Food of the Prophets

March 30 in the General Conference insert. This topic was an assignment, but it was fun to write.

We have long been interested in what comes out of the mouths of the prophets, but what about what goes into them? It is intriguing to consider the lives of the Latter-day Saint prophets outside of the words they shared … their daily toil, the people and the places they loved, and their food.

It is no stretch to imagine David O. McKay loving a fresh-baked apple topped with brown sugar and cinnamon, shiny with basted caramel syrup and fragrant from the oven, as reported by Holly Farnsworth in the Worldwide Ward Cookbook. It also easy to believe that Ezra Taft Benson appreciated the bright-yellow of a tart lemon meringue pie or a heaping cup of plump fresh red raspberries. Lorenzo Snow loved Yorkshire pudding. Howard W. Hunter liked Alaskan Crab.

Spencer W. Kimball, on the other hand, filled a tall glass with milk, crumbled date-nut bread into it until it was thick, and ate it with a spoon, recalled President Thomas S. Monson. And as for the favorite food of Joseph Fielding Smith, “I observed him at our luncheon table in the temple on Thursdays, and he seemed to love sweet pickles. I hate them! I would see to it that he got the sweet pickles, and I'd take the dill pickles,” said Monson.

The favorite recipes of some of the Latter-day Saint prophets were compiled by Farnsworth in a chapter of a book called the Worldwide Ward Cookbook. Farnsworth collected most of the recipes from an old Salt Lake City 10th ward cookbook. Favorite foods are not a static decision, and the collected recipes are more speculation than fact. But the recipes do reflect the times and places in which the men lived.

Joseph Smith had Johnny Cakes. Harold B Lee had boiled raisin cake. Joseph F. Smith had custard pie. Their recipes were simple, and required mostly locally available ingredients … apples, sugar, cornmeal, and eggs, for example. As printed, none of the recipes really expound on the actual labor that probably accompanied each dish. None of the directions contain “milk the cow, separate the cream, and churn it into butter,” steps that were likely necessary for a meal during the days when each of these men lived and ate.

Monson's remarks about the prophets' favorite foods came from direct observation while serving with these men in Salt Lake City. He related brief personal glimpses as part of a September 2009 BYU devotional that bespoke his appreciation for the leaders he had known, and favorite foods were a part of who these men were. David O. McKay embodied consideration, and ate Cummings chocolates, said Monson. Gordon B. Hinckley lived the guiding principle “do your best,” and loved pie and ice cream, he said.

Perhaps it is a desire to know these men better, or to know that they had personality quirks like we do. Maybe it is an effort to be closer to them. Or maybe it is a hope that we have something in common. Whatever the reason, it is interesting to think about what the prophets chose to eat.

Which brings me to Brigham Young's Buttermilk Donuts, a recipe found in the Worldwide Ward Cookbook. The recipe was first made by Emily Partridge Young, and was a favorite with Brigham Young, according to the book. The donuts became so popular that they were sold at the ZCMI department store in Salt Lake City.

I was intrigued. Interesting enough that they were a prophet's preferred food, but the fact that they were approved (and purchased) by thousands of mercantile-seeking individuals indicated that they must have been good. And they were. The recipe certainly wasn't strictly authentic (Young didn't have paper towels or paper bags, I'm sure). But my family didn't care. Served warm from the oil, and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, we ate enough soft, bready donuts to cross the planes … well, Kansas, at least.

But really these foods tell us less about the prophets than they do about the people who loved and served them. Most of these recipes were probably prepared for the prophets by wives, mothers, friends, people who loved them and knew them well enough to make the foods they liked. After all, how much time did the prophets have for cooking? President Kimball used the refrigerator in his office to store piles of notes, said Monson.

Latter-day Saints love their prophets. Maybe that is why we are interested in their foods, because we have at least that in common with the people who prepared these dishes.

