Your Brain on Food

I recently read a fascinating book called "Your Brain on Food," that has changed the way I understand the relationship we all have with what we eat. The author, a neuroscientist, advises the reader to regard anything one ingests (through whatever means) as a drug, because that's how the brain perceives it. Or, more accurately, how the brain responds to it, regardless of whether it's chocolate, nutmeg, coffee, cocaine, or psilocybin. Not that the brain responds identically to all of these agents--they each elicit a unique action--but the brain conducts its business in the same way, whether we've eaten the latest identified superfood, taken prescription drugs, smoked a cigarette, or injected heroin. I found this not only intriguing, but also profoundly instructive.

There was a lot of scientific information to wade through, as much as the author tried to keep it simple--and to be honest, a lot of it went out much more quickly and easily than it went in--but there were a few points that made an impression I'm not likely to forget anytime soon.

For one thing, I'm seeing the brain as a processor, not of data, the way the mind is, but of chemicals. The brain is not an instrument of intelligence (although it functions in a highly organized, brilliantly efficient manner--at unimaginable speed); it's a manager of substances. Everything we eat is made up of a dizzying array of separate compounds, and to the degree that they succeed in crossing the "blood-brain barrier," these compounds impact the way the brain responds (and the way we subsequently feel). The faster a substance can cross this barrier and enter the brain, the greater the impact, because this means that a large dose will be delivered at once.

Whatever substance enters the brain regularly (and especially copiously), the brain comes to recognize and regard as "normal." For example, the brain runs primarily on glucose, so the presence of glucose in the brain is normal. When some time has passed since our last meal, our blood sugar level begins to drop, and glucose starts to become scarce in the brain, so the brain sends us craving messages we recognize as hunger. We respond by hunting down some food--either something sweet, or something that the body can synthesize glucose from. That's all very nice, but the same holds true of other substances that enter the brain in sufficient quantity and frequency--like nicotine, or amphetamine. The brain begins to regard the presence of these substances as "normal," and when they are depleted, the brain will send craving messages that they need replenishing (with no regard, by the way, for our health, safety, finances, relationships, or freedom). This is what addiction is. Once a period of time has passed in the absence of these substances, the brain is fully capable of readjusting to the new "normal," and will no longer send us out to score them.

Here's the main point I came away with: Since everything we ingest acts upon the brain like a drug, we can consider any type of food as one drug or another, with specific effects in the brain. We can become addicted to a food simply by consuming it regularly--to the extent that the compounds in that food cross the blood-brain barrier, these will become "normal," and hence, "needed." Similarly, if we refrain from eating those foods, after a period of withdrawal, their absence will also become normal (and not needed). Essential nutrients are excluded from this formula, because the body actually does need them in order to function properly, and cannot synthesize them, so we must obtain them from our diet, but these are relatively few (9 amino acids, 14 vitamins, 17 minerals, and 2 fats).

Why is this important? Well, think about the implications of having your brain considering the components of certain foods "normal" in exactly the same way as it might, say, cocaine. Those foods might not be all that helpful in maintaining optimum health--they may even be contributing to disease. But the brain is simply reading our continued ingestion of these compounds as just the right thing to do. Freaky, huh? See why I finally understood that the brain is not the seat of intelligence, but rather a processor of chemicals?

This is the good news: We are not our brain, and we don't have to be enslaved to any particular food (as long as we can find those few essential nutrients elsewhere). Just as we can detox from an addictive, destructive drug, we can detox from an addictive, destructive food. All it takes is a little attention to nutritional facts, and the will to live well. And it helps if we're trying to live consciously (the subtler, more fundamental definition of "well").

It may be challenging to switch from destructive food to constructive food, because our mind, which processes data with the same blind indifference as the brain processes chemicals, will be telling us to keep on eating the stuff that's fattening, sickening and killing us. It will be interpreting "tastes good" as "must eat," and "different" as "suspect." But just as the brain becomes accustomed to a new substance that shows up regularly, the mind will get on the bandwagon eventually--if we keep at it. We can, in fact, retrain our desires and our tastes. We don't have to do as we've always done, just because the advertising led us that way. We can uncouple ourselves from all the influences that don't serve us well and decide for ourselves what we want to do (and eat). How cool is that?

Kidney Bean and Butternut Squash Curry

I had been away for several days, and those I left at home had eaten up pretty much all the fresh vegetables (except, of course, for the Bathtub Garden's bounty, which just keeps on coming), so this was going to be one of those times when you just have to use what's there.

