to have my faith restored South of the Border. When Aaron came home later that evening, top button undone and tie askew, I asked innocently, "Rough day?" He dropped his briefcase on the floor. "Yeah." He sighed. I nudged him. "Tequila?"

Enough said. Five minutes later we were in the car on our way to University City. Distrito has always been one of my favorite Garces Restaurants to visit because, like so many other Mexican restaurants, the menu lends very naturally towards gluten free. In fact, with the exception of a few fried dishes, the menu is almost entirely devoid of flour.

Here's the deal. When little baby mushrooms are born, they grow up wanting to be one of two things.

A SuperMushroom

Or a delicious morsel of love laid to rest on the Los Hongos Hurache. Because, if you are going to die a slow, fiery death followed by masticational dismemberment, you are going to want to do it surrounded by cheese and chopped black truffles.

The hurache is a traditional Mexican pizza which uses masa, a corn-based dough made from hominy, and black beans. It is topped with an array of melted cheeses which work together to create harmonious mouth- joy, earthy, delicious Forrest mushrooms, corn shoots, a huitlacoche sauce (don't look it up, just try it) and of course, those beautiful chopped black truffles. The dough is naturally gluten-free, which earns it major points to begin with, but one bite of this delicious pizza and you will understand, gluten-free is the least of it's selling points. Its salty, cheesy and mushroomy without being too mushroomy- and it's savory flavors linger on your jawls long after the last few crumbs have been discreetly licked from the plate. This thing puts pizza to shame.

The Queso Fundito, besides being ridiculously fun to say, is another one of my absolute favorite dishes. Beware, this dish, on it's own, comes with flour tortillas. However, just let your server know that you are gluten-free and they will gladly substitute a basket of warm corn tortillas. Trust me, it's worth it. I mean meat + cheese = delicious, right? It's basic math, really. The queso fundito is just that: slow roasted duck confit and strips of poblano chilis happily lounging like little old naked men in a sauna of bubbling hot melted cheese. It arrives to the table in a cast iron skillet, the cheese sizzling and browning to perfection at the edges as it struggles to resist the pull of my spoon, clinging to the steaming hot edges in long elastic strings and crisping to utter perfection. Cradle a spoonful of this in a corn tortilla, fold, and try not to burn the shit out of your mouth as the duck falls apart in your mouth and sends little sparks of ecstasy bouncing throughout your brain waives.

The Atun Ceviche is a dish that I can't quite seem to wrap my head around the words to describe. Yellowfish Tuna is presented simply and uncomplicated-ly: served rare with bite sized tortilla chips and tomatillos, atop a Serrano-Coconut Sauce which is mind-numbingly good on it's own. However, the dish reaches it's "but this one goes to 11" moment when you manage to somehow squeeze a bite of the lime sorbet onto your fork. Holy. Shit. The sorbet is like a miniature margarita for your tuna- it gives it that tangy bite that you know is going to make it take off it's clothes later in the night.

Chase it with a shot or two from their over-the-top tequila list, and work doesn't seem so bad after all.

But don't take my word for it...
Check out Distrito Restaurant and see if you agree

3945 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia PA 19104

215-222-1657

"A hot dog at the ball park is better than a steak at The Ritz" -Humphrey Bogart

I am not a sports fan. Although I grew up in a large, Irish Catholic family, with lots of uncles who insisted we sing “Fly Eagles Fly” after saying Grace on Christmas Eve, this love of all things competitive did not pass directly on to me.


 

Whoops

In fact, I know so little about sports that one night at Amada, when a handsome blonde gentleman came in and requested to sit in a certain section of the restaurant, I smiled apologetically and told him it was unavailable at the moment, but that I’d do my best next time he came in. He graciously nodded, and followed the hostess, who returned, wide-eyed and said incredulously “I can’t believe you just told Chase Utley he couldn’t sit there.” I stared back at her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that was Chase Utley!”  Aaaaaaand, I’m an asshole.  (Chase, if you are out there: Really sorry about that. I Google Image-ed you, so it won’t happen again)

So no, I did not get drunk, take off my clothes, climb traffic lights, riot or destroy anything around me when the Phillies won the World Series a few years back. I was pretty sure an “outfielder” was a mathematical term for something on a graph. And, for my limited knowledge and attention span, baseball is about 7 innings too long for me to watch on TV.

But Aaron seemed convinced that it was “un-American” or something for me never to have been to a baseball game. Point. Counterpoint: After surviving without pizza for 4 years of college, isn’t it just cruel and unusual punishment to take me somewhere where beer and hotdogs circulate like currency? I had him there.

Citizen’s Bank Park, home of the Philadelphia Phillies, had other ideas, however. My friend Phil, who, although he himself is a lover of gluten, is constantly on the look out for gluten free spots for me (and thus, well-deserving of a blog shout out and big thank you), works at the park and informed me excitedly that things were changing for glutenless Phillies fans. Aramark, the company which handles the concessions for 14 MLB teams and 10 minor league clubs, has taken a personal interest in expanding their market to include gluten-free products at many of their ball parks and other venues. Kudos, guys.

And so, I donned my new Cole Hammels t-shirt (I figured, I hadn’t offended him yet) and wound up at my second Phillies game ever (the first one doesn’t count- it was freezing cold, it rained, they lost 0-9, and we bailed halfway through).

