A different kind of tasting

Last Saturday, tucked amidst stalls inviting patrons of Berkeley's Farmer's Market to taste watermelons! cantaloupes! peaches, plums and nectarines!!! stood an intriguing, if not completely disgusting, invitation. 

I tried to ignore it, to stay focused on Arctic Queens and Dapple Dandies, but, perhaps inspired by my Travel Channel Super Hero and my self-imposed obligation on this site, my curiosity got the best of me. 

"Is this for real?" I asked a man standing next to the sign beckoning passersby to take part in a free, gulp, worm tasting. 

"Yesss," the long-haired, somewhat worn-looking man said smiling. 

I was at a loss for words, and my grizzly friend wasn't doing much to keep the conversation rolling. 

"Why?" I finally managed, not sure if I meant why he offered the option to eat the worms that live in the dirt he was selling or why anyone in their right mind would take him up on the invite. 

"Because people in Berkeley are crazyyy!" he said, still smiling. 

I asked if people had really tried it, and he told me yesss, several had. I asked if anyone had gotten sick, and he said several of the several had thrown up on the sidewalk right behind his setup. I asked if he had ever eaten a worm himself, and he said no, presumably because he is not crazy. 

Neither am I, I guess. You gotta draw the line somewhere and mine, while not necessarily at worms, definitely runs through the point where a man won't take part in his own free worm tasting. 

Shouting it from the rooftops

What can I say about cauliflower that's worth saying? To most, it's an afterthought, broccoli's bland brother, something moms use to fill the plates of their misbehaved children. It's beige and usually steamed with no seasonings and all too often really, grossly mushy like paste (that, ironically, so many kids that hate cauliflower like to eat) and, well, none of this is news. 

What can I say? Except that I love - write-it's-name-on-my-notebook, shout-it-from-the-rooftops LOVE! - cauliflower.

I know it's not cauliflower season. I know I should be reveling in the bounty of fresh tomatoes, and trust me I am, but when I saw this beautiful head at the store I just couldn't resist. I mean, it's purple! 

I have a little thing for purple, you see. All summer I've been snap-snap-snapping pictures of purple beets and potatoes and eggplant and blueberries and a purple windbreaker hanging from the balcony across mine. I even bought an oversized purple handbag! 

I guess the head of cauliflower wasn't much of a splurge in comparison, but toasty and tender right from the oven, the little purple florets beat the giant purse hands down. 

That's right, I said from the oven. Steaming has no business being around cauliflower as far as I'm concerned, but this preparation is just as easy. Toss with oil, season and roast. Seasoning can be as minimal as salting, but I tried it with fresh ground black pepper and cinnamon, which I know sounds weird but I really, really recommend. A slow roast followed by a blast of super-high heat tenderizes the florets, allows their natural sweetness to come out and mingle with the salt and cinnamon, and scorches the tips into a lush golden-brown that gives way like caramel under the tooth. 

It scares me a little to use words like "cinnamon" and "roast" on August 24. The first day of fall is still a month away and I've promised myself I'll steer clear of autumn gourds until October. Every year I'm too quick to say so long to summer. Every year, as if though suffering from an inverted seasonal affective disorder (SAD), I long for the chill in the air signaling me to exchange plastic flip flops for leather boots, skimpy tank tops for boxy jackets and thick scarves. And every year, I always end up regretting taking the berries and corn and plums for granted.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. The Bay Area's gearing up for a mini-heat wave due to hit in just a couple of days, and I've still got a batch of plums waiting for me in the crisper. Summer's not over yet, and I have no intention of missing it. Nothing wrong with enjoying a little misplaced SAD in the meantime. 

***

Roasted cauliflower 

1 medium head of cauliflower, split into 1- to 2-inch wide florets (purple is pretty but white cauliflower will work here too)

2 tablespoons olive oil (or enough spray oil to coat cauliflower florets)

1/4 teaspoon salt

Fresh ground black pepper, to taste

Dash cinnamon (optional)

Position rack in middle of oven and preheat oven to 350 degrees. 

Drizzle olive oil or spray oil over florets, and sprinkle with salt, pepper and cinnamon if using. Toss to coat. 