I did have a small butternut squash, an onion that was close to the end of its days, and a bunch of fairly fresh scallions (and a handful of basil, from the bathtub garden). I always keep plenty of coconut milk, red, green, and panang Thai curry pastes, and at least three varieties of organic canned beans, among other things.

I was in the mood for something spicy. After looking over what I had to work with, I decided to make a curry with the butternut squash and a big can of red kidney beans. This wasn't a combination I had made before, and it's by no means any Thai dish I've ever heard of, but it tasted good in my head, so I figured it was a pretty safe bet.

I cut the onion and squash into roughly half-inch dice. I heated a couple tablespoons of coconut oil in a large pot and added the onion, stirring well. Once it was soft, I added the squash and stirred until the vegetables  began to dry out a bit. Then I added about three tablespoons of Thai red curry paste (I was actually out of panang--my favorite). At this point, I had to stir pretty furiously to keep everything from sticking as I got the paste well distributed. In went two cans of coconut milk. As soon as the mixture came to a boil, I turned the heat down to medium-low and let the squash cook until just tender (about 15 minutes). Then I added the can of kidney beans (drained) and turned the heat up to warm them through.

Just before serving, I sliced the scallions on a sharp diagonal and stirred them into the curry. I had wanted to use a big handful of fresh basil, but my wife had harvested all the big leaves for pesto the week before, so we only had a few smaller leaves available (you can't take them all, or it'll kill the plant--the vegan version of slaying the golden goose). So I just sliced the leaves I had, and instead of stirring them in, I used them as a garnish.

Oddly enough, in spite of the hefty amount of curry paste I used, it still wasn't very spicy. I'd been out of my homemade sriracha sauce for well over a week (see recipe at the bottom of this May 6th post), but there was a bit left in a store-bought bottle. I used this as an additional garnish, with more squirted in at will, as we ate. There was quite a bit left over, and I've reheated and enjoyed it twice since then--which if you know me, should tell you how tasty this thing turned out (I could have put it in a jar and given it away, you know).

It's always fun to see what you can make with just whatever you have lying around. Of course, it helps if you're in the habit of keeping a good supply of non-perishables, providing yourself with a broad range of creative material for your artist's palette. That's why I made such a point of spelling this out in the "Stocking the Vegan Pantry" section of Speed Vegan--it's just stacking the cards in favor of a good time, pure and simple. Having an amazing wife who can make things grow is a boon, too, and one not easily duplicated. Actually, truth be told, having my particular wife is freaking wonderful, period. Born under a lucky star, I was.

Nutty Chocolate Balls

For those who may have noticed that I hadn't posted in nearly a week, I've just returned from New Orleans, where I presented recipes from my cookbooks at the NOLA Veggie Fest--a small but well-attended two-day event celebrating the various aspects of plant-based living. I had a blast--New Orleans is one gorgeous, fun place, with some of the friendliest people you'll ever meet.

The second day's schedule was a little chaotic, and my time slot was bumped twice--which worked out very well for me, because by the time I went on, we had a full house. I demonstrated two recipes from Speed Vegan: "Green Curry Salad" (see recipe on this page) and "Nutty Chocolate Balls." Although the latter is a very easy treat to make, there is one step in the recipe that calls for "1 cup chopped roasted hazelnuts," which I admit, can be a bit confusing for anyone who hasn't roasted hazelnuts before. To keep things flowing in the demo, I had done this beforehand. So for those who were there (and anyone who might be interested), here's how it's done:

Preheat the oven to 400F.

Spread the hazelnuts out on a baking sheet in a single layer. 

Place the pan in the oven and roast for 7 to 10 minutes, until the skins blister and the nuts are lightly browned.  You can also go for a darker roast, but be careful--they can go over the line and burn in less time than you might think. Also, note that the centers will be somewhat darker than the outer surface.

Immediately transfer the nuts to a towel.

Fold the towel over the nuts and wrap tightly.

Let the bundle sit for a few minutes, until just warm, and then rub and knead vigorously with both hands for a couple of minutes. This will dislodge most of the skins.

Open the towel and individually rub off any skins that may remain. Some may be stubborn and refuse to come off--so it goes, no big deal. Don't worry about it, just proceed. 

Lift and shake the nuts to leave the skins behind and place them in a bowl. I used to have a special strainer for this that I made out of chicken wire with a mesh just fine enough to keep the nuts and let the skins fall through. It was perfect, but I left it in Australia when I was working there as a pastry chef. I keep meaning to make a new one, but it's one of those things you don't think of until you need it (and when you do, you're too busy to stop and make one).

Chop the nuts coarsely and sift out the fine powder.