Spice on Ice

April 2 in the Herald Journal:

When Cache Valley chefs flaunt their culinary stuff, everyone wins. There certainly weren't any losers at Spice on Ice, the food competition at the George S. Eccles Ice Center on March 25. Some of the best professional chefs of Cache Valley pitted their talents during the annual cook-off and fundraiser for the ice arena.

It all started with the appetizers. Spicy fresh tuna and roasted red pepper sushi were served with chipotle sauce and knock-off-your-socks wasabi under a lighted ice sculpture at the table of chef John Simpson of Culinary Concepts. Pounders chef Kip Loy showed off his food prowess with a silky smooth Lomi Lomi salmon salsa with fresh Ogo seaweed with a crispy noodle-wrapped prawn smothered with guava ginger sauce and a single house-smoked spare rib with a sweet passion fruit glaze. There were a lot of happy sticky faces in the room.

Although the meal was actually served next to the ice rink, rather than on it (I had visions of ice skating waiters and wore my thickest socks), the food had plenty of spice. We passed around platters of pink pungently-smoked salmon with sweet coconut vanilla rice, complex and pleasantly spicy coconut curry chicken and dry-aged sirloin with earthy twice-baked blue cheese potatoes. The hardest part of the evening was taking only my share.

Infamous local talent like Frank Ford of Smokin' Blues Barbeque, Dustin McKay of the Elements, Greg Chambers from Firehouse Pizzeria, Ash Oberoi, from Indian Oven, Ted Mathesius from Hamiltons, Sham Singh of Tandoori Oven, and Jeff Woolley of USU Catering wowed the audience with their mouthwatering presentations. The chefs more or less donated the food and their efforts for the fundraiser, and for a chance to win coveted awards … People's Choice, Judge's Choice and Overall Chef of the Year.

Ultimately only one chef could win – well, actually two in the case of the People's Choice award. The votes for first place were miraculously tied between those who loved the peppery steak medallions topped with cherry sauce and blue cheese served by McKay of Elements, and those who preferred the piles of thick spiral pasta smothered in lemon cream sauce with tender citrus-infused white shrimp from Chambers at Firehouse Pizzeria.

If you didn't make it to the event, you may have a chance to taste one of the People's Choice award winners. In 2009 Chambers included the winning entree from the competition on the Firehouse Pizzeria menu. He is currently considering including the 2010 winner on his menu.

The Judge's Choice award went to Woolley and USU Catering's seared Kobe beef tenderloin cooked to a perfect medium rare. Broccoli greens and spicy tomato fennel sauce gave the ensemble a pleasantly bitter ying to the yang of the flavorful meat, sweet nutty butternut squash dumplings and Porcini mushroom ragu. The Judge's Choice award was based on points earned for presentation, texture, and flavor.

The Overall Chef of the Year award went to McKay of Elements. My thick piece of peppery steak was that melt-in-your-mouth variety of meat. I cut it with the side of my fork, and followed each bite with a creamy dollop of buttermilk whipped Yukon Gold potatoes. The peppery bite of the steak was cut by a sweet cherry-port reduction sauce and the sweet mustiness of blue cheese. It was perfectly balanced, good quality food, and basically heaven on a plate. In the words of my table mate, Dan White of Logan, you don't often get a steak that good. This award was based on an equally-weighted average of the Judge's Choice and the People's Choice scores.

I wondered at the absence of some of the other good restaurants and caterers in the valley. The awards are prominent enough to benefit them with publicity, and most chefs love a good food battle. But the event didn't suffer from their absence.

In the end we were left with very full stomachs, and with the good feeling around the table that only really great food can create. Although I knew that the well-organized event was held to raise money for a great local amenity, the only non-profit ice arena in the West, I could only think how lucky I had been to take part (and from some platters more than my part) of some of the best professional food in Cache Valley. I won't miss next year's event.

Central Milling Company

Nothing sets my heart a-pattering like the complex yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread. The multi-layered crackle of a well-made artisan loaf puts me at the gates of heaven. Baking bread is a magical combination of art, science and experience. It is the archetype of the expert homemaker, but it is not something at which I've ever truly succeeded. The first time I tried whole wheat bread (I kid you not) one bite of the wheat-based Masonite I had created caused my gums to bleed.

