Bloody Well Write

I love food. More specifically, if I were a player on “Survivor,” I would love food, but as I’m just an average Jane doing my thing in this world and not having to eat bugs to survive, I love good food. One part of food — one of many, I dare say — which I love most is the language of it. Food in its presentation state isn’t just food; it’s much grander than that.

For example:

• Cow is not cow; it’s beef.
• Pig is not pig; it’s pork.
• Goose liver is not goose liver; it’s foie gras.
• Bull testicles are not bull testicles; they’re Rocky Mountain oysters.
• A pan full of everything but the kitchen sink is not a pan full of everything but the kitchen sink; it’s paella.

Granted, nothing in the above list would make it onto my pescetarian plate (not even seafood paella, as I’m relatively picky when it comes to seafood, as well). However, the point is the same: The language of food romanticizes what ends up plated in front of eager patrons.

One such subtle change in the language of cuisine that I’ve recently noticed has to do with beans. Yes, beans. Those plain-ol’, little, inexpensive peas, beans and lentils are also known as pulses. I think I heard the term a year or so ago (which could easily mean I heard it five or more years ago) but dismissed it as random terminology.

When it comes to pulses, it's what's inside that counts (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/fragiletender/3664759157/)

Pulses are random no more. Not only is Wikipedia fully up on it, but pulses also made it onto the menu of the restaurant that just topped — for the second year in a row — the S. Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants list. That’s pretty impressive for a lowly seed and its brethren.

Pulses carry with them a bevy of benefits:

• High in protein
• High in fiber
• High essential amino acid content
• Virtually fat-free
• Affordable
• Versatile (pulses are either a mainstay or an accompaniment in nearly every world cuisine)

For me, though, the main emphasis of this post is to emphasize the use of the term “pulse” rather than the oh-so-2010 term “bean.” Since it seems to be incorporating itself into the lexicon a bit more frequently these, days, I’m thinking that making a three-pulse salad or American chili with pulses and Cherokee purples sounds much more palatable and in-the-know.

Et tu?

Happy trails!

SAK

For those who don’t know me well, I will share this morsel with you:

I’m all about food.

Granted, I’m a pescetarian — someone who doesn’t eat land animals (e.g., chicken, cow, pig, sheep, etc.) — but I do eat seafood and fish, in addition to fruits, dairy products, grains and the occasional vegetable. And tomatoes? They’re OK, I suppose. I’ve eaten them my entire life but haven’t really been in awe of them.

Not, that is, until the past decade, when a friend introduced me to Insalata Caprese. Now, I’m hooked.

Insalata Caprese translates from Italian into English thus: salad from Capri. OK, so what does that mean? It’s a super-simple salad that consists of slices of fresh tomato (I like Roma tomatoes but any tomato that can be cut into relatively thick slices can work), slices of buffalo mozzarella and leaves of fresh basil, all layered and topped with ground pepper, salt and a drizzle of olive oil.

The simplicity of such a salad is deceiving, for the flavors unassumingly complement each other exquisitely. Popular variations include swapping olive oil for an Italian dressing or — my favorite — a balsamic vinaigrette or reduction.

Yummy.

Insalata Caprese (http://www.flickr.com/photos/79928508@N00/4487629379/)

I’m not sure if it’s just coincidence or if it’s the Italian way of imbedding national pride in the local cuisine, but the layered salad shares the same colors as the Italian flag. Sort of reminds me of a very American dessert made to look like the American flag, with white whipped topping, blueberries and raspberries.

Anyhoo, the point of this entry is to clear up the pronunciation issue surrounding this phenomenally simple first course. How the heck do you say Caprese?

From what I’ve gathered through personal accounts, Internet research and an unofficial survey of friends with decent vocabularies (!), it should be pronounced like this:

Ka-PREY-zay.

Now, dear Bloody Well Write readers: If you think that I’m blowing smoke and have it on authority from your great-grandmama (who’s from Capri or Naples (not Florida, BTW) or such) that it should be pronounced XYZ, then by all means, send me a message and I’ll revise this post. But as far as I know — and how I’ll be embarrassing myself in the future to all friends, family and complete strangers who will listen to me babble about the fantastic foods that I love — I’m saying Ka-Prey-zay Salad.

Happy trails!

SAK