The Cabbage Gene

When it comes to "nature vs. nurture", I often find m'self firmly in the "nurture" camp.  Surroundings and upbringing, not to mention the snowflake-like diversity of humanity, often has more to do with how a person behaves than pure instinct and breeding, at least in my experience.  The movie Trading Places should have put this argument to bed in the 80's, for all intensive purposes.

Take me, for example.  I am a man of simple tastes.  A product, some might say, of my catholic-style, small town, coastal New England upbringing.  What this basically means, from a day to day perspective, is that I like to make fun of foliage tourists (aka: leafers) while wearing  LL Bean outerwear.  And not because LL Bean is fashionable (which it has never been), but because every piece of clothing comes with a lifetime guarantee.  So, I can return the sweater I'm wearing right now should I spill lead paint all over it.  Oh yeah, they'll take it back, no questions asked.  But, i'm getting off topic...

All this confirmation of one of my firmly held beliefs is well and good.  EXCEPT...it doesn't totally stand up when it comes to the foods I am instinctively drawn to. Specifically, this applies to that stinkiest of vegetables: the cabbage.  I can't get enough of the stuff.  Shredded raw over fish tacos, in coleslaw, braised,
sauerkraut-ed, golabki (that's stuffed cabbage to the uninitiated), and, more recently, as Kimchi.  It's all so damn good.

With a little bit of rye bread and some mashed on the side? Heaven!

There are three groups of cabbage love that all people fall into, I've found:

1. Those that enjoy it raw, mostly because it neither behaves nor smells that strongly of cabbage in this state.
   
2. Those that enjoy eating it as much as I do in both cold and hot forms, but will not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, cook it in their own home, because it stinks up their kitchen for a good 38 hours afterwards, and the smell turns their stomach while they're trying to enjoy their morning coffee two days later.
   
3. Those that would invite other people over to cook cabbage in their kitchen, not only because they enjoy cooked cabbage dishes, but because they really look forward to how their kitchen is going to smell for the next 38 hours.

I am firmly in camp number three.  I was reminded of this fact this weekend, when, during our korean-style labor day barbeque with friends, the Velogirl opened a fresh can of kimchi.  Keep in mind, we didn't even pickle it ourselves, yet I could smell it in our upstairs bedroom within 30 seconds of the lid being popped off.  And, I was in heaven.  This, I feel, is due to generations of past McBanks', passing on their passion through millions of cumulative potato and cabbage meals both in Scotland and in Poland (on me mum's side).  Thankee ancestors, that I should instinctively adore all the delights that can be found from so noble a crop. 

Or, maybe I'm just strange.

The best part?  Not everyone at the barbeque shared my enthusiasm for kimchi, and as a result, I have about 4 cups of the stuff still in my fridge.  I had a heap of it on the side of my eggs this morning--it ruled.  Someone, please save me from myself.

Stuff I Don't NEED But Really, Really Want: Ice Cream Maker Edition

So, last night I was treated to a lovely dinner party at the home of some friends.  All pistons were firing last night.    Freeflowing, stimulating conversation?  Check.  A martini put into my hand by the host just as I walked in, before my (figurative) coat was even off?  Check.  Delicious, well thought-out and conceived dinner menu featuring some of my favorite foods?  supaCheck.

But, just when I thought the night couldn't get any better, the hosts pulled out their container of HOMEMADE ICECREAM.  It was butterscotch flavored.  Butterscotch flavored ice cream. As if not enticing enough, I was encouraged to "drizzle a little bit of whisky over it", as I guess it brings out the flavor of  butterscotched, homemade ice cream.  It was fan.  fucking. tastic.  Like a caramel-y, coffee-y, whisky-y, butter-y dream.

If I owned a smartphone (and had 45 dollars in one place), I probably would have excused myself from the table, gone to the bathroom, and ordered one for overnight delivery while I pretended to tinkle.  Then, after washing my hands to complete the illusion of a "successful" stint in the loo, I would then have sauntered back to the table, confident that I would be making my own ice cream this very evening.  But, I own no such device.  Boo.  My rash decision making would have to wait.  Curses!

In the clear light of day, I have thought over the pros and cons of owning my own ice cream maker.  And, I have come to a decision:  I really want one.  I  want to take my seat at the roundtable of those who make their own ice cream.  I want my very own ice cream "reactor" in which I can magically split butter from heavy cream, liquid from solid.

The Velogirl is wise to my scheme, and is very supportive.  She even very helpfully pointed out that a new ice cream maker could also be used to make sorbet, for a delicious and refreshing change of pace.

The more I think about it, the more I have decided that I will not want my ice cream maker bowl tainted by sorbet.  I know others will disagree with me, but sorbet, to me, is the very OPPOSITE of delicious.  Nor is it refreshing.  You know what's refreshing?  Water.  But nobody eats a bowl of ice cubes for dessert, so there.

Each time I put some sorbet onto my tongue, I secretly WISH that my saliva would magically transform the slushy peach concoction into cookies and cream, as an alchemist would turn lead into gold.  Instead, I always find m'self disappointed that I'm not eating ice cream, and have instead settled for a bowl of cold fruit juice.  But, i'm getting off topic...

I will own one of these magical devices soon.  And, lo, it will be awesome.