My bread is better than it used to be. It rises. It smells right. It thumps a good hollow sound. It is good when it is hot. But it is kind of pasty, and there is an ethereal quality of bakery bread that has eluded me. I call it The Chew. A good chew is what you get when bite a slice of Crumb Brothers ciabatta drizzled with honey, or eat a good bagel or pizza. It is something I haven't been able to duplicate at home. The Chew is partially responsible for keeping bread appetizing when it is no longer hot, and I couldn't make it happen in my loaves. I was at a dead end, bread-wise. I adjusted lots of things, but I never thought about my flour. Little did I know that just four blocks away was the answer to The Chew.

My sister's neighbor is The Pie Lady of Kaysville. She sent my sister on a trek to stock up on her flour of choice, Central Mill's organic unbleached pastry flour. The Pie Lady insists on it, said my sister. It is the only flour she uses, nothing else makes the cut for her crusts. I looked up the address she gave at Center Street and 100 East in Logan. There had to be a mistake. I know that neighborhood. I walk that way weekly during gardeners' market season, and had never noticed a flour store.

But there it was, set in the middle of the block, an unobtrusive red-brick building fronting towering silos. I've lived in Cache Valley long enough to know the ins and outs of the local businesses. I'd never heard of the nationally-known Central Milling Company. One of the biggest producers of organic grain products in the West, their flour is sought after by foodies and bread artisans all over the U.S, especially California.

I visited the small brick building and picked up a 50 pound bag of bread flour (they don't come any smaller). Honestly, I was doubtful that flour could make that big of a difference for my bread. One wheat flour is as good as any other, right?

Wrong, said Zach Perry, quality technician, tour guide and unofficial flour educator at Central Milling Company. Flour isn't simple. When wheat is milled to make white flour, the germ and bran are removed from the kernel (even though they contain nearly all the fiber and B vitamins, they are removed because they also interfere with the elastic properties of the gluten, vital to the texture of the bread). Flour has starch (complex carbohydrates). It also has protein. Soft wheat produces low protein flour for cakes, biscuits and pie crusts. Hard wheat has enough gumption (and protein) to develop higher amounts of gluten … the elastic stuff that allows yeast breads to rise (and gives a good chew).

When you buy flour from the grocery store, there is no way to know what the properties of the flour in the bag are. Wheat crops vary from year to year. Protein and mineral levels change. Some flour makes good bread, some doesn't, said Perry.

Central Milling Company uses a cocktail of 3 to 6 different wheat grains to get high protein bread flour that meets their specifications. They work closely with farmers to help them select seeds that will grow well organically and still produce wheat with the kind of properties they are looking for. They have an on-site quality testing lab. They use old varieties and local varieties of grain.

They don't try and breed out the color. Wheat is generally bred to be as white as possible, said Perry. Organic wheat has more color and more flavor, he said. They don't add bleach, they don't use pesticides, herbicides, and you avoid the chemical sewage sludge produced by conventional farming when you choose organically grown products, he said.

Central Milling Company uses local wheat when they can, but can't fill the demand for their organic products with only Utah wheat, said Perry. About one-third of their wheat comes from Utah. The rest comes from the mid-western United States and Canada. And part of their wheat is ground indirectly by local river water. Since last year, a diversion from the canal turns a generator under the mill that fuels one-third of their energy needs. They are also the oldest continuously operated business in Utah, Perry said.

Which is all very cool, but what about my bread?

I cracked open the big bag as soon as I got home. The first difference I noticed was the texture of the dough. It was silky, much softer than what I was used to, but not gluey. It reminded me of play dough, in a good way. The dough was easier to knead, and still rose significantly higher than what I'd accomplished before.

