Catching Up, With Cake

I’ve been living at the center of the tornado that is student life for the past few months, and this blog has been silent because I haven’t managed to write anything that totally self-obsessed. Anything that isn't focused, that is, on questions about the nature of the self, the nature of our idea of the self, or the nature of what selves can do and how we should treat them, as asked and answered by David Hume, G.E. Anscombe, Sydney Shoemaker, Christine Korsgaard, and plenty of others. I've taken occasional breaks for thinking about Aristotle’s account of bravery. I then try to exemplify that virtue when I return to self-consciousness.

It’s unfortunate that I haven’t been posting, because this student life does not include a diet of instant ramen and dinner-cereal. Far from it. This is Berkeley, after all, and there’s no reason, excuse, or even feasible method for avoiding noteworthy food. And I’ve been experimenting with new things a fair amount – baking, braising, and freezing all sorts of substances. I’m going to try to catch up on the documentation over winter break, and of course I’ll be making countless new dishes to force on all the people who plan to come to town for the holidays.

But before I return to term papering, here’s a recipe to start off with. It’s one of a number of birthday desserts that I’ve made this semester, and the second one to include alcohol as a key ingredient. I find that people appreciate this on their birthdays. It was inspired by this year’s Anchor Steam Christmas Ale, a rich and spicy beer that could count as a dessert on its own. Upon my first sip, I immediately pronounced that it tasted exactly like cake, and promised to make it into one. Most things, after all, are improved by transformation into cake form.

Chocolate Birthday Beer Cake

1 box Trader Joe’s chocolate cake mix

Whatever else it lists on the back of the box, minus the water

Anchor Steam Christmas Ale

2 tsp cinnamon

Follow the directions on the box, but replace the water with an equal quantity of beer, and add the cinnamon. I didn’t frost it, because I didn’t have time to make frosting, and because I like cake better than frosting – especially this cake. But it would be excellent with some whipped cream. Or plain cream.

Subject Matters

I’m so sorry, blog. I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you. I’ve been thinking about you, and I’ve been thinking about food – and making it – quite a lot. But my camera is broken, and since I forgot to spend a few years as a financial consultant before signing up for grad school, I can’t afford to fix it. And somehow, slapping together some philosophical writing and a recipe without at least providing a nice picture doesn’t seem adequate.

But I thought about you the other day, when Stephen Yablo gave a talk on “A Semantic Conception of the Truthmakers.” His argument had something to do with the relevance of “subject matter” to the truth of sentences, which was supposed to capture our intuitions about when statements can be technically incorrect but “get something right.” To get to these subject matters, we have to subtract part of the content of the sentence from the rest of it, which can be illustrated by very complicated diagrams segmenting logical space in various ways. Or, Yablo mentioned, it can be illustrated by a simple analogy, like the explanation: “A gratin is a quiche that’s not baked in a crust.” You take the idea of a quiche, then you take away the crust, and what you get is an understanding of a gratin. Similarly, with statements, you take everything the sentence purports to say, then you subtract the bits you don’t think are essential to what’s being talked about, and you get the subject matter.

The problem with this is that there’s really nothing accurate about that explanation of a gratin. A quiche that’s not baked in a crust is a crustless quiche. It’s made with eggs, milk, and any number of fillings. A gratin involves no eggs; it’s generally made with a béchamel sauce using cream, butter, flour, and cheese. Perhaps a better example would be an explanation of a frittata: a quiche without so much milk.

This got me thinking about savory bread pudding, because I made some recently and had to explain it to people who had never heard of such a thing (and probably didn’t yet understand why you’d want to eat it). I think the best argument is a comparison to Thanksgiving stuffing: savory bread pudding is like that, but with milk and eggs instead of stock. The result is a very rich and delicious main course.

Here’s the recipe. You can add and subtract fillings you please, as long as we’re still talking about bread, eggs, and milk.

Fennel and Chard Bread Pudding

1 bulb of fennel, halved, cored, and thinly slice
1 large bunch rainbow chard, chopped
1 onion, sliced
3 ounces cheddar cheese, grated
Handful of parmesan shavings
3 ½ cups crusty bread cubes, toasted in the oven until crispy
2 ½ cups milk
3 eggs
Salt and pepper, to taste

Sautee fennel and onions until soft and wimpy, and slightly caramelized. Then add chard to pan in handfuls, adding when sufficiently reduced in volume. Toss vegetables with bread cubes and cheese, put into well-buttered and suitably sized casserole dish. Whisk eggs and milk together, season with salt and pepper, and pour over (I’m actually completely unsure of how much liquid ingredients I used; the mixture should come almost to the top of the bread, but not quite. Bake at 375F for 40 minutes, or until set. Sprinkle top with parmesan for the last few minutes of baking.

