It's All Fun And Gobs Until...

Well, what d'ya know. Here we are, and it's Columbus Day. August and September sailed by in a whoosh and October is threatening to do the same. It's probably way too late for a What I Baked On My Summer Vacation-style post, but I have some catching up to do, pronto, otherwise it will be December before I post again, and I don't want to risk being called out as a blog squatter.

I've chronicled the happenings of my career here, as well as my kitchen, ever since I kick-started this blog back in the Spring. I just didn't think that two seasons later, they'd be one in the same. But, just as a recipe can often have a mind of its own - more fodder for my "Accidental Kitchen"-entitled memoirs, btw - so can an economy. And to recap, quickly, that's why I turned to blogging, and then baking, in the first place. Underemployment created an opportunity; namely the Gobba Gobba Hey venture. I seized it, thinking it in turn would kick-start my writing career again. But then the gob biz seized me. In a matter of weeks I went from selling gobs near Valencia Street here in San Francisco, to working out of a commercial kitchen and securing liability insurance.

For the most part it's been all fun and gobs, until of course I caught my first glimpse of the gobs in a retail spot where, in a smashed state, they looked as if someone had played whack-a-mole with them. I suddenly saw my product as potential customers were seeing them. The picture wasn't very pretty. Maintaining control of the gobs once they've left my sight was another item to add to the action list. As was updating the logo. I'm still working on both of those bullet points as I type. Again, a lesson in Marketing 101 came my way in what I've been referring to as "Forest, Meet Thy Trees." Seems my Ramones-inspired turn-of-a-phrase in my product's name wasn't the only thing people weren't getting. The stark black and white label, meant to mimic the "Gabba Gabba Hey" placard carried on stage by Joey Ramone, was equally confounding to potential customers. This came to my attention when I saw that a merchant had taken a highlighter to my minimalist design and wreathed it with squiggly pink lines. When I asked why they had decided to change my logo's look they replied matter-of-fact-ly "Because it needed color."

It was appalling to see at first, but as I looked at the smashed gobs with their Hannah Montana embellishment, I saw the newest challenge in peddling my wares.

If the first hurdle was creating familiarity with the product - try standing on a street corner, asking people if they want to buy a "gob" and then wait for their reaction - then the next barrier was going to be enticing the uninitiated with packaging that sold the Gobba Gobba Hey confection when I wasn't there to provide a sales pitch.

I still haven't cleared that, but I have some time, fortunately as festivals, weddings and deliveries are keeping me plenty busy. Since my last post I've had the privilege of participating in the Eat Real Festival in Oakland and collaborating with artists in a Street Food X Street Art event at Fabric8 Gallery in San Francisco. The Commonwealth Club has asked me to take part in a panel discussion about the street food vending scene in SF; Charles Phan of Slanted Door and Heaven's Dog renown will be speaking, as will Anthony Mynt of Mission Street Food and Brian Kimball, aka The Magic Curry Cart. The discerning tastebuddies at Foodzie.com have asked to carry the gobs in their web store and the talented bloggers over at FoodBuzz have requested gobs at an event in early November but before all of that happens, Gobba Gobba Hey will be one of the sweets on the dessert table at a wedding!

Definitely not the path I intended when I first began baking it to the streets (as I've fondly called those early gobbing days.) But it's been an interesting one, and one I should have done a better job of chronicling here.

Speaking of chronicling, the most wickedly ironic moment since this all began came in late July when into the Gobba Gobba Hey mailbox came a missive from none other than Chronicle Books. As I'd pitched my agent on the possibility of a gob cook book in the Spring, I excitedly clicked the envelope open. In the milliseconds that it took for the file to download my mind raced. "Could this all have worked? Did I really draw attention back to my byline by baking the gobs and taking them out on the streets? Was Chronicle actually writing to express interest in my work? The story of food-writer/author-turned-baker-because-of-the-bad-economy had to be a good one, right???"

Turns out they were interested in my work. They'd picked up some gobs from the 4505 Meats stall at the Ferry Building and loved them.

And they wanted to know how they could place a delivery order, for their office, for several dozen.

Gulp! The Gobs Have Been Yelped!

Well, I'm touched and honored to say that the gobs have already been yelped! Along with Sexy  Soup Cart and Creme Brulee Cart, and maybe some others that I don't know about yet, Gobba Gobba Hey has joined the list of user-reviewed street food vendors in San Francisco and I couldn't be happier! 

This is a cheat- post and I promise a fuller update soon. But I wanted to acknowledge how grateful I am of the support everyone has shown Gobba Gobba Hey - from emailed pats-on-the-back to sending in orders for a dozen of gobs to requesting that gobs be delivered to their office - it's meant a lot. I sincerely thank you. 