And then there was The Chew. The finished product had good texture, and a nice springy bite. I was impressed. I'm currently cooking my fourth loaf with Central Milling Company's flour. I haven't yet been able to do the cold bread test, since the first three loaves were consumed too quickly. I have hopes for this one since everyone at my house is currently at work or school. Except me, I'm home. We'll see.

Supertaster

This ran today in the Herald Journal Arts section:

I've always known that my husband is a super hero. He washes dishes. He wrestles on the floor with the kids. Our yard is gorgeous thanks to him (and a lot of help from Anderson's Seed and Garden). But he has a secret. He's tried to conceal it, but a wife can always tell. I think he is a supertaster.

The guy's food preferences flummox me. He despises cheese, but he likes yogurt. He enjoys healthy fare like broccoli and fish, but he would rather chew on a wicker basket than eat whole wheat. He enjoys sugar-dense treats like divinity and fudge, but doesn't like apple pie. And when I say he doesn't like, I mean if there were a thermo-nuclear explosion incinerating all food from the face of the earth except for one warm, fresh-baked, sweet-tart caramel apple pie with a flaky lattice crust and melted sugar on top, he still wouldn't eat it.

Sometimes I just sit at the kitchen table and stare at him.

I know I'm not alone. You probably know someone who has “particular” food preferences, or you may have your own peculiarities about what you put in your mouth. Some preferences come from the way we are raised. If our mothers (or our cultures) tell us that tomatoes taste good, chances are they eventually will. But not all variation in food preference can be accounted for this way.

Scientists have discovered that people live in different sensory worlds. In 1931, a DuPont chemist (who was probably married to a picky eater) discovered that a certain chemical tastes bitter to some people while others found it tasteless. Foods that taste nutty and mild to one person may taste acrid and bitter to another. Some people, supertasters, experience bitter flavor with greater intensity than average.

To find out if my husband is a supertaster, I brought him to meet Dr. Silvana Martini, assistant professor in the Department of Nutrition and Food Science at Utah State University. Martini spends her days thinking about the way people taste food.

Martini tested us by having us taste seven little pieces of filter paper saturated with increasing amounts of the bitter chemical propylthiouracil (PROP). At the lowest level, about 25 percent of the population (supertasters) can taste the bitter. About half the population tastes nothing until the middle and higher levels of the concentration. About 25 percent of people taste nothing, even at the highest levels (non-tasters).

It didn't go like I planned it. I noticed a strong bitter flavor at the second level. My husband popped paper after paper into his mouth, completely unaffected by the PROP flavor. I tried level four, just to make sure I had tasted the right thing, and had to spit out the tinny acrid wad and rinse out my mouth. He tasted nothing, even at the most intense level. I am a supertaster, and my husband is a non-taster. He can't taste PROP at all.

The fault is in his genes. Genes create (or don't) something called fungiform papillae on our tongues. These mushroom-shaped tastebuds can sense bitter chemicals. If you have a lot of these tastebuds, you can taste the bitter in foods like broccoli and soy, and you are a supertaster. If you don't have these receptors, you don't taste the bitter, even though it still crosses your tongue.

Bitter is an acquired taste. Children don't like bitter flavors because they are still relying on their genes to tell them what tastes good and what doesn't. To our genes, sweet tastes good because we are hard-wired to know that our body needs sucrose for energy. Salty is pleasant because our body knows it needs sodium chloride for equilibrium in our cells. We like the savory flavor umami (oo-mah-mee) because it means the food contains monosodium glutamate … a flavor our genes interpret as protein.

Sour and bitter are the ugly stepchildren of flavor. Our genes associate these two flavors with poisonous plants. Just give a baby a grapefruit, and in her response you can see our genes at work, trying to keep us from killing ourselves by ingesting bitter substances like strychnine.

But obviously there are many foods that taste bitter and won't put us in our grave. Our brains learn this through experience, said Martini. As we grow, our brains override our genetic wiring and we begin to enjoy the bitter flavor of grapefruit, coffee, and dark chocolate.