Our first stop was the South Philly Market, located behind Section 128. They have gluten-free beer and cider, as well as hot dogs on gluten-free buns. The buns come right out of the bun warmer and are soft and textured to perfection, just like, I imagine, a ball park hot dog should taste. “I want a beer,” I said, surprising myself even.  I typically pass up the gluten-free Estrella Damm Daura or Redbridge that Aaron sometimes buys to cook with, instead preferring a glass of white wine or a mixed drink. But something about drinking a beer there just seemed so… right. I got my hotdog and plastic cup, loaded up on the condiments and napkins, went to my seat and thought I am eating a hot dog and drinking beer. I felt downright American, damn it.

And Bogie was right. It was the best hot dog I have ever tasted. There was just something about being a part of this crowd, lost in a sea of red and white-clad fans, all cheering for the same team which, although I knew nothing about, I felt strangely… loyal to..., eating a hot dog and drinking my beer just like everyone else around me. For me, that is one thing that I really miss. It sounds so silly, doesn’t it? Doing what everyone else is. Like something your mother warned you against. But it is oddly comforting to experience this sameness again.

I still got lost somewhere around the 6^th inning, was excited when it was announced that Brian Wilson would be pitching until I realized that a) he was not the bass player from the Beach Boys and b) he played for the other team, and almost got smacked in the face with a foul ball because I was busy taking pictures of my hot dog. Oh, and they lost. But honestly, I had an absolutely amazing time. I get it now, the whole “America’s past time” thing.

I even waived at Chase Utley from our seats behind the dugout, but he pretended not to know who I was. I guess I deserved that.

"Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart." -Erma Bombeck

Desserts matter. I hold this truth to be self evident, because for me, the entire fate of the meal hinges upon that last, delicious morsel of food which you put into your mouth. It is the taste which lingers on your palate long after the meal is over. It is the last scent, memory, and thus, representation of the repast. So yeah, desserts matter.

I will, occasionally, post solely on the topic of dessert. It is one of the trickier things to alter sometimes, because baking is so notoriously temperamental; the unforgiving, unwavering, strategically-minded military dad to cooking’s artsy, hand-holding, herb-loving hippie aunt.



College Is About Breaking
Boundaries In The Study Of
 Human Anatomy...
And Dominating In Wine Pong



That being said, whenever possible, I will always order dessert. 17 course tasting menu? Dessert please. Whole roast pig? What do you have that’s chocolate? I could pretty much put away anything and still have room for something sweet. I was mildly self-conscious about this fact until a roommate in college introduced me to what she called “The Chamber Theory.” You know how cows’ stomachs have 4 compartments? Well, Adrienne postulated that we have chambers in our stomachs as well, and, even though your “entrée chamber” might be full, your “dessert chamber” is still wide open. Additionally, I should point out, in college we both made really compelling arguments in favor of a “wine chamber.”

This week, after a particularly delicious grilled steak dinner, my dessert chamber’s needle was still hovering on empty, and Aaron decided to introduce me to his southern roots. By “southern roots,” I mean, “lived in West Virginia for two years and ate a lot of biscuits.” And peaches.





Until recently, the only thing I really knew about “peach” was that she gave blondes a bad name.

Apparently, they also make a delicious cobbler.

Aaron picked up some white peaches at the farmers market which were so fresh and delectably fuzzy looking that they would have warmed the cockles of Roald Dhal’s heart. The perfect patches of pale pink blended seamlessly into a warm yellow that was absolutely picturesque just sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter, glowing in the warm summer sun, like a page right out of Little House on the Prairie.

He sautéed the peaches in a little bourbon (because why the hell not?) and sugar, brown sugar, cinnamon, and Gluten Free Pantry’s All Purpose Flour Mix (Whole Foods). I find this mix to be one of the most accessible, and can be substituted cup-for-cup in almost any recipe. He layered this warm, sugary, nectar-y love into buttered ramekins and topped it with the recipe for biscuits found on the back of the box of Gluten Free Bisquick.

Let me pause for a moment to give mad props to Betty Crocker for making gluten free baking accessible to anyone who lives in a 20 minute radius of Acme or Superfresh and can combine eggs and butter. They now offer gluten free cookie, cake, and brownie mix, along with gluten free Bisquick, dumbing down baking to a level even I can usually manage to not screw up.

This was my first experience with the Bisquick, and the biscuits on top of the cobbler puffed up like little moist pillows of what my incredibly limited experiences with illegal substances force me to only assume must be laced with heroine. Seriously. Biscuits should be considered narcotics and regulated by the Board of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Dangerously Addictive Carbohydrates. They were crispy on the outside and delicate and flaky and buttery on the inside.

But it was the prize which lay unassumingly beneath the layers of fragile, crumbly goodness which was the real reward. Layers of sweet, sugary peaches basked in the glory of their sachariferousness, coated in the crystallized granules of goodness. Bits of biscuit clung to their syrupy flesh, reveling in the sticky, saccharine juice, soaking up every bit of nectar they could before they dissolved onto my tongue.

Next thing you know, I’ll be found in an alley somewhere, heating up peaches on a spoon with a lighter, a makeshift tunicate tied around my arm, laying in the filth of my own half-eaten biscuit crumbs, with a look of sheer bliss forever imprinted on my face.

This is what true love tastes like, with ice cream on top.