Spread the coated cauliflower in a large, shallow baking pan, in one layer, and cover loosely with aluminum foil. Reduce heat to 300 degrees and roast the cauliflower for 30 minutes. 

Remove foil cover and discard. Turn the florets over and increase the heat to 450 degrees for the 5 minutes, for a total roasting time of about 35 minutes. 

The cauliflower should be tender on the outside but still crisp on the inside. 

The Omnivore's Hundred

I like to think of myself as an adventurous person, one might say a brave soul; at the very least brave in consideration, if not in action. 

I very seriously considered, for example, a "bungee" jump recently and did not back down when, only three days ago, a very aggressive squirrel tried to get a bite at my feet. (He had me kind of cornered, and I flailed a bit, but it was powerful flailing that saved my pinkie toe.) I try not to let fear hold me back - last summer I kayaked with my sister in Mexico despite a great fear of falling into what I'll admit was a calm bay, and quite a bit of flailing. 

As in life, in food, I say!

Fire-eating aside, I've made it a point not to be too quick to judge something as edible/inedible just because its different. So imagine my delight when I came across The Omnivore's Hundred, an interactive questionnaire of sorts compiled by Andrew over at Very Good Taste, giving eaters of all kinds the opportunity to consider what they have eaten before, what they would be willing to try at least once, and what foods are completely non-negotiable. The Omnivore's Hundred lists 100 foods of all kinds, the good, the bad and the very ugly, ranging from high-brow to junk food to food oddities beyond, at least, what I could imagine. (Roadkill!??) 

I was surprised not so much by what I had eaten, as clearly it wasn't much, but rather by how many foods were completely foreign to me and how many I would be willing to try, albeit it with a considerable amount of flailing. 

Here's Andrew's list, complete with a key to my answers:

Bold - eaten at least once - 43/100

Unmarked - never eaten - 57/100

Italicized - slim or no chance of ever eating - 2/100

Red - what is it? (Yay Wikipedia!) - 15/100

1. Venison

2. Nettle tea 

3. Huevos rancheros

4. Steak tartare

5. Crocodile (Could've been alligator; memory escapes me.)

6. Black pudding

7. Cheese fondue

8. Carp

9. Borscht

10. Baba ghanoush

11. Calamari

12. Pho

13. PB&J sandwich

14. Aloo gobi

15. Hot dog from a street cart

16. Epoisses

17. Black truffle

18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (plum wine)

19. Steamed pork buns

20. Pistachio ice cream (When I was in middle school, I went through an I-want-to-be-a-grownup phase, which, for some reason, meant that all I ate was coffee and pistachio-flavored soft serve, oftentimes separately but sometimes together. I p'shawed at strawberry and turned my nose up at chocolate. To this day I feel like I'm doing something very proper and beyond my years when I slurp up pistachio ice cream.)

21. Heirloom tomatoes

22. Fresh wild berries (I was born and lived for five years in Sweden, in a small town outside of Stockholm. One of my earliest memories is collecting strawberries and raspberries from wild bushes that grew rampant across the region.)

23. Foie gras

24. Rice and beans

25. Brawn, or head cheese

26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper

27. Dulce de leche (My host mother when I was living and studying in Paris as a wee 21-year-old college student was from Argentina in some capacity that I never quite figured out, and she traveled there quite often. With each return, she brought for me a large batch of dulce de leche, and I grew accustomed to having an open jar with a spoon rattling around inside on my bedside table.)

28. Oysters (I tried raw oysters for the first time just last year during a trip to Seattle. My best friend grew rather concerned that I wasn't swallowing them whole. It's quite a trip to chew on the little guys. No two oysters are alike, and the way each pops in the mouth is a little surprise.)

29. Baklava (Not all baklava is created equal. It is absolutely worth trying different kinds - Greek versus Persian, store-bought versus homemade - if the opportunity presents itself.)

30. Bagna cauda

31. Wasabi peas

32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl (I tried this for the first time after a long day of sightseeing with my sister in San Francisco earlier this month. The bread was a little stale and the chowder a little bland, but I was so cold and hungry that I remember it as one of my best meals in the Bay Area.)

33. Salted lassi (If I correctly understand what this is, it's very similar to doogh, a Persian beverage made of yogurt, water and mint. That's another one to add to the list.)