So why do I, the supertaster, tolerate lots of different types of foods, and my husband, the non-taster, stick with his “particular” cuisine? Studies show that being a supertaster is actually not very useful in predicting whether a person will be a picky eater, said Martini. Taste is complicated. In addition to the marriage between genetic disposition and experience, there is a world of other variables that play part. The whole olfactory thing for instance. The majority of nuanced flavor comes through our nose. Just like taste, what individuals smell may be actually different (from what the receptors in our nose are able to pick up) or interpreted differently by the brain.

And then there is texture. And habit. And psychology. And food availability. And health. And the manner in which you chew, swallow, and ponder your food. And good old fashioned bad vibes (I will never eat another fresh cherry without thinking of that one summer when my neighbor forgot to spray the tree).

So we can't use flavor as a predictor of food preference. But we can expand our communication about food to others, said Martini. You can learn to think about what you are eating and try to develop a vocabulary to better express your experience, she said. The researchers at Martini's lab are trained for six months in taste vocabulary before they even start eating cheese (in a research setting, anyway).

Even though he isn't a supertaster, any husband willing to come and taste filter paper for his wife really is a super hero. I'll leave him to his bag of peppered beef jerky and soda today because no matter what he likes to eat, I know he has good taste. He married me.

Cake Off

My latest in the Herald Journal:

The competitors huddle and turn to scrutinize their opposition. They look fierce. Strategies are exchanged in hurried whispers. Their performance has to be flawless, they know, to beat this level of professional. They've trained, focused, sacrificed, and planned. It has involved a lot of sugar.

TLC's Ultimate Cake Off isn't for cream puffs. Amelia Carbine, Logan pastry artist and owner of Frosted Fantasy Cakes isn't one. She is an extreme cake professional. Her towering, delicately colored confections have taken prizes at national venues, the big leagues of sugar competition. Now she and her team are facing their toughest sugar challenge yet, on national television.

Her latest prize-winner is five layers high. A tall-sail ship, modeled after the real thing, "The Spirit of Bermuda" turns starboard on the bottom tier. A parchment-colored map of the Bermuda Islands has the name of each beach and port elegantly scripted along the edge. Coral pink sand and turquoise-blue waves crest the other tiers. The top it is crowned with a traditional stone Caribbean arch (called a moongate) and native flowers ... the pink showy Poinciana, delicate white Oleanders, and petite blue and yellow Bermudianas, impossibly thin and intricately sculpted.

And if your sweet tooth nudged, you could theoretically eat the whole thing, from the ship's sails, to the Oleander petals, to the mottled stonework on the arch.

Carbine got the bug for competition early. She entered a cake competition at the Salt Lake County Fair. "I thought it was going to be bigger than it was, and I went way overboard," she said. "I got best in show. But I really wanted to know how I leveled up with everyone else." So the next month, she entered the big one, the Grand National Wedding Cake Competition. And she came home with a ribbon.

"Everybody deserves to win," she remarked charitably. "It's just that I want to be that winner." She shares an ironic smile. "I don't like getting second or third. I do it to prove to myself, and to other people that I make the cut. If someone can beat me, good for them," she said, laughing at her own determination.

Carbine is a cheerful, but fierce competitor. She grew up with competition. She majored in music, and played the clarinet in solo and concert contests. "I was always the first chair, or close to it," she said. Music got her accustomed to having the public watch, and judge, her performances.

"Sugar is a great medium to work in," said Carbine. "It combines a lot of techniques - painting, baking, sculpting, floral arranging and color. I haven't reached a limit in that medium. There is always something new to try."

Carbine sells custom cakes out of her home and personal business, Frostedfantasycakes.com. She teaches cake decorating classes at Kitchen Kneads in Logan, and at national venues. TLC's Ultimate Cake Off featuring Carbine airs March 22 at 8 p.m.