To make the nutty balls (for everyone who wasn't at the demo), combine equal parts roasted hazelnut butter, fine quality Dutch process cocoa powder, and maple syrup. Note that the recipe in the book calls for agave nectar, but as you may have read in another post, I no longer recommend agave as a sweetener.

Once the mixture is thoroughly blended, put it in the refrigerator for an hour or two to firm it up. To speed things up, you can also put it in the freezer for about 15 to 20 minutes. Once it's firm enough to handle, scoop out roughly 1-1/2 teaspoon gobs and roll them into balls. Roll them in the chopped nuts to coat.

That's it. See? I told you it was easy!

Mango Love

I walked into India Bazar looking for exotic produce on Monday, knowing full well that they get fresh deliveries on Thursdays, so the pickings would be slim. And slim they were indeed--the bitter melon was battered, pale and a little moldy, the bhindi and mooli both limp and sad, and even the red onions were soft and sprouting. But then (ooh baby) I saw this box of radiant mangoes.

I could tell just by looking at them that they were perfectly ripe at that moment--except for a single very green one--and I had to have them, especially at the ridiculous price of nine dollars for the lot (nine bucks? are they nuts?). That's the other reason I shop there--Indian prices!

Well, I knew I would have to use them up right away because they wouldn't last, so I cut one up and squeezed lime juice on it (that one didn't last two minutes). My wife and son each had one, too. Then I took all but the green one and made sorbet (even that's gone now, just two days later). The lone survivor went into a salad (green mangoes are fantastic that way), and that was that. I love mangoes.

For the salad, I cut thin julienne strips of the green mango, red pepper, fennel and scallions. I made a dressing similar to the one for "Green Curry Salad" from Speed Vegan, featuring Thai green curry paste, garlic, brown rice vinegar, lime juice and peel, and a fistful of fresh basil leaves, blasted in the blender. My wife harvested some of her "a little past micro" baby lettuces, and a few of her micro-broccoli greens.

I tossed the cut vegetables and some hydroponic watercress with most of the dressing, piled it on beds of the baby lettuces, and threw on some halved macadamia nuts and the micro broccoli greens. Then I drizzled the last of the dressing over each serving. The flavors were pretty spectacular, frankly.

The sorbet was a lot quicker to make. I just whipped five mangoes in the Vitamix with a half-cup of fresh lime juice and a quarter-cup of Essencia (a delicious orange muscat dessert wine from California). Then I made a syrup with 3/4 cup each of evaporated cane juice and water and added that.

"Horrors!" you may be thinking, "Sugar?" Well, yes, in fact, and here's why: I've come to realize that unless you have diabetes or hypoglycemia or some other sugar-sensitive condition, you're better off with honest cane sugar than agave (read all about this in my March 9th post). Regular white sugar, as you may know, is processed with bone char, a by-product of the meat industry (just lovely, huh?). My preferred alternatives at the moment are maple syrup and palm sugar--both too strong tasting and with too dark a color for this application. Once in a while a little sugar won't kill you (with the caveats I mentioned).

Back to the mango sorbet. After combining the ingredients, I let it chill in the refrigerator and then froze it in my ice cream maker. Then I served it with some strips of mint.

Sorbet is incomparably silky and ethereal when it's freshly made, and mango sorbet is truly sublime.

As I said earlier, this didn't last any longer than the whole mangoes or the salad. My son is a mango fan just like the rest of us, and he has friends.

I've said this already, but I love mangoes. They are among the sexiest foods imaginable.

Lose the Entrée

I've had the discussion several times with certain friends who sincerely would like to promote a plant-based diet, on what might be needed in order to win more people over. Personally, I lack the gene for converting people. No one has ever converted me to anything (although some have certainly tried). I came to eat the way I do as a natural progression, by following my instincts, with information acquired along the way, and ultimately, based on "what works."  I'm perfectly comfortable recommending a plant-based diet--in the same way I might a good book I've read--but I'm fairly certain that no one will make a decision as important as this, based solely on my opinion. However, when asked what ideas I might have, there are two principal thoughts that come to mind every time, and both relate to what I regard as a sort of "phantom limb" craving for meat and dairy.

My view is that if you're giving up something (for whatever reason), the most effective way to both keep your conviction and impress others is to make a clean break. To me, this is just common sense. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I take the position that "if you're going to leave something behind, don't bring it with you." It cuts both ways, because on the one hand, you show the strength of your conviction by leaving past habits behind, and on the other, you set a clear example for others to follow (if that matters to you).

