01- Homemade Ice Cream in 5 Minutes #chocobar #chocobaricecream #icecream 02- Choco bar Ice-Cream Recipe | Eggless & Without Cr...
Bracing for a difficult winter, some restaurants went all in on upgrades like heated patios. Starting next week, however, dine-in service is once again banned in Portland
https://pdx.eater.com/2020/11/13/21564531/outdoor-patios-closed-dine-in-covid-coronavirus-cost
Lettuce Entertain You has informed state officials that it may lay off as many as 1,045 workers from 25 of its restaurants in Chicago and its suburbs
https://chicago.eater.com/2020/11/13/21564505/lettuce-entertain-you-mass-layoffs-covid
DarSalam owner Ghaith Sahib lived through the Iraq War, but now he’s just trying to get his family through the pandemic as COVID-19 cases are on the rise again
https://pdx.eater.com/2020/11/13/21563339/darsalam-opening-restaurants-ghaith-sahib
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Plus, Chipotle has a “cuffing season” menu, and more news to start your day
DoorDash is looking to join competitors Uber and Grubhub as a publicly traded company, officially filing its IPO with the SEC today. DoorDash would offer multiple classes of stock, including one that comes with 20 votes per share, so that co-founder Tony Xu “will be able to determine or significantly influence any action requiring the approval of our stockholders.” CNBC reports that DoorDash has had $1.9 billion in revenue from January through September this year, and reported a net loss to $149 million over those same months, which is a smaller loss than the same time last year.
DoorDash is the United States’s biggest delivery service, with 49 percent of the meal delivery sales in September, compared to Uber’s 22 percent and Grubhub’s 20 percent. The industry as a whole is booming thanks to the pandemic, but DoorDash, like Uber, has yet to turn a profit. And while the company and its competitors spent $218 million to get California voters to say yes to Prop 22, which allows gig economy companies to not provide their drivers and deliverers with employee benefits, restaurants and diners alike are becoming more vocal about the ways these companies mistreat their workers and the restaurants they do (or don’t) partner with.
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It’s okay to skip the holiday this year. In fact, I’m treasuring the thought of it.
I am someone who is unapologetically enthusiastic about the holiday season. By that I don’t mean The Holidays™ — as both a Jew and a student of history, neither the Christmas Industrial Complex nor the origins of Thanksgiving give me much of a thrill. I’m talking about the act of coming together with people I love for the purpose of consuming unadvisable quantities of food and drink. For me, the holidays are a means to an end, one that I have historically enjoyed going all out to achieve — I love making three pies where one will do, love the somewhat abhorrent practice of sticking mini marshmallows into an unnaturally smooth facade of pureed sweet potato, even love the sucking sound the cranberry sauce makes as it slides languidly out of its can.
Normally, I love it all: the food, the festivity, the warm sap of sentiment that chases everything down. But this is 2020, a year in which “normal” effectively bid us all an Irish goodbye many months ago. And so as the holiday season approaches, I find myself weighing two potential strategies to deal with it. One is to try in vain to simulate some degree of whatever constitutes normalcy these days, to go all out in order to compensate for the almost limitless suckitude of the current calendar year. The other is to just say Fuck It.
Saying fuck it is not saying fuck it to the holidays, or being thankful, or family and friendship, or the taking of some very well-earned seasonal joy. Instead, it’s saying fuck the extortion to cook performatively and with great and unnecessary effort this year, a year that many of us have spent cooking at home everyday, trying to come up with ways to feed ourselves that are ever more creative, or at least not wholly dependent on a box of cereal.
I love cooking, and still even look forward to doing it, but the idea of brining a turkey or rolling out an obstinate pie crust or finding new and improved things to do to potatoes makes me want to lie down and not get up until the first crocuses emerge from the thawing dirt. I look at the way some food publications are covering Thanksgiving this year and feel perplexed: all of those recipes designed to feed six to eight, all of those debates about what is really, no really the best way to cook a turkey, all of those Instagram-appropriate desserts you should be making instead of boring, basic pie. I look at all of this content and wonder what year it is, and if I’m going crazy, or they are.