A New Plan, Gilbert Ryle, and Posole

Ok, here’s the new plan.

Each Wednesday, I turn in a few pages that attempt to make sense of some article or chapter on a philosophical topic of some kind. Most Wednesdays, others who have also just completed this task gather at my house for dinner. Both the discussion and the food aim to be sensible but innovative, and both are reliably satisfying.

So I’m going to start using these Wednesdays as the material for (I hope) weekly posts. Either I’ll put up the paper I wrote, or some discussion of the topic. Or discussion of some other topic, if I feel like it. And I’ll include recipes for the dishes that we deemed successful at dinner. Or other recipes, if I feel like it. None of this is set in stone.

Here we go. We have some catching up to do.

In "Knowing How and Knowing That," Gilbert Ryle elaborates a view of intelligence as a "skill," and intelligent action as "the exercise of a skill." He admits that an act itself has no distinctive marking of intelligence, since two acts could be indistinguishable though one is performed intelligently and the other is not. But this is because a skill is not a particular event itself, so would be incorrect to talk about it in the ways we talk about events, as being seen or unseen. To possess a skill is to have a particular kind of disposition, and possession of a disposition does not consist in actually being in a certain state, but in the truth of certain statements about what state one would be in if various conditions arose.

But what more can we say about intelligence, other than that we can't think about it in terms of a single isolated instance? Ryle seems to acknowledge the importance of distinguishing intelligent capacities from mere habits, but he fails to give a satisfying explanation of what it is that sets intelligent dispositions apart.

Whenever Ryle sets out to give an account of which counterfactual statements must be satisfied by an individual in order for his disposition to be intelligent, his analysis falls short in a specific way: the criteria that he enumerates are themselves intelligent capacities, so we come no closer to an understanding of the property of intelligence itself. Ryle is adamant that observation of action is sufficient for justifying attributions of intelligence: a chess player demonstrates his competence in chess with the moves he makes on the board, and nothing further is required. But what is it about his demonstration of those moves that makes chess-playing a matter of intelligence? Here and elsewhere in the chapter, Ryle refers obliquely to strategy: the chess player’s competence is shown in “the moves he avoids or vetoes," and the intelligent arguer has to “innovate,” be "on guard," and "exploit opportunities." A mountain climber must be “ready" to cope with any obstacles that come his way. But avoidance, exploitation, readiness, and innovation are all understood as processes that require intelligence, and we're interested in understanding that very concept, not just paraphrasing it. We still want to know, what is it about all of these activities that makes them intelligent ones?

It's striking that Ryle seems to blatantly ignore the somewhat obvious element shared by all of his criteria. Sure, he makes it clear that the player’s moving the chess pieces demonstrates that he knows how to move them – that he knows the rules for the types of moves allowed for each piece. But there is another kind of rule, or at least a feature of chess, that the player has to know to count as knowing how to play, which Ryle essentially leaves out: the player must know how to win the game. He must not just make legal moves, but make ones that will help him achieve his main aim of capturing the king. This omission is the source of the insufficiency of Ryle’s explication of the criteria for intelligence. It is fine to elaborate the specific ways in which an adept mountain climber or marksman would exercise his skill in order to reach his goal, but the key factor that separates these and all intelligent actions from mere habits and other simpler dispositions is that the agent has a goal. To act intelligently, the agent must antecedently grasp what it is to be successful in his endeavor, or what it is to win. Ryle is right to point out that since intelligence is a disposition, we must talk about it in modal language, using "could" and "would" statements. But to accurately capture intelligence, we must also recognize that the relevance of those "would" statements is determined by normative "should" statements. Intelligence must be explained in terms of successes and mistakes, in relation to a goal. Why does this seem to slip past in Ryle's discussion?

The end. Time for some Mexican stew.

Nopalito Posole

1 onion, diced
1 15 oz. can of hominy
1 qt. vegetable stock
1 cup tomatoes, diced
1.5 cups canned nopalitos, drained and rinsed
1 dried New Mexican chili
juice of 1 lime
handful chopped cilantro

Garnishes: diced avocado, crumbled cotija cheese, extra cilantro and lime

Sautee onions until translucent. Add next five ingredients, plus more water to cover if necessary. Bring to a boil, then simmer at least 30 minutes until stewy. Add cilantro and lime, and serve with extra garnishes.

Foraging

If you like getting stuff for free, Berkeley is a great place to live. That statement will strike many as strange and dubitable; let me explain. Yes, the cost of living in the Bay Area is one of the highest in the country. Rent is ever-increasing, water bills are staggering, and parking tickets should make up a significant percentage of the budget of anyone silly enough to have a car. But at least those costs are slightly offset by the incredible opportunities for foraging!