34. Sauerkraut

35. Root beer float

36. Cognac with a fat cigar

37. Clotted cream tea

38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O (never again)

39. Gumbo

40. Oxtail

41. Curried goat

42. Whole insects (I once took a deep breath while on my middle school playground and some kind of bug flew in. I don't know why but I started chewing. Woof. I might be willing to give insects another whirl, but I'd be more willing if I couldn't tell they were insects while eating them...)

43. Phaal

44. Goat's milk (and cheese and yogurt)

45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth $120 or more

46. Fugu

47. Chicken tikka masala

48. Eel

49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (I may be the only New Yorker, current or former, who has never had one. The prospect of addiction deters me.)

50. Sea urchin

51. Prickly pear

52. Umeboshi

53. Abalone

54. Paneer (I've had the Persian kind, which may differ from the Indian version.)

55. McDonald's Big Mac meal

56. Spaetzle

57. Dirty gin martini

58. Beer above 8% ABV

59. Poutine

60. Carob chips

61. S'mores (Mmm.)

62. Sweetbreads (Less mmm. Bad experience. Needs another try.)

63. Kaolin

64. Currywurst

65. Durian

66. Frogs' legs

67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (Yes, yes, yes and more yes.)

68. Haggis

69. Fried plantain

70. Chitterlings, or andouillette

71. Gazpacho

72. Caviar and blini

73. Louche absinthe

74. Gjetost, or brunost

75. Roadkill (But why??)

76. Baijiu

77. Hostess Fruit Pie

78. Snail

79. Lapsang souchong

80. Bellini

81. Tom yum

82. Eggs Benedict

83. Pocky

84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant

85. Kobe beef

86. Hare

87. Goulash

88. Flowers

89. Horse

90. Criollo chocolate

91. Spam

92. Soft shell crab

93. Rose harissa

94. Catfish

95. Mole poblano

96. Bagel and lox

97. Lobster Thermidor

98. Polenta

99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee

100. Snake

***

To get in on the action

Copy the above list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.

Bold all the items you've eaten.

Cross out any items you would never consider eating.

Optional: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results. 

In a ripe torrent

Giggling uncontrollably at inappropriate moments. Attracting elderly male fans who regale me with gifts like expired cookies. Doggedly blocking cars that take my reserved parking spot. Writing skills aside, there are a number of things about me that my former co-workers will have a tough time forgetting. But my greatest legacy, perhaps, is Ice Cream Friday. 

Ice Cream Friday was born on a hot day in the summer of 2006 when, on a whim, I ducked out to a local frozen yogurt shop for an icy, sugary afternoon pick-me-up. With a simple swirl of chocolate and vanilla for me, and a thick serving of peanut butter ice cream for my boss, the two of us powered through the paper's layout in no time. When 4pm and the start of the layout loomed the following Friday afternoon, Kevin and I had a very delicious tradition on our hands.

We played around with times - eating ice cream too early would lead to sugar rush and crash before production even began, we learned; too late and we'd be too distracted by work to focus on dessert (or vice versa) - and experimented with flavors - the unknowable, multi-colored Superman is truly disgusting, but in the end an alarm was set for 3:30 and the ice cream man knew our orders by heart. 

Kevin and I always tossed around the idea of making our own ice cream. He had an ice cream maker, a Christmas gift of some year past, still in its original wrapping. Somehow, we never got around to it, but oh boy, do I wish I had that ice cream maker of his now. 

Two nights ago, hungry and haunted by the idea of making my 3-day detox a little more exciting, I decided to make my own ice cream. The diet called for a half-cup of regular vanilla ice cream and a cup of melon for dessert, not together exactly, but I couldn't help but wonder, why not together? I had whole milk yogurt and sugar, close enough to plain vanilla ice cream, and the most fragrant Galia melon just begging to be ripped open and ravaged. What better way to completely ravage a fruit than by ice cream-ifying it!?

Now as I said, I do not own an ice cream maker. Being the overconfident smarty pants that I am, I found maker-free ice cream instructions courtesy of David Lebovitz, a genius of a man whose writing is evocative enough to push even the strongest dieters over the edge, inspiring them to throw caution to the wind and baby carrots to the ground. I am not the strongest dieter. And after discovering David's instructions - so simple, so straightforward - there was no way I could resist. 