I get that some or even many people may still want to pull out all of the stops, and more power to them — assuming, at least, that they’re not gearing up for some kind of White House-proportioned superspreader fantasia. And I get that the giddy chaos of cooking too many things at once can offer the same kind of cozy catharsis you get from the Christmas movies where Diane Keaton and her unruly family bicker lovingly in a spacious kitchen. I crave that this year, just as I do any year.
But what I crave more is the catharsis of looking around, seeing everything I could do, and rejecting all of it. Because to reject it is to acknowledge that this year, trying to simulate a “normal” holiday will be like attending a wedding reception for a couple who has just broken up at the altar. And in such acknowledgement there comes the freedom to do whatever you want instead, namely nothing.
“Nothing,” however, shouldn’t be interpreted as capitulation to nihilism and soul-incinerating despair. In 2020, I think of it as more of an affirmation, a prompt to do something you actually enjoy, be it cryogenically sealing yourself in a bathrobe and watching 16 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy or taking a long walk in a place where you can hear birdsong. Like the holidays, “nothing” means different things to different people. There is no right or wrong, just the relief that comes with surrendering to it, and to the knowledge that when nothing is normal, then there’s no need to do anything that pretends otherwise.
And so this year, I will relax into “fuck it” like it is a hot tub in a redwood forest, waiting to melt away the world’s sorrows under a clear sky full of stars. I will look at all of those how-to guides designed to “help people get ready for the holidays in our new normal” and then I will look away, feeling thankful that I can choose to celebrate 2020 in the manner it deserves.
A free 7-day, flexible weight loss meal plan including breakfast, lunch and dinner and a shopping list. All recipes include calories and updated WW Smart Points.
The post 7 Day Healthy Meal Plan (Nov 16-22) appeared first on Skinnytaste.
This Herb and Salt-Rubbed Dry Brined Turkey comes out so moist and flavorful, with crispy golden skin and juicy tender meat.
Want an easy turkey recipe that’s moist and flavorful? Try dry brining! Rather than wet brining a turkey, dry brining is so much easier and less messy!
The post Herb and Salt-Rubbed Dry Brine Turkey appeared first on Skinnytaste.
Eater investigates which dining institutions are currently in the health official’s takeout rotation
https://dc.eater.com/2020/11/12/21562329/anthony-fauci-takeout-orders-covid-19-dc-restaurants
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From fresh to fried, how to get turkey shipped straight to your door, from the Strategist
Thanksgiving 2020 is shaping up to be unlike any other. More people will be driving to see their relatives than flying, and many folks may not travel at all, choosing instead to spend the holiday with close friends (or with Zoom). Factor in the need to put together an elaborate meal, and stress is inevitable — especially when it comes to sourcing a turkey. If you’ve never been in charge of the bird before and have no idea where to begin, don’t fret. We spoke to four experts, including the heads of two professional test kitchens and a fourth-generation butcher, who told us about the best turkeys you can get shipped straight to your door (including one option that’ll arrive mostly cooked, requiring minimal day-of work). Just be sure to order soon, as Thanksgiving is only a few short weeks away.
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There are dozens of places to get a turkey from online, but Gaby Melian, the test kitchen manager at Bon Appétit, says that she’s always turned to D’Artagnan for high quality birds. Over the five years she’s been ordering turkeys for the magazine, she estimates she’s bought roughly 100. “This year was extra challenging, due to COVID and long distances, since the team was in different places,” she says. (Add to that the challenge that BA orders turkeys in summer, when they’re not yet in season.) “I was able to get them through D’Artagnan here in New Jersey and they were sent as far as L.A. This company is reliable, and their products are fantastic,” she says.
