Frozen yogurt. Finally!

When I moved from California to the Pacific Northwest, I knew I'd be making some major sacrifices. I'd have to stop being super mega ultra tan and I'd have to give up my totally fave hobby of beach boardwalk rollerblading.

But, readers, what I didn't prepare myself for was the frozen yogurt freeze.

Not only was there a complete and utter lack of frozen yogurt in Seattle, but nobody seemed to give two shits about it.

Obviously I gave three shits, and was constantly on the look out (Ok, I googled "frozen yogurt Seattle" about 10 times and bitched about it a lot) for the tart and tepid treat. Why should people in Los Angeles and New York City get to horde all the trendy PinkBerry bliss?

Well, it seems the frozen yogurt gods heard my prayers! In late Summer, not one, not two, but about 3,000 Pink Berry knockoffs opened in Seattle. Upon hearing the news, I immediately caught a nasty case of brain freeze.

For those of you who don't track frozen yogurt trends (and may I ask why not?) PinkBerry (here in Seattle we have CrazyBerry, YoBerry and my personal favorite, VaginaBerry) took the frozen yogurt world by storm. It caused hysteria! People waited in hour-long lines for the simple, tart Asian-inspired yogurt that only comes in a few flavors: plain, green tea and (at some of the knockoffs) strawberry. You can top it off with fresh fruit or various breakfast cereals.

Of course, there were no yogurt-mania lines in Seattle. All the calm, whatever-dude, cooler-than-frozen-yogurt Seattleites waltzed right on past the clean, white, mod yogurt shops to get their pho.

But not me. I went inside.

If you crave chocolate or toffee or peanut butter flavored frozen yogurt, this is not your bag. I have always exclusively ordered the only tart berry option from frozen yogurt menus. Which is why Crazy/Pink/EnemaBerry is so exciting! They only offer tart, delicate flavors.

The yogurt is creamy, it's cold, it's delicious; and eating it makes me feel just a little bit super mega ultra tan again.

Portland, Oregon: The Baron of Brunch

Brunch. It may be my most favorite meal of the day. Not that I eat it every day. Brunch is reserved for weekends. And in case you were wondering, there is a difference between brunch and breakfast.

Breakfast is for responsible people who wear ties and monitor their daily steps with a pedometer. These people actually carve out morning time to nourish their bodies before dutifully flouncing off to work or school.

But brunch, oh sweet disfunctional brunch. Brunch was built for the lazy, late-waking, ravished, bleary eyed set. It's an after-party of sorts. Some of the brunchers will still be slightly drunk, and the rest can replenish with a morning cocktail. But booze banter aside, there is one rule when it comes to brunch:

1.) Thou shalt not shower before brunch. Brunch is a bed-to-table meal. You will most likely be late for brunch because you are too tired (read: hungover) to get out of bed, which means you certainly don't have time to shower. And if you do shower, you are clearly making a mockery of your brunch companions who will feel self conscious about their unruly hair, tobacco scented clothing and alcohol soaked pores.

Every time I make a visit to Portland I look forward to brunch. The city is simply stacked with great spots to have a first meal. Readers, I'm not talking organic over-easy eggs and 12-grain toast. Yawn. These morning meal makers have really thought this through!

Just when I thought I'd found the best of the best, the belle of the brunch ball (Cricket Cafe)... along comes Screen Door. Fancified Southern food. Think Dolly Parton in a solid gold mini dress. Holding a fried chicken leg.

As I skimmed the menu my heart started to race. I hadn't even ordered yet and I was already planning my trip back. I am known to be a chronic take-forever-orderer, but last Saturday the choice was easy: Fried Oyster Benedict.
Crisp, cornmeal crusted oysters teeter atop a crisscross of bacon. Below this holy matrimony, a perfectly poached egg on a toasted English muffin. All of this is topped with just enough sunny yellow Hollandaise sauce. Outside, the oyster has a satisfying crunch, but inside it's all tender, salty ocean. Oy! This could come with a pile of potatoes, but I chose the alternative: a shallow dish of orange, cheddar gritz.


One brunch companion didn't even need to crack his menu. Nothing would keep him from the sweet potato waffle topped with a frikkin' giant tower of fried chicken. Like the oysters, the chicken is magically grease-free and tastes mighty fine paired with a forkful of waffle and a drizzle of syrup.

By the time the biscuits and gravy landed on the table I started to think Screen Door was just getting cocky. If Screen Door was a car it would have a bumper sticker that reads: "My brunch is an honor roll student."

Just look at those biscuits and gravy! I didn't look that good on prom night! One fellow bruncher smartly selected the sausage country gravy, and the other opted for the creamy, mushroomy vegetarian version. The biscuits are unique: they're big, square, squishy and almost like
focaccia.

Everything tastes just a teeny tiny bit better when treated with a small splash of brick-red Louisiana hot sauce. Of course, I do have my loyalties and always prefer Tapatio or Sriracha.

But I guess people who don't take showers can't be too choosy.

Get stuffed! Stuffed Grape Leaves, that is...

"They look real! Like real grape leaves! Like, real grape leaves you'd eat at a restaurant!"