I now laugh at my former New York-resident self, selecting a plastic package containing three sprigs of rosemary from a frosty supermarket shelf, shuffling up to the check out line to hand over $2.99 for permission to take it home and cook with it. With an average of about three large rosemary bushes per block, no one in their right mind would ever think of paying for it here. Same goes for fennel fronds and lavender.

A few weeks ago I wanted to find a use for the nasturtiums that also grow everywhere of their own volition, including the entirely untended flower beds in front of my house. I used to eat them as a kid because nothing was more exciting that the idea of flowers you could eat, but I knew that I would enjoy their strong peppery taste much more now. I found some recipes for nasturtium butter spreads, but decided instead to incorporate them into mayonnaise, since I wanted to try making it with my new blender stick.

The blender stick method worked much better than my previous food processor attempts, though my hand did get a little tired holding down the power button for so long (woe is me and my electrical kitchen devices). It produced a very thick mayonnaise, probably thanks to the fact that I was forced to be patient about adding the oil since the stick took up most of the opening of the jar, and because I used two egg yolks instead of one whole egg. The chopped nasturtium confetti contrasted beautifully with the creamy white, and added an interesting sharpness to the flavor.

The mayonnaise went perfectly with all of the components of my mother's Shrimp Boil Birthday Dinner: we smeared it on boiled red potatoes, corn, shrimp, and soft herbed bread. It's an impressive jar to bring to a party, being both visually pleasing and somewhat conceptually unusual. You'll seem very gourmet, even though the key ingredient was plucked off a sidewalk. Don't worry, I washed it first.

Nasturtium Mayonnaise

2 egg yolks

2 tbps lemon juice

pinch of salt

3/4 cup oil (I used 1/4 cup canola oil and 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil this time)

3-5 nasturtium flowers, finely chopped

Place first three ingredients in a jar with a mouth wide enough to fit the head of the blender stick. Blend until well combined. Then, while blending continuously, start drizzling in the oil, literally drop by drop at first, waiting to add more until everything is fully incorporated. After the first 1/4 cup or so you can start adding more in each go. The mixture will get thicker as you go on. When all the oil has been added, stir in the nasturtium. Refrigerate.

Avocado Is Enough

Berkeley has a great philosophy program and everything, with well-respected faculty, and what seems to be a nice student community. But my presence here could be construed as somewhat overdetermined. Good quality avocados, while not necessary to my happiness (I coped without them for the better part of five years) are damn near sufficient for it.

My mother often served them for dinner, one half per person, the center where the pit had been filled with balsamic vinaigrette. For a long time that was virtually the only way I ate them, until Katherine showed me that they can be delicious with just a sprinkling of salt, if balsamic vinaigrette seems like too much of an effort. I discovered the avocado and cheese sandwich at some point in college; it seemed like it couldn't get much better than the subtle spectrum of textures of the creamy avocado, firm cheese, and toasted bread.

But the other day I found I was able to improve on this classic recipe, using another ingredient far more commonplace in California than other places I've lived: Tapatio hot sauce. It's quite potent stuff, and just a few dashes to stain a piece of whole wheat toast where enough to provide a good amount of heat. The sweet-and-sour spice brought out the fruitiness of the avocado, and reminded me again of some of the many reasons I'm happy to be here.

I encourage everyone to get their hands on a ripe avocado today, and try it out. I usually use a mild cheddar, swiss, or fontina, but it would be interesting to experiment with sharper cheeses. I don't melt the cheese because I like how the different types of firmness of the cheese and avocado compliment each other, but I toast the bread, usually a regular sandwich bread with a fine crumb, so that it adds a bit of crunch. This time I drizzled it with Tapatio, but mustard also works well. I layer the cheese on first, then slices of avocado, and often a sprinkling of course-ground black pepper.

Even in California, Deli Wine Is Only Suitable for Granita

The fact that you can buy wine and liquor at just about any store in California is pretty exciting, but it does not mean that you should just buy it at any store. This we found out the hard way on Friday night, coming back from the Best of the East Bay party at Jack London square. After we’d had enough of the party (and the fog started rolling in), we wanted to end the night with a bottle of wine at our apartment. So we stopped off at Bing’s on San Pablo, and picked up a bottle of something called Crane Lake Riesling. I have no idea what motivated the choice since I didn’t do the selecting, but it was not a success. In fact it was entirely undrinkable. The lesson here: if you make wine choices in the interest of budget, be sure to always have a reliable Trader Joe’s brand on hand.

In any case, we were left with a mostly full bottle of this headache-flavored syrup, and in our kitchen all things that get opened must be put to use. I deemed it too powerfully sweet for a savory application like coq au vin blanc, so instead I decided to repurpose it as a dessert. A recipe for white wine granita with rosemary and lemon was easily adapted to what I had on hand: basil and lime. I also scaled back the sugar since the wine was so sweet to begin with….and added more wine. It needed to go.