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If you don’t want to spend hours making a turkey, consider the deep fried turkeys from Brooklyn-based operation Jive Turkey, which “has its very own cult following,” says Elle Simone Scott, executive editor at America’s Test Kitchen and founder of SheChef Inc. “Their fried turkey has been their claim to fame since being featured on Food Network in 2009.” The company ships nationwide out of Chicago and offers 15 versions of fried turkey, including lemon pepper, red wine cranberry, and barbecue. Best of all, it only has to be reheated on the big day.
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If genetic diversity is important to you, consider purchasing a heritage turkey like UK-favorite KellyBronze, now sold through one iconic Michigan retailer. “Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, is really the granddaddy of mail order food in the Midwest,” says Brenna Houck, editor of Eater Detroit. “Around Thanksgiving, it’s basically a one stop shop for anything one could possibly want for an at-home feast. Want a heritage-breed turkey? Zingerman’s is shipping out 15 to 17 pound rarified birds from a farm in Crozet, Virginia. Need a brine for that turkey? Zingerman’s has you covered.”
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For those who like to make sure their turkey lived as happy a life as possible, there’s the certified organic turkeys from Mary’s, based in California and operated by the Pitman family since 1954. “I love Mary’s because they’re a family-owned business doing meat the right way,” says Cara Nicoletti, founder of Seemore Meats & Veggies and a fourth-generation butcher. “Their turkeys are all free-range, treated humanely, and fed a vegetarian diet.” The company offers not only organic turkeys, but heritage and non-GMO varieties as well.
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If you’re feeding a small group of just four to five people, a whole bird may be too much. Luckily, Greensbury, which specializes in grass-fed livestock and sustainably sourced meats, has you covered with this 4–5 pound turkey breast. “They control the entire process, from the farm to your door, and the care that goes into their products shows,” says Nicoletti. “I love when meat companies are super transparent about where their meat comes from, and they do a great job explaining this to customers.”
Female service workers and people of color shouldn’t have to choose between earning a living a putting up with harassment in a service job — and yet they do on a daily basis
https://detroit.eater.com/21553344/black-poc-women-restaurant-bar-food-service-sexism-racism-harassment-first-person-metro-detroit
A spread of dishes from the cultural crossroads of Casablanca | Photo by: Courtesy of Hulu
A behind-the-scenes look at how Eater’s most globe-trotting, food-filled TV show was made
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Each episode of Eater’s show Eater’s Guide to the World, which premiered on November 11, showcases a new, food-filled side of a locale — some you may think you know, like, LA or New York, and some that are probably less familiar, like Costa Rica. The crew that shot the delicious new series went to countless markets, bars, restaurants, taco trucks, taprooms, burrito stands... and a badminton club, a car wash, and the literal jungle. So what went into actually making the show?
On Thursday, November 19 at 12:30 p.m. ET, Vox Media Studios production executive Maureen Giannone Fitzgerald will lead a panel featuring some of the producers and “characters” from the show discuss how the thing was made — from the COVID-19 pandemic’s impact on filming to how Maya Rudolph came to be its narrator.
You’ll hear from series executive producer Lauren Cynamon and show team members Alex Craig, Kishori Rajan, Nicola Linge and Sydney Mondry; producer Travis Callahan will chat with American drag queen Miz Cracker, a bright light in the show’s New York episode; and last but not least, you’ll hear from star Seattle chef Eric Rivera and Portland-based food critic Karen Brooks.
The event is taking place over Zoom, so register below to secure a spot, receive a Zoom link prior to the event, and add the event to your calendar. (And in the meantime, check out the show for yourself on Hulu...)
The COVID-19 crisis has removed regular attractions from the Wharf and Navy Yard, ramping up pressure on already struggling businesses
https://dc.eater.com/2020/11/12/21558960/d-c-restaurants-waterfront-winter-closures
Turkey Pot Pie with Stuffing Crust is a fun twist on a turkey pot pie, made with diced turkey and veggies simmered in a creamy sauce and finished with a stuffing topping.