When trying to pose as a seasoned and well accomplished cook *cough ahem snort* one probably shouldn't act completely shocked and surprised when a dish actually turns out looking and tasting delicious.

But it's so hard not to. I mean look at those grape leaves! I want to reach out and pinch their little perfect-looking grape leaf cheeks. "Who's mommy's little grape leaf? You are! Oh yes you are!"

As some of you may know, I am involved in a top secret cooking club (don't worry gang! no one really reads the Internet) that aims to meet once a month. We rotate homes, and the host gets to pick the cuisine of the month, and we all cook together in perfect harmony. Usually. I mean, there has only been one fatal knife fight.

Anyway, this month's theme was Greek -- hence the adorable stuffed grape leaves. They turned out amazing, if I do say so myself. Better than any I've ever had. I stuffed them with savory cumin-scented Jasmine rice, studded with caramelized onions, garlic, toasted pine nuts, and a flurry of fresh farmers market mint and parsley.

The white sauce drizzled on top (we drizzled for the photo, but in "real life" we plunged the little bundles deep into the sauce bowl) is plain yogurt marinated with more fresh chopped mint, black pepper and chopped raw garlic.

Here's the recipe I used:

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/2054

*Note: I omitted the currents (wasn't in a sweet mood) and substituted vegetable broth for the chicken (accommodating a vegetarian). I bought the grape leaves at The Souk in Pike Place Market, & the 28-leaf jar was the perfect amount.


As for some of the other cooking accomplishments of the night, that's a triangle of spanikopita posing sexily next to my PERFECT grape leaves. Nice lookin' couple dontcha think? Maker-of-spanikopita over-baked her dish by *gasp* four whole minutes and deemed her spinach/cheese pie "too crispy." I found it to be internally luscious and appropriately flaky.

But reader? The kitchen wasn't all rainbows and lollipops that night. There was a true Greek tragedy. Actually it was just the sort of kitchen blunder you'd expect from Uncle Jesse on an episode of Full House.

Ever notice how salt and sugar look exactly the same? No, really, they do. Well, one cooking club member has learned that valuable lesson. His entire batch of baklava was ruined when he seasoned it up with a cup and a half of salt. As you can see from the photo, we ripped our little claws through the bad baklava, looking for secret pockets of sweet. There were none. It was disgusting.

We ate stuffed grape leaves for dessert instead.

Avocado Curry! A long overdue trip to Araya's Vegetarian Place.

Avocado curry. Yeah, I didn't stutter. It exists. And it has existed in Seattle for two decades, and I am only just now tasting it. It's like someone has tried to purposely keep me from the creamiest, savoriest, most avocado-green curry in the world. Um, I guess that's not true. A total and complete lie, in fact.

Like most everyone who drives up and down NE 45th Street between Wallingford and the U-District, I have always noticed the square, spinning Araya sign. "It spins!" I thought to myself, always a clear genius of observation. But I always drove on by.

Well, readers, the Geo Prism had to stop eventually. And it did. I parked my face right in front of the Avocado Curry (and about five other steaming plates of food, because that's how I roll).

The curry comes in a nice, deep bowl. Soft cubes of tofu, fried triangles of tofu, broccoli (sweetly suggested by the waitress when we requested a bell pepper ban) , basil and "veggie beef" happily bobbing up and down in the Avocado Curry swimming pool. Ladle it on top of a mound of nutty, brown rice and you've got your taste and texture covered for the day.

But reader? There is one thing. One tiny glitch. A black fly in my Chardonnay (That's right. I quoted Alanis Morissette *shoves fist dangerously close to your face* You got a problem with that? I didn't think so.) It's the "veggie beef." A total and complete oxymoron. But that's not the point.

I've eaten lots of fake meat before. Even a fake shrimp, realistically painted with stripey pink lines. But this "veggie beef" looked, mouth-felt and tasted like slices of...SPAM. With juuuust a hint of wet cat food.

I don't want to brag, but I know my SPAM. After all, I did judge the Spam cook-off at the Puyallup County Fair this summer:

http://www.box.net/shared/srmfy1bcow

But I digress.

Long story short: gross. The slimy half-moons of look-a-like Spam should be avoided.

But a trip to Araya's Vegatarian Place should not.

*Curtsy*

p.s. The avocado curry was camera shy (total introvert) but the crispy, photogenic spring rolls we tried agreed to appear on this blog.

And you are?

I'm the proud new owner of Eat. Eat. Eat. Enjoy! Which means I'm a brand spankin' new Seattle food blogger. Clearly, this is just what the world needs.

I'm Rachel Belle, the co-voice of Stick A Fork In It - a restaurant review heard every Friday and Saturday morning on Newstalk 710 KIRO. http://710kiro.com/sectional.asp?id=9421

I'm a gal who thinks about food as many times a day as the average man thinks about sex.

I'm a gal who enjoys reading restaurant menus, while sitting on the couch snacking on bits of cheese.

I'm a gal who guiltily eats sour cream by the spoonful, out of the container, while standing in front of the glowing light of the refrigerator. Shut up. No judging. It's frikkin' delicious.

I'm a gal who hopes to entertain you by using my food fanaticism for good, instead of evil.