Amelia's Kick-Butter Cake Recipe

1 cup butter, softened

2 cups sugar

3 eggs, separated

3 additional egg whites

3 cups flour

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup milk

1/4 cup water

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon almond extract

Cream together softened butter and sugar; beating until smooth. Add egg yolks one at a time until well combined. In another bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, salt. In a separate bowl, combine milk and water. Add the flour mixture to the creamed mixture alternately with the milk mixture, beginning and ending with the flour mixture. Mix well then stir in vanilla and almond extract. In a bowl, beat 6 egg whites until stiff peaks form and then fold into the batter. Pour into 2 greased and floured 8" or 9" round cake pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 25-35 minutes, or until the center is set. Cool in the pans for 10 minutes then remove to a wire rack to cool completely.



Amelia's Chocolate Buttercream-your-opponent Frosting

1/2 c shortening

1/2 c butter

3/4 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 tsp almond extract

4 c powdered sugar

3 Tbsp milk

3/4 c dutch processed cocoa

Cream butter and shortening. Add vanilla. Add powdered sugar gradually. Add cocoa. Add milk. Mix on low to medium speed until smooth and fluffy. If icing is too stiff, add more milk.

Tools for the beginner:

Use light-colored cake pans. Dark ones produce an unpleasant crust. The pans also need to be light-weight or the cake won't set in the middle. Buy two 8- or 10-inch round pans to have around the house for occasional celebration cakes. Also essential is a cake spatula. It should be long (to get a good smooth surface on the frosting), and angled (to position layers, and to keep your fingers away from frosting when you are decorating).

Tips for cakes:

Start with a good foundation and a workable frosting. Make a cake from scratch. Box cake mixes are too soft and crumbly to support frosting and decorations. Use a recipe that will make a good, sturdy cake.

Tips for decorating:

Use frosting that isn't too stiff. If you use fondant, get a rolling pin, and collect your favorite cookie cutters to press out decorations. Fondant can be time-intensive and finicky to make from scratch. Good-tasting prepared fondant is available online. Carbine suggests Satin Ice for the best flavor.

Jack's Pizza

When you see the word “pizza,” something inevitably pops into your head. It might be a memory of an impossibly deep Chicago-style pizza packed in casserole-like layers of olives, sausage, tomato sauce, cheese and saturated dough. It might be the delicious paradox of thin-crust pizza – crunchy on the bottom, chewy in the center – that you folded sloppily into your mouth in your dorm room. Or maybe the savory smell of caramelized ham and pineapple, or the mellow aroma of wet mozzarella melting rapturously with sweet plum tomatoes and basil in the intense heat of a wood-fired oven.

In Chicago it is thick. In New York it is thin and wide. Greek immigrants in the Northeastern U.S. slathered dough with olive oil to make it crisp and topped it with feta cheese and Kalamata olives. California pizza became a platform for non-traditional seasonal produce like bean sprouts and shaved carrots. Vermont pizza replaced tomato sauce with a drizzle of real maple syrup over breakfast sausage and eggs. The Western U.S., ironically, popularized Hawaiian pizza, topping ours with sweet pineapple and sliced ham.

Everyone has their own idea about what constitutes a great slice. Considering the history and passion associated with the food, writing about “pizza” is like tackling the topic “The Bible,” or “The Chinese Empire” or “Logan Park Strips.” Where does one begin?

I began at Jack's Woodfired Oven at 256 North Main in Logan. I found Jack and Julie Carlisle working around the large Italian-built wood burning pizza oven in the center of the restaurant. Sticks of apple wood were stacked loosely against the wall. White-hot coals lit the interior of the oven, cooking fragrant yeast dough. I was there for some real pizza.

I know what you are thinking, real pizza? But there is such a thing. Italians cared enough about pizza to “copyright” the method, and to delineate the ingredients that go into an authentic one. There is even an organization.

According to the Verace Pizza Napoletana Association (VPNA) based in Naples, Italy, (and backed by the European Union) authentic pizza must be cooked in a wood oven. Jack's got one. It cooks at an infernal 900 degrees. Jack's job is to stand in front of the cave-shaped opening, shoveling around the rapidly rising dough. Cooking a pizza at home can take 10-20 minutes, but in a wood-fired oven like Jack's, the pizza is done in two. The high heat removes the moisture from the thin crust quickly, making is crispy on the outside, and leaving it chewy on the inside.