This Turkey Pot Pie with Stuffing Crust is a great way to get your favorite Thanksgiving foods in one meal. Plus, it’s perfect for using up leftover turkey. A mix of turkey and vegetables in a creamy sauce is covered with stuffing and baked until the crust is golden. For some other ways to use Thanksgiving turkey, try my Leftover Turkey Pot Pie Empanadas, Open-Faced Turkey Melts, and Baked Turkey Croquettes.
The post Turkey Pot Pie with Stuffing Crust appeared first on Skinnytaste.
Don’t do this | Shutterstock
Plus, Dr. Anthony Fauci supports local restaurants by ordering takeout, and more news to start your day
Throughout the pandemic, a lot of people have just wanted a clear answer on when they can safely hang out with family again. That question becomes even more pertinent around the winter holidays, so the Center for Disease Control released guidelines on things to keep in mind if you want to celebrate as safely as possible. When it comes to food, the CDC says BYO. “Encourage guests to bring food and drinks for themselves and for members of their own household only; avoid potluck-style gatherings,” the organization writes. It also advises wearing a mask while preparing food, and using things like single-serving salad dressing and condiments to keep people from sharing.
However, that implies you’re having an in-person meal with family at all, which the CDC says is less than ideal unless it’s with the people you already share a household with. “In-person gatherings that bring together family members or friends from different households, including college students returning home, pose varying levels of risk,” it says. The CDC recommends considering “high or increasing levels of COVID-19 cases in the gathering location” before holding an event. Unfortunately, nearly the entire country is classified by Covid Exit Strategy as having “uncontrollable spread,” so no matter where you live it’s not looking good.
This is today's snapshot of each state's progress in reducing COVID cases/hospitalizations/death, via https://t.co/MfkeAwWTve
— Jennifer Bendery (@jbendery) November 11, 2020
Green is trending better.
Yellow is caution warranted.
Red is going downhill.
Bruised red is uncontrolled spread. pic.twitter.com/vWtSYtSDAT
Other CDC advice remains the same: if you’re going to do an in-person gathering with people from different households (which again, bad idea), outdoors is safer than indoors, masked is safer than unmasked. People who have COVID-19 symptoms, have been exposed to someone with COVID-19, or are at increased risk of severe illness should not do in-person gatherings at all. And ultimately “celebrating virtually or with members of your own household (who are consistently taking measures to reduce the spread of COVID-19) poses the lowest risk for spread.” It sucks, but look on the bright side — your Thanksgiving dinner can just be a box of Stovetop stuffing for yourself, which is what you want anyway.
• All AM Intel Coverage [E]
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While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles
I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.
I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.
Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.
A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.
That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.
I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.
I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.
Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?
The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.
People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.
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daveynin/Flickr
Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.
Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.
I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.
The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.
This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.
Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.
I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.
As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.
Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.
Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.
I'm thrilled to share another new recipe! If you love everything bagels with cream cheese on top, you'll adore these Everything Biscuits. Tender on the inside with extra crisp edges, they're not only full of flavor, but texture as well. We use a mix of cream cheese and butter in the dough and add plenty of everything bagel seasoning. These biscuits bring an unexpected flavor to the dinner table and-- take it from me-- taste remarkable dunked into a big bowl of tomato soup. While we all love dinner rolls, bread that doesn't require yeast is always appreciated!
The post Everything Biscuits appeared first on Sally's Baking Addiction.
A dear friend of ours makes a radicchio salad that made quite the impression on me years ago, so I recently asked him for the recipe, and he obliged. The good news is, it was even easier than I thought it would be.
Vibrant, fresh radicchio is topped with a creamy cashew ricotta dressing that adds a beautiful lemony, garlicky flavor to the salad. And then come roasted beets, crispy roasted garlic, and candied walnuts.
Radicchio Salad with Cashew Ricotta Dressing from Minimalist Baker →