I prepared the custard and threw it in the freezer. I set timers and alarm clocks to make sure I stayed awake and ready to mix, mix, mix, squashing away the oh-so-evil ice chunks that would form every 30 minutes or so. Who needs an ice cream maker when she's got all this elbow grease to spare? I wondered during the first go-round. As the night progressed, the mixture got smoother, and I got sleepier. By midnight, I was ready for bed. And the ice cream, I thought, was ready for a little R&R, too. I spooned it into two plastic containers, and off to dreamland I went. 

When I woke up, I had two blocks of green ice, just like this one:

Don't get me wrong - the melon ice cream looked beautiful, like sea foam preserved for eternity - and tasted amazing, with little chunks of soft melon caught floating in the sweet glacier. But the texture was ... let's be kind; it was off. Really off. So off I couldn't get a hot spoon through to scoop it up. Out it came in one big piece, that sweet, green-flecked block. I thought about licking it, or shaving it like an Italian ice. But as I contemplated just tossing the whole thing in the trash, the block began to soften, the wave of ice giving way and its summery flavor escaping in a ripe torrent.

While it wouldn't have hurt to have one on hand, I suppose that in the end, not having the ice cream maker didn't make much difference at all. 

***

Melon fro-yo

Adapted from David Lebovitz: Living the Sweet Life in Paris

As much as I enjoyed my melon-ice dessert, I can't really call it ice cream or even frozen yogurt (though that's technically what it is) because, well, ahem, it wasn't creamy, at least not until after it started to melt. Leave it too long, and you get a sweet soup, like melon gazpacho. My recommendation is to use an ice cream maker if you have one - if my product was so good, the maker's must be AMAZING - or start early and stick with the bi-hourly ice beatings. Elbow grease, indeed. 

Note: I used a Galia melon here, really only because it looked and smelled incredible at the store. I have since learned that Galia is the feminine form of Gal, the Israeli word for wave. Knowing that, my melon-ice block looked just perfect. 

Preparing the Custard

Yields about 1 quart.

1/2 (about two cups) ripe melon

2/3 cup sugar

2 teaspoons vodka (optional)

1 cup good quality, plain, whole milk yogurt

Juice of 1 whole lemon

Remove seeds and melon rind, and cut the melon into small pieces. Toss in a bowl with the sugar (and the vodka if you're using it) until the sugar begins to dissolve. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature for 2 hours, stirring periodically. 

Transfer the fruit and the juice to a blender or food processor. Add the yogurt and fresh lemon juice. Pulse the machine until the mixture is smooth. 

Chill for 1 hour, then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions OR, if you dare, follow the directions (see below) for making the ice cream by hand. 

Making Ice Cream Without a Machine

Prepare ice cream mixture (see above), then chill it in the fridge.

Pour the custard mixture into a deep baking dish or bowl (made of plastic, stainless steal or other durable material) and stash in the freezer. 

After 45 minutes, open the door and check the custard. As it starts to freeze near the edges, remove it from the freezer and stir vigorously with a spatula or whisk, or use a hand-held blender. Really beat it up and break up any frozen sections. Return to freezer. 

Continue to check mixture every 30 minutes, stirring vigorously as it freezes, until the ice cream is frozen. This process will likely take two to three hours. Stick with it. 

A fine line

What with it being Wednesday and my having missed last week after making such a big deal about my new initiative and all, I really, truly should have a wonderfully weird food to share today. Unfortunately, the only thing I have to say is that my eating for the next few days is going to take a turn for the dull: I'm going on a diet. 

Roll your eyes if you will, but trust me, it's time for a detox. I've lived the past month in a sort of vacation/last day on earth frenzy, marked by several infamous In & Out visits and concluded last weekend with a trip to Vancouver. 

Smattered amidst shining memories of walks on Canadian beaches and foothills, games of pass-the-baby and merciless teasing as I reconnected with relatives are flashes of deep-fried gyoza and Korean barbecue; lychee martinis and black cherry mojitos; peanut butter popcicles and sesame gelato; fried chicken and crab legs with garlic butter; lattes, Vietnamese salad rolls and a linzer tart... 