I ordered the Margherita pizza (at Jack's it is called “That One Pizza,” but if you ask for a Margherita, they'll know what you are talking about). This classic Italian pizza is made with high-moisture mozzarella, tomatoes, and fresh basil leaves – and according to VPNA, is the only certifiably authentic pizza in existence.

Jack cut generous slabs of fresh mozzarella (the kind packed in brine) and scattered them with sauce on the hand-stretched dough. It melts in a creamy pool, and has a chewy, texture with no grease. This type of cheese begins extremely mild, noted Julie, but as it cooks it absorbs the intense flavors of the other toppings … the sweet acidity of tomatoes, the fragrant fresh basil, and the woody taste of smoke and extra virgin olive oil.

The Carlisles seek out the best possible ingredients, and get them locally when they can. The flour in the dough comes from Central Milling Flour on Center Street. Their Gouda, Gruyere, and Feta come from Rockhill Creamery. The dough is handmade. The sauce comes from fresh tomatoes – seeded by hand. The basil is fresh, fragrant, and whole. It becomes slightly crisp on the top of my pizza.

For the Carlisles, this all began as one serious hobby. They built a wood-burning oven in their yard, just to experiment. They'd never been to Italy, or to New York City for that matter. They'd never tried to emulate the authentic Pizza Napoletana … it just turned out that what the Carlisles liked was basically the same pizza the Italians had perfected over hundreds of years. You start with really good flour, and make a wet dough, said Julie. That way you get a good rise in the hot oven, and get exceptional texture.

My Margherita was exceptional. The salty Mozzarella absorbed a mild smoky flavor from the oven accentuated by a bit of Parmesan and smoked Provolone. The mottled brown crust had just a hint of char and was well balanced by sweet tomatoes, clean-tasting basil and chewy cheese. Pizza at Jack's needs to be folded to be eaten properly. Because the focus of the pizza is flavor, not structure, the crust isn't super-inflated. It's the toppings that you taste. The Carlisles encourage pizza seekers to order no more than three toppings. If you get more than that, said Jack, the flavors are muddled, too intense, and the thing doesn't cook properly.

When you go to Jack's, I recommend ordering one pizza per person. The prices are reasonable, and the current lunch special is a downright deal. My companion and I ordered one small (9 inch), as well as two “mini” (6 inch) pizzas that came with the lunch special. When we left, we weren't carrying any boxes. The large (12 inch) may feed more than one, but I'd lean to the hungry side when ordering.

To clear them of any liability, the Carlisle's pizza does not conform to all the freakishly strict standards maintained by the VPNA. The price of importing San Marzano plum tomatoes from the south of Italy, and south European-produced buffalo cheese would be cost prohibitive, for one. And they don't measure their stretched dough to the centimeter. So if you want a technically correct VPNA pizza, fly to Italy. But if you want a pizza that at heart is authentic, with a dash of Cache Valley, go to Jack's.

Love and Food

My latest HJ News story:

When I think about foods that say amour, I think about the avocado. Its availability is an exotic luxury in frigid Cache Valley. This bulbous fruit has a creamy texture and flesh that undulates between deep and pale green. A ripe strip of buttery avocado spread on a crisp baguette stippled with a sharp accent of freshly ground black peppercorn is positively sensual.

I'm not alone. Along with bananas, almonds, oysters and eggs to name a few, the avocado has long been linked with passion. The Spanish, in fact, found the avocados from the New World so obscene that they were shunned by descent folk. There is no science behind the association … in fact many foods thought to be aphrodisiacs are thus categorized because of their similarity to the shape of various parts of the human anatomy. Our brains are that simple.

That isn't saying that the avocado isn't good for you. The fruit is loaded with folic acid, B6, and potassium, and although it has some fat, it has no cholesterol, making it good for your heart. And a healthy heart never hurt any relationship.