It's been a tough year for a lot of us, and I know many of you are in circumstances that are as bad as my own. I appreciate your support, and especially your ears. It's been a tough time for those of us who earn our living via an unconventional skill. But I know if we all hold on to some positivity and believe in ourselves and one another that we'll get through this period. 

Also, don't lose hope. You never know what might happen, no matter how crazy your idea. To paraphrase that old movie "Field of Dreams," "If you bake it, they will come." 

Will ____ For Food, or Have a Gob Day

For the last twenty plus years, my professional motto has been "Will Write For Food." Somewhere in that mission statement you could've added the words "About Food or Music or Fashion." For the better part of the last decade, though, my writing has primarily focused on topics relating to food and the kitchen. It earned me a modest living at best, but I enjoyed my work thoroughly. 

Unfortunately, in the last six months or so, my motto, "Will Write For Food" hasn't put very much of it - food that is - on the table. Like many others employed in a variety of industries I've watched as the outlets and opportunities in my line of work became smaller. Newspapers and magazines have been vanishing and those that have survived this recession have cut their staffs, and their publications' page counts, dramatically. With fewer freelance jobs to be had an already-crowded pool is over-capacity as writers and editors who once held masthead positions are now in the same waters as the self-employed. 

The question this situation raised for me wasn't "sink or swim," but rather "get out or stay in?" Abandoning a freelance career entirely wouldn't be wise. People need to see your content, and your byline, regularly. (Isn't that one of the top five tips on which even new bloggers are schooled?) Besides, the stories coming back from the front-lines from colleagues who'd ventured into the job market weren't encouraging. After sending in writing samples and a resume, one friend, a well-respected editor, was placed on a waiting list for an interview. At Starbucks. 

If one of the busiest franchises in the country was being squeezed by the recession, this didn't bode well for finding employment anywhere. I decided rather than search in vain for something that might not pay off, I'd be better off creating my own opportunities. In assessing my marketable skills beyond the obvious, I started to see some possibilities in my cooking skills (previous post aside, natch.) 

An old maxim of marketing advises those with something to sell to find a niche and fill it. So I have. With butter cream, sugar and so far, a lot of smiles. 

Dear readers, I have found Gob. And I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

As some of you may recall, earlier this spring I went in search of the recipe for one of my favorite childhood treats, The Gob. I found a recipe, but the resulting confection wasn't quite what I recalled eating as a kid. I thought with a little culinary tweaking, and some fresher ingredients, I could improve upon the wheel. Arrogant? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. And I'm happy to report that I succeeded. But what now? I had these incredible-tasting treats, but as long as they stayed in my kitchen nothing was accomplished. My waistline was becoming more visible but my byline remained unseen. 

So it was with some nervousness and even more desperation that I took to the streets to add my two baked cents to what turned out to be - inadvertently, I swear - a highly publicized street food vendor scene. I was hoping to generate a bit of a buzz through the gobs that would then bring my byline back into circulation. Instead, I seem to have succeeded in getting more attention for the gobs than I did for myself. 

Where's this leading? I'm not sure. The gobs are enjoying a life of their own, and really, who am I to stop them? In a bizarre twist I noticed the other day that one of their new followers on Twitter was an editor to whom I'd pitched some story ideas to barely four months back. This editor was now unemployed. 

Times are tough, but the treats are sweet. Might as well ride it all out on a sugar high. And I know just the place for you to get the hook-up. See you at gobba gobba hey dot com.

(A quick shout out to Amuse Bouche, Sexy Soup Cart, Cookie Wag, Urban Nectar, Creme Brulee Cart, Magic Curry Cart and all the others who've been so welcoming. Thanks for the support and especially the inspiration! Oh. And Free The Soup!) 

BBQ Chicken Rubbed and Roasted, or Did You Just Offer Me A Knuckle Sandwich?

We all know what happens when food is overcooked. It gets dry, or burned, and is essentially rendered inedible. But what about when a cook spends too much time in the kitchen? Do they also run the risk of getting a little crispy around the edges? 

Judging from my experience this past weekend, the answer is a loud, cartilage-crunching "yes." I had planned on serving my guests one of my go-to party-pleasers - chicken that is first slow-roasted with a fragrant and spicy rub to the point where it practically melts off the bone, before being dunked into a kicking BBQ sauce. Like I said, that's what I'd planned on serving them. But what I brought to the table instead was something that I have since shamefully been referring to as The Knuckle Sandwich. 

Before getting to the meat of the story, so to speak, I should issue a warning now: If you are a cook, what you're about to read might make you gasp in horror. Or maybe it will elicit some empathy and a nod of knowing recognition. If you're a vegetarian, the following could make you gag in disgust, or you just might cackle with vengeful glee. (At my folly, not the bird's fate, obviously.) And if you're someone I've promised to invite over for dinner, this tale might make you think twice about accepting that invitation. 

Since there is a recipe below, I'll try to get quickly to the point. 