The list goes on, as I have pictures of plenty more (the copper pot is apparently used to make fudge!), but in all honesty I'm hard-pressed to remember it all clearly. Yea, I have walked in the valley of too much eating, and now all the delicious fun is catching up with me. And since the thought of living on nothing but a cocktail of maple syrup and cayenne pepper makes me die a little inside, a limited eating plan seems to be the only way to go. 

Now, I've never been good with diets. The best part, for me, was always cheating. (Broken cookies and melted ice cream and singed french fries don't count, right?) But that, umm, kind of defeats the purpose. 

That being said, I embarked yesterday on a little something called the 3-Day Diet, choosing for some reason to ignore the glaring "worst of the bunch" advice and thinking instead, Three days is doable; easy peasy. And yesterday went well enough; I overate only slightly, and a handful of plain baby carrots at that. 

I'm trying to mix up what could be a monotonous menu of gray - canned tuna, toast and bananas - with purple cauliflower and bright orange melon that's making the whole kitchen smell like an orchard, but still, I'm having doubts. It's a fine line between tweaking and cheating, and with giant nectarines bouncing around in the crisper next to the baby carrots, I'm not sure I can hold out until Friday before indulging a little. 

Though I guess there are worse breakfasts than this:

Far more exciting than the canned tuna with saltines that I have to look forward to for lunch. 

***

Faux-fried egg

Day 2 of the 3-Day Diet calls for a breakfast of black tea or coffee, one-half of a banana, one egg and a piece of toast. The loveliest part of the diet is that there are no specifications as far as I can tell regarding preparation. So I made a "fried" egg, using no oil or butter. (I promise it still tastes good.) 

1 large egg

Spray oil, such as Pam

Salt and pepper, to taste

1 slice bread

Heat a small non-stick pan on high. When hot, reduce heat to medium-low and coat lightly with spray oil. Crack egg into pan. As the egg sets, add a little salt and pepper. I like my egg with the white firm and the yolk barely set, still runny on the inside. When cooked according to preference, transfer to a piece of your favorite bread, and enjoy!

Note: This isn't much food so, if you're dieting, eat slowly, and if you're not, you may want to make seconds and/or accompany the eggs with something like sausage, salsa or a veggie stir fry. The options are endless, but this is a great way to get fried eggs without all the extra fat. 

Back to earth

I don't know what's wrong with me. For the past three days, I've been a positive mess. On Thursday it started with weepiness, followed by the feeling of having been hit by a truck-ness on Friday. And today, finally, I found myself standing at the edge of a full-blown panic attack. 

Possible explanations include: a) exhaustion over entertaining "guests" (my mom and sister hardly qualify as far as I'm concerned, but still...) for the past three weeks, b) saying goodbye to the people I love over and over again (mom and sister, again), and c) standing in cold, wet, too tight jeans on a tower overlooking water rides that I had no intention of getting on (just my sister's fault this time). 

But my money's on option d) I feel lost. Lost in a way that no map in the world could help. And I can't blame anyone but myself for that.

You see, I don't have a plan. Normally, it's the plans in this world, the routine of everyday life, that makes people feel stifled, downtrodden even. But not me. No siree. It is the free-flowing nature of my days now, the complete lack of a plan - even one I don't stick to - that, when I really think about it, makes me feel like I'm suffocating. 

The small, rational part of my brain, burrowed deep in my mind behind the stuff more than one person has kindly referred to as my "active imagination," I know that once school starts in two weeks, I will have so many plans, so much on my agenda, that I'll be yearning for these carefree days filled with lounging and wandering and reading. But for the time being, as I realized this morning, the next TWO YEARS seem completely, irrevocably empty. 

Gah! Aren't overactive imaginations supposed to take care of made-up problems like this? Shouldn't I be able to conjure a fun idea of what the next two years of my life will be like? Ha, one would think. But instead, my mind keeps jumping ahead, devising little routines and schemes for my post-J-school life. And two years can't help but feel like an incredibly looong time. 

When the freak-out set in, I knew I had to get out, to make myself busy somehow. To distract myself with the things I love most. I grabbed a book, some cash and headed to the Berkeley Farmer's Market. 