Because it requires attention at intervals spread over a considerable about of time, granita is an excellent cooking project when you have something else to occupy you in the house for most of the day. For example, a 550-page book on perception and objectivity. The somewhat crucial step is catching it when the first ice crystals start to form and scraping them into smaller ones. I was in the middle of a gripping section on Primitive Agency when this happened, so I got to it a little late. The crystal shards that I ended up with might have been a little bigger than desired, but they got fluffier and fluffier as I continued scraping, every half hour to hour.

The resulting granita was much more edible than the wine was drinkable. It was a beautiful pale jade color from the basil, and the herbal flavor and citric acidity did a good job covering up the obnoxious wine. I’m sure it would be absolutely amazing with a high quality wine, but if I had one of those, it wouldn’t get anywhere near my freezer.

Bad Wine Granita

1/3 of a cup of sugar (or less, depending on the sweetness of the wine)
250 mL water
200 mL white wine
4 large basil leaves, roughly chopped or torn
Juice of half a lime

Bring water to a boil with sugar and basil leaves; stir until sugar is dissolved, then turn off the heat and let cool, covered. When cooled, mix liquid with wine and lime juice (I discarded the basil leaves, but pressed as much liquid as I could out of them with a wooden spoon). Pour into a shallow container and put in the freezer. When the first ice crystals start to form, use a fork to break them into smaller bits and stir them into the liquid. This may happen one to two hours after placing in the freezer, depending on the dimensions of the dish. Repeat scraping process every hour to half hour afterwards, creating a light, fluffy texture.

Karadeniz Romano Beans

One of the best ways to satiate an appetite after several hours of climbing Istanbul’s steep hills is to step into a lokanta. At these cozy, informal restaurants, similar to traiteurs in France, the establishment’s offerings are all laid out behind the counter, which is great for the traveler who is less familiar with the names and contents of Turkish dishes than she’d like to be. You can point to and inquire about the various stews, pilafs, and salads and know much more about what you eventually request to have heaped on your plate than you would if you had ordered blindly from a menu.

The food at lokantas is usually simple and traditional, the kind of thing that benefits from being prepared ahead. But when the simplest food is prepared with good ingredients and small, painstakingly made batches, it can impress just as much as a fancy restaurant.

One lunch I had at a lokanta specializing in Karadeniz cuisine (from regions along the coast of the Black Sea) was particularly memorable. I had ordered a stewed romano bean dish that looked hearty and satisfying, but I discovered after one bite that it had much more to recommend it than its nutritional value. There was some subtle ingeniousness to its flavor, soft yet slightly tangy, the herbs and spices blending into a single coherent background, making it difficult to identify and single component.

When I saw some romano beans at the Beehive Farmer’s Market down the street from my new apartment, I decided to try to recreate the dish, even though I knew it would require a lot of experimentation to get elusive the seasoning right. My first attempt included rosemary, garlic, and onion for aromatics, and a splash of balsamic vinegar for some depth and a balance to the sweetness of the tomatoes. It was good, but nowhere near revelatory. I left most of my spice collection in New York, and cooking with the more limited supplies I’ve gathered here is like switching from a grand piano to a 49-key Casio keyboard. But I believed I could still do better, and the next day I reheated it with some fresh sage, more fresh rosemary, ground sumac, and dried thyme.

Day two’s version was better, and in fact very good. A slice of Acme’s herb slab stood in place of the shopping bag of fresh, fluffy foccacia that came with each table at the original Karadeniz lokanta. Below is the recipe for an approximation of the final version, but if you’re on your way to Istanbul, let me know and I’ll have Katherine take you to get the real thing.

Note: Even more than expected, this is definitely a dish that improves as it sits in the fridge. The last helping, consumed on day three, was by far the best, and a rival to what I had in Istanbul.

Karadeniz Romano Beans

Slightly less than 1 lb romano beans (I happened to have grabbed 4/5 lb)
1 8 oz. can diced tomatoes
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
Half a medium yellow onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
6 inch rosemary sprig, chopped
2 large sage leaves, chopped
½ teaspoon sumac
½ cup water
Salt and pepper, to taste

Trim ends of romano beans and cut into halves or thirds, depending on size. In a deep saucepan or Dutch oven (one of which I am now the proud owner, or at least borrower!), saute onion in olive oil for a few minutes until softened and slightly browned. Add salt and pepper, rosemary, garlic, sage, and sumac, cook a minute more. Deglaze with balsamic vinegar, then add tomatoes and bring to a boil. Add beans and water (add more water if the mixture doesn’t cover the beans, then reduce to a simmer and cover. Cook for 50 minutes, until beans are very tender. Let cool in the pot for 15 minutes or so, allowing the stew to thicken.