So, my first (and most controversial) suggestion is that if you're going to obtain your protein from a non-animal source, it will serve you best to eat that food in its own natural and cultural format. For example, tofu, a  mainstay for  many vegetarians, can be very enjoyable when prepared within the Asian cuisines, but becomes an unwelcome oddity when forced into American or European dishes. Furthermore, fake meats and imitation cheeses made artificially from soy (or wheat or rice) are a lose/lose proposition, in that they fall miserably short of fooling the palate, while they betray a longing for what one purports to have transcended. That's my opinion, and I realize there are many who do not share it. I do believe this is a subject that will need to be addressed at some point, however, because fooling oneself is both unsatisfying and self-defeating (again, in my opinion).

My second suggestion is much easier to swallow (no pun intended) and to implement: Lose the notion of an "entrée." In the great meat-eating culture, this is a loaded word that primarily signifies  a hunk of some sort of flesh on a plate, with or without accompanying vegetables, which may or may not be eaten along with it. Now there certainly is such a thing as a "vegetarian entrée," but this is typically imitative in some way, such as a serving of meatless lasagne. I propose discarding the word "entrée" altogether and either going with "first, second, and third courses," or taking a radical step into traditional vegetarian cuisines, and implementing their approach.

An obvious candidate would be Indian vegetarian food. Rather than focusing on a "main dish," Indian food considers each preparation as a special dish in its own right, of equal importance along with the others in the meal. Many times you'll see several different dishes presented in individual cups, called "katoris," that keep them separate, and prevent their unique flavors from mixing on the plate. It's a fun way to eat, but it's also instructive, because rather than relegating the role of vegetables to one of mere window dressing alongside "the entrée," (where they may be ignored), it elevates them to equal status with every other item on the plate. For a cook, this is also a challenge, because it requires that all vegetables be treated as star players, meaning they must all be eye-appealing, with alluring fragrances and palate-thrilling flavor-texture combinations.

As an example, here are some vegetables I picked up at my local Indian market, with the intention of creating a meal based on the "no entrée" approach. Clockwise from the upper left are: small eggplants, okra, curry leaves, green chilies, some long, ridged squashes called "turia," and some very small squashes that resemble tiny cucumbers, called "tindora." I had also selected some bitter melon, cauliflower, peas, and chick peas, along with a few spices and herbs. I wasn't sure what exactly would end up in the meal, but I wanted to have a good selection of options to work with.

Click on the image to enlarge.

Now, I wasn't setting out to make a traditional Indian meal, but rather, using the Indian model as an approach for serving the food. An obvious outsider would be the quinoa (in the center), which I inserted because it's my favorite grain, high in protein and fiber, and much more in line with my health preferences than white rice. I did cook it with a handful of curry leaves, which imbued it with a pleasant subcontinental back-note.

I cooked the turia (front right) with Thai red curry paste and coconut milk. The chick peas (front left) were finished with chaat masala (a spice blend with a slightly sweet-sour undertone), onion and tomato. The tindora (back left) I prepared in a straightforward Indian fashion, with ginger, garlic, onion, grated tomato, and spices.

I used ras el hanout (a traditional Moroccan spice mixture) to cook the cauliflower, which was a by-product of an oven-drying experiment. I had first cut thin cross-sections of individual flowerettes, using a "mandoline," which is a very sharp cutting device that produces uniform slices. Then I laid the slices out on an oiled parchment, dusted them with ras el hanout and salt, and baked them for an hour at a very low temperature, producing crisp, shriveled (and flavor-packed) "cauli-flowers." The remaining uncooked pieces of cauliflower were pretty mangled, so I chopped them and sautéed them with onion, garlic and ginger until very fragrant, and then added more ras el hanout and water. When the vegetables were very tender, I blasted them to a smooth puree in the Vitamix, reheated it in a clean pot, and stirred in some cooked peas. Then I served it with the oven-crisped "cauli-flowers" on top.

A meat-lover will still most likely wonder "Where's the beef?" but for someone who no longer relies on dead animals for protein and pleasure, this was one hell of a little feast!

Clay, Wood & Stone

I grew up in a land where natural materials, such as clay and stone, were not only used in the kitchen, but were also constantly being dug up at archaeological sites. From the most ancient and primitive to the most recent of precolumbian finds, the principal artifacts found were shards of clay pots, grinding stones and obsidian knives. I remember walking through freshly plowed fields near my house and plucking bagfuls of obsidian arrowheads and spearptips, fragments of painted pottery and figurines from the furrowed earth. One day I found a spectacular pot, with only a small chip missing, elegantly decorated with glyphs--probably a ceremonial urn of some sort. I still have that pot, although the hundreds of other artifact fragments have long since slipped away.