But as any country song can tell you, true love takes more than cardiovascular health. It takes the right menu. Food is kind of a control thing. From the very beginning of life you get to choose what goes into your mouth. You seek out what tastes good, and reject what you dislike. You like Cheetoes. You don't like peanut butter. It is part of the definition of who you are.

Then you meet somebody. She loves peanut butter. She cooks Ethiopian food. She doesn't eat processed flour. What do you do? Love is about sharing. You share yourself, you share your possessions, and you share your meals. Being open to new experience is an essential part of love, and food can play a big part.

When I think about love, I also think about strawberry frosting. My husband is … shall we say “particular” about his food. When we were dating, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for cupcakes. I chose my favorite – lovely pale pink strawberry frosting. He looked at the container and made barfing noises. I burst into tears and ran to the car.

A few months later, he made a dinner for me. He presented a beautiful pudding cake, smothered in creamy waves of bright pink strawberry frosting. That was the moment I knew I really loved this guy.

We don't eat much strawberry frosting anymore. We don't need it. We have moved beyond the strawberry frosting stage of our relationship. We are past the intense, light, beautiful but unsubstantial menu of dating. That was the day of chocolate souffle, coconut shrimp, and curried wild salmon. The food of dating is rich, spicy, elaborate, and fleeting. You daringly eat things that aren't supposed to be consumed … rose petals with couscous or pancakes at dinner. It is intoxicating, but it can't last. You need some fiber.

Those happy souls who move beyond the strawberry frosting stage enter what I like to call the spinach ravioli stage of love. This is where sharing and learning become central. Passion no longer spits with the vengeance of a deep fryer. It simmers. Things don't always come naturally. You learn to meet the needs of your companion, you explore limits, you shed baggage, you hurdle obstacles, you learn to compromise. The first time you try and form a ravioli it isn't perfect. A little ricotta squirts out at one end. There are flecks of spinach stuck in the dough. It is shaped like a cow's udder. But you keep trying, and it gets better and better. And you savor the process for the meal's sake.

Then comes the brown-sugar-glazed ham stage of love. This is when staying awake after dinner is less important than eating well during dinner. Your table gets larger. You both have to choose foods that please and satiate the masses. You have the resources and knowledge to put together a grand meal, and you do – on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Roasted sweet potatoes with butter, green bean casserole topped with crunchy fried onions, and chocolate pudding pie garnish your table. On other occasions easy pasta casseroles or simple meaty grilled burgers fill your stomach. Certainly strawberry frosting reignites serendipitously on occasion. And you make it work with whatever is else is on the menu.

Then comes the Coq au Vin stage of love. Characteristic of French cooking, this classic chicken and wine dish takes three days to make, but you have the time and the commitment, why not invest? It is something to be savored. This is the time for good cheese, baked Brie and pears, braised lamb chops and mango chutney.

And then the golden sweetness of mature love … the pan-fried fish stage. One of the sweetest exchanges I've ever heard came from an elderly couple who related how they didn't like fish … neither of them. But they ate pan-fried fish every Tuesday for three decades. They look at each other and chuckle. The woman thought the man liked fish, and although she found the smell and texture distasteful, she prepared it and ate it for his sake without complaint. The man had never liked fish, but his wife was kind enough to go to the trouble, and he consumed it with pleasure for her. For three decades, once a week, they ate fish that neither of them liked. What they were really serving up to each other was love.

And if all else fails, there is always chocolate. Eating chocolate can make you happy. It's a chemical thing. It contains a host of compounds including theobromine, a stimulant similar to caffeine, and phenylethylamine which releases dopamine in the pleasure centers of the brain. Chocolate also helps the brain produce feel-good serotonin which aids in relaxation. Be sure to grab the dark kind – it contains antioxidants, whereas milk chocolate is just that: milk and sugar with trace amounts of cocoa. Try Logan's famous and delicious Bluebird chocolate … but honestly, I'd prefer pan-fried fish.