Considering this is my fourth Saturday living just a short walk from the market, I have no excuse for not having visited before. And after this morning's stroll, I'm sure I won't let a month pass before visiting again. 

There was so much that I wanted, but, knowing even my own seemingly limitless appetite's limitations, I promised myself to buy only one thing, and it had to be one thing that I really, really wanted. Something that would make all my worries disappear, even for just a few moments of epicurean pleasure. 

When I saw the morels, looking all spongy and dirty in their little baskets, I knew I had to have them. I kept a straight face as I paid for them, but my eager sniff as I took the little brown bag bulging with little goodies so betrayed my excitement that I may as well have been standing in the middle of Center Street, jumping up and down and clapping my hands. I'd never had morel mushrooms before, but I'd heard a lot about them; in my mind, they were practically magic, exactly what I needed.

Despite the hedonistic flurry of images depicting sordid trysts between my morels and a sizzling pan of butter, I didn't rush back to my kitchen. I placed the little brown bag of hidden treasure into my tote, and let them work their witchery over me. 

For hours, I sat reading and sipping iced coffee and reading more and finally finishing said book, sometimes sneaking a peek into my bag, drooping lazily in a bed of cool grass, to make sure my morels were still there. For hours more still, I left them sitting on my kitchen counter as I wrote mindlessly and chatted on the phone. I left them waiting, and waiting a little more. And then...

My morels were gone in a flash of silence interrupted only by sporadic sighs of satisfaction. I may even have stomped my foot on the ground, but I was home alone so it's hard to know for sure. What I do know is their dark, woodsy flavor, coaxed out by a heavy dose of Lurpak, brought me back to earth. Nary a sign of panic to be found tonight. 

That's high praise for a scrubby little fungus, I know. But sometimes all a girl needs for a whole lot of magic is a little imagination. 

*** 

Morels, simply

For the spell they cast, these fellas are far from "simple." But they are absolutely scrumptious with just a bit of salt and butter - what could be easier?

1/4 pound fresh morels

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Salt, to taste

Use a small brush to dust off the mushrooms. Cut them in half and brush out the insides. (Give them a quick rinse if necessary, but only if absolutely necessary.)

Melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the mushrooms, stirring occasionally as they cook. When they begin to release some of their juices, reduce the heat to medium and continue to cook until the mushrooms reabsorb the water they released. 

Add salt to taste, and serve over toast of your choice. (Let me recommend an English muffin: the nooks and crannies sop up all the buttery juices, making sure nothing is lost without the eater's having to resort to licking the plate. Though if the mood strikes, by all means...)

Lemon Cucumber

Welcome to Weird Food Wednesday! 

It's not Wednesday, so I suppose it's a bit odd to introduce what I hope will become a weekly Wednesdays-only post about some weird foodie find or other (in an attempt to make myself write more and try new things) but I swear I have a perfectly good reason. Three reasons, actually. Yesterday (a real Wednesday), I was at an amusement park letting the thrill rides bang coherent use of the English language out of my head. I technically posted a weird find last Wednesday, so this isn't even the introduction. And umm, well, I didn't think of this until just now and weird finds just works better with Wednesdays. (I evidently haven't recovered from the thrill rides. I promise not to say the W-word again.)

So what counts as a weird find? With me, just about anything and everything is fair game to be classified as "weird," considering that I ate a HoHo, a common children's treat, for the first time on Monday. I promise it wasn't just any HoHo - the bakery annex of the Napa winery we visited called it the "Adult HoHo" and it took me a fork, knife and TWO sittings to polish off.

But I'm not here to talk about HoHos. This week's weird find is... drum roll please... the lemon cucumber. My sister Sandy and I found it at the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market on Tuesday and truth be told, it is a fascinating little specimen, bizarre in look but totally familiar in flavor. It's about the size and approximate color of a lemon. The skin looks like a melon's and feels like an apple's - and that is exactly how you're supposed to eat it, like an apple. 

But the taste is a delicate twist on the common cuke: fresh, clean and mild with a hint of sweetness. The natural packaging just makes it the perfect hand-to-mouth snack. Sprinkle a little salt or maybe even a little sugar on the juicy flesh, or bite right in au natural. 

But be forewarned: it may induce a shimmy that Sandy dubbed "the lemon cucumber dance."