Today, I have a particular fondness for cookware made of these natural materials, from Thai stone mortars with palmwood pestles, to Mexican and Italian clay pots, to Moroccan tagines, to French and Chinese porcelain bakeware. The reasons are varied--an affinity for ancient cultures, certainly, and an appreciation for the simple aesthetics of handmade items, as well as the sheer pleasure of using them. Also, there are the unusual results obtained from preparing food using these tools.

I feel connected to the fundamentals of cooking when, for example, I pound salt and garlic together in a stone mortar to form a paste, perhaps adding some herbs, lemongrass, or fresh chilies. Of course, I can blast these same ingredients to a pulp with a food processor in a fraction of the time, but without the same pleasure, and--here's the bottom line, for a cook--nowhere even vaguely near the same result. Whereas a machine can quickly reduce ingredients to a puree, that puree will never have the silkiness, the unique flavor and earthy texture of a hand-pounded one. In Mexico, where sauces have been mashed and ground for centuries in volcanic stone mortars called molcajetes, there is a popular notion that an important and irreplaceable ingredient is la tierrita ("the little dirt") that wears off the mortar and pestle and winds up in the food. It's flavor, culture, and what the French call terroir--the taste of place.

Beans and lentils cooked in a clay pot taste different from the exact same ingredients cooked in a metal pot. In fact, I can't think of any dish that does not benefit from being cooked in earthenware pots, whether on the stovetop or in the oven. They have a "je ne sais quoi" that makes the food somehow more tasty. Maybe it's energetic, like prana or something, or maybe it's just my imagination, but I'm not by any means the only one to notice this.

We forget all too often that we're actually alive, breathing, sustained in the moment, and for just a few years, by the power of life--a vibrant, magical phenomenon. Dazzled by the technology and conveniences that surround us, it's so easy to become separated from our roots and lose sight of the genuine miracle we're living in. There are many ways to slow down and reconnect to the moment; some people practice yoga or tai chi, or create works of art. Others take walks in nature, listen to music, or do some form of meditation.

I do as many things as I can to feel present now, and cooking is one of them. Using tools that have been with me for many years, like my clay pots, stone mortar, bamboo spoons, and even wood and metal utensils with which I have a history, I feel I'm in the company of dear old friends. Food prepared with these tools, imbued with my love and intention, surrounded by the intangible aura of everyone who cooked before me, is food that is full of life and unique in all the world. So it is with anyone who cooks, if they put their heart into it.

Here is that pot. I figure it's at least five, maybe six hundred years old.

Roasted Strawberries

Organic strawberries have begun to appear at my local natural food store, and at first sighting a couple of days ago, I couldn't resist the urge to buy more than I could possibly eat. It's probably a character flaw of some kind. The upside of this is that after eating a bunch of them fresh, I still had about a pound of gorgeous ripe beauties to play with. So I decided to try something new.

I vaguely remembered seeing a recipe somewhere that had you roasting strawberries with olive oil and salt, and then adding some port and balsamic vinegar. It sounded  at once a bit odd and potentially quite tasty, so I figured, "Why not?"

After I had washed and hulled them, I cut them in half (and the larger ones into quarters), and tossed them in a bowl with EVOO, fine-ground Celtic salt, and some palm sugar.

Then I spread them out in a single layer on a baking pan lined with unbleached parchment paper, and roasted them at 375F for about 30 minutes. The parchment shields acidic ingredients from reacting with the aluminum pan, but it also made quick, easy work of sliding the whole batch of roasted strawberries, juices and all, into a bowl. While they were still hot, I added a splash of ruby port and another splash of 18-year-old balsamic vinegar, folding gently with a silicone spatula to combine well.

The results were astounding. I don't really like cooked strawberries all that much--it tends to wash out their fresh fruit taste and leave them a bit bland by comparison--however, these strawberries were every bit as luscious in their roasted form as they had been fresh, but with a concentrated flavor. No doubt a lot of the credit goes to the other ingredients, but so what?

The first thing I tried them on was a gob of "Coconut Bliss" dark chocolate ice cream (ooh baby).

My wife was in bed already, reading herself into a sleep-ready state, when I brought this heavenly concoction upstairs for her to try. I fed her a spoonful and then I took one, as she made the appropriate noises. We took turns savoring, and a mere forty-five seconds or so later, the bowl was bone dry. I'm sure there will be other good combinations in the future, but this was one that had to be repeated, over and over, until the entire first batch of roasted strawberries was gone (oh well).

Next time, I think I'll add some sprigs of fresh rosemary during the roasting phase and see what happens...