I'll Take it Extra-Virgin
Last night I ate oil.
That's right. Spoonfuls of pure fat. It was deliciosity personified. At least, the ones made from olives were. The others, made from rapeseeds or corn kernels or soybeans, were considerably less so. But still, how many times in life can you ingest spoonfuls of oil just because you have to?
An interesting note for foodie friends who care: You should never fry with olive oil. It can't take the heat of grapeseed oil, or canola oil (peanut oil has the highest smoking point), or classic Wesson vegetableness. And did you know that some disgusting and highly profitable company makes an oil called FryMax, which has the highest smoking point of all and is used by McDonald's throughout the world? Think about that lovely, strainable, re-usable-for-an- entire-night chemical compound the next time you dig into your crispy trans-fatty fries.
But I highly recommend 25-year-old balsamic vinegar. It's like wine candy. I could drink it. I practically did. In fact, I have a really hard time understanding how it is that a classroom full of people who seemingly should love food would leave an almost plateful of this supreme form of vinegar on a plate destined for the landfill. But if, by god, I have to eat an entire classroom's full of oil and vinegar for it not to go to waste, then so be it. I'll take 18,000 calories for the team.
God, I'm in trouble if I ever own a specialty olive oils line. I'll be infusing spices and pieces of bark and leafy herby things all over the place, but if someone gives me a squishy loaf of bread I'll consume my entire stock. I'm practically having an orgasm just thinking about blood orange vinegar with garlic-rosemary infused extra-virgin olive oil.
(And yes, extra-virgin olive oil is made by very, very young Greek boys with soft hands and steamy presses.)
Last thought for the evening: Randy is a lot younger than I was giving him credit for. I mean, it's not as though I don't give plenty of men plenty more credit than they're due, but honestly, this scene by the olive oil and cooking wine rack did me in.
I say, "Wow, this Greek oil is amazing. I wonder what it's called."
And I grab the bottle, and it's from a company called Iliada, their Extra-Virgin Kalamata. Randy says,
"Kalamata! I know that brand! I've totally seen that in the grocery store."
??
It's like the one woman in class who popped an entire half kiwi in her mouth, and then wondered: "Am I not supposed to eat the skin?"
But I digress. Randy's prolific knowledge of olive classification actually has nothing to do with my minor loss of respect for his potential maturity. Really, it had to do with this:
Alisha: "Dude, check out the cooking wine they had us taste! It's FRANZIA! God, that takes me back."
Randy: "Yeah--to, like, yesterday."
Oh, the box wine days. Unless he just has extraordinarily poor taste in cheap wine (please see http://flamingogirl.typepad.com/winofiles), he must be just a barely post-collegiate baby, who might even still cherish his alma mater keychain the same way six-month-olds love their pacifiers.
Oh, the days of boxed-wine extra virginity. How they have passed.
That's right. Spoonfuls of pure fat. It was deliciosity personified. At least, the ones made from olives were. The others, made from rapeseeds or corn kernels or soybeans, were considerably less so. But still, how many times in life can you ingest spoonfuls of oil just because you have to?
An interesting note for foodie friends who care: You should never fry with olive oil. It can't take the heat of grapeseed oil, or canola oil (peanut oil has the highest smoking point), or classic Wesson vegetableness. And did you know that some disgusting and highly profitable company makes an oil called FryMax, which has the highest smoking point of all and is used by McDonald's throughout the world? Think about that lovely, strainable, re-usable-for-an- entire-night chemical compound the next time you dig into your crispy trans-fatty fries.
But I highly recommend 25-year-old balsamic vinegar. It's like wine candy. I could drink it. I practically did. In fact, I have a really hard time understanding how it is that a classroom full of people who seemingly should love food would leave an almost plateful of this supreme form of vinegar on a plate destined for the landfill. But if, by god, I have to eat an entire classroom's full of oil and vinegar for it not to go to waste, then so be it. I'll take 18,000 calories for the team.
God, I'm in trouble if I ever own a specialty olive oils line. I'll be infusing spices and pieces of bark and leafy herby things all over the place, but if someone gives me a squishy loaf of bread I'll consume my entire stock. I'm practically having an orgasm just thinking about blood orange vinegar with garlic-rosemary infused extra-virgin olive oil.
(And yes, extra-virgin olive oil is made by very, very young Greek boys with soft hands and steamy presses.)
Last thought for the evening: Randy is a lot younger than I was giving him credit for. I mean, it's not as though I don't give plenty of men plenty more credit than they're due, but honestly, this scene by the olive oil and cooking wine rack did me in.
I say, "Wow, this Greek oil is amazing. I wonder what it's called."
And I grab the bottle, and it's from a company called Iliada, their Extra-Virgin Kalamata. Randy says,
"Kalamata! I know that brand! I've totally seen that in the grocery store."
??
It's like the one woman in class who popped an entire half kiwi in her mouth, and then wondered: "Am I not supposed to eat the skin?"
But I digress. Randy's prolific knowledge of olive classification actually has nothing to do with my minor loss of respect for his potential maturity. Really, it had to do with this:
Alisha: "Dude, check out the cooking wine they had us taste! It's FRANZIA! God, that takes me back."
Randy: "Yeah--to, like, yesterday."
Oh, the box wine days. Unless he just has extraordinarily poor taste in cheap wine (please see http://flamingogirl.typepad.com/winofiles), he must be just a barely post-collegiate baby, who might even still cherish his alma mater keychain the same way six-month-olds love their pacifiers.
Oh, the days of boxed-wine extra virginity. How they have passed.
But they are good memories, aren't they?
posted by alisha at 10:57 PM
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