I'd spent most of Saturday and well into Sunday morning this past weekend preparing and wrapping three types of gobs. They were scheduled to make an appearance in The Mission and of course I wanted them looking and tasting their Sunday best. At about 1 AM Sunday morning I'd frosted and fitted the last of the halves, individually wrapped the finished, and now-whole, gobs, and sealed them up in the fridge. Less than five hours later, I was awake, back in the kitchen, diving into the prep work for that evening's Memorial Day soiree that we were hosting. Guests were due to begin arriving at 6:30 or 7 PM.

At around 11:30 AM I ran out to deliver the gobs. By the time I returned it was close to 1 PM. I looked at my prep list, looked at the clock, and decided I was, for once, miraculously ahead of the game. The chicken, which has been slow roasting since about 10:30 AM, smelled intoxicating when I opened the oven door. There was a fiery note from the cayenne, a mellow yet rich aroma from the dried anchos, and a wild, flowery scent from the coriander. Everything was coming together nicely. (The weather was, to quote our local weatherman Spencer Christian, "Fargo-like," over the weekend otherwise the grill would've been fired up.)

Over the next few hours I prepped a black bean salad as well as a slaw. Both were intended for my vegan and vegetarian friends, but the latter was destined to serve double duty. It could easily have topped the pulled, BBQ chicken on the rolls. I was originally going to repeat one of the stars of my Cinco de Mayo meal and make corn blinis and serve the chicken on those but all of the other cooking from the night before had honestly left me a little whisked and sifted out. I opted for, go ahead and gasp if you want, store bought rolls. They were fine.

That quick decision, and my willingness, to alter my menu should have been my first sign that I wasn't my usual hosting self. But I chocked it up to the "entertaining family and friends is its own reward" motto that I try to live by. (And anyone who's seen me nervous and frenetic, rushing around the kitchen, still in shorts and a T.Rex T-shirt, as the first guests start to arrive probably wonders how much masochism is in that "reward.") 

I looked at the clock again, and felt confident. I made the BBQ sauce on top of the stove. I blanched the cabbage for the slaw, drained it, quickly tossed it with the carrot and granny smith apples, then lightly drizzled in some fresh squeezed lemon juice. I added some kosher salt and black pepper. It was delightfully fresh. The chill that still clung to the cabbage after its plunge from the boiling spring atop the stove into the ice cube bath made for a wonderfully sensual experience. The sweet cold crispness, along with the tart lemon juice and coarseness of the salt and pepper were all simple and satisfying. Alice Waters would've been proud. 

If, that is, she'd eaten it within the next twenty minutes. Unfortunately I was working ahead and the slaw still had another.... four hours before it was going to be served. 

I'm still not sure what kind of culinary vortex I fell into in the ensuing hours but before I knew it I was scrambling to take the chicken apart, comb through for any bones, skin or cartilage, and get it into the pot of BBQ sauce. It needed to slow cook on the stove so it could continue to break down into shredded threads of meat as it became infused with the flavors of the sauce. 

Well, as often happens, I forgot to eat. I think the last thing I taste-tested was the black bean salad before I tossed in the rice vinaigrette. 

That vinaigrette, as I discovered later, never got added. I'd completely spaced on it. Making matters worse? Well, in addition to the things I didn't put into the foods were the things that I somehow never took out. 

After everyone left I finally sat down to eat something. I just can't eat while I'm hosting, so once everyone was out the door I made a plate for myself. I took a bite of the BBQ chicken sandwich I'd made.... and was greeted by a loud crunch. I quickly spat out the mouthful of food and examined it. There, along with the beautifully shredded chicken, was a piece of cartilage. "Better that I found this than one of our guests," I thought as I took another bite. And immediately heard another crunch. And then another. And another. And, please dear God, make it stop, another. 

I think it's safe to say I was apoplectic. I looked at Lon and shrieked, "There are pieces of cartilage all through this!!! Why didn't you let me know?" 

"Because I didn't notice it." 

"How could you not notice it?" I practically demanded.

"Because there was nothing to notice." 

Answered like a truly supportive spouse. Whether Lon did or did not find anything other than chicken in the pot, isn't the point. Sensing my increasing anxiety, the only way to quell what I saw as a horrible problem was to tell me that there was no problem. 

"And no one else noticed anything either. I cleared the plates, I washed them, and I didn't see any signs that anybody stopped eating."

I almost didn't even hear that comment. I was focused on the fact that I'd overextended myself in the kitchen the past two days, and as a result I had been a terrible host for the night, possibly serving my guests something ghastly.

If anyone did find anything wrong with the meal, no one uttered a word to me. They were incredibly gracious, sending thank you notes over the next two days. I was still fixated on how I'd somehow let everyone down by not being at my best as a cook, when I suddenly became aware of the lesson my friends had taught me over the weekend: How to be a good guest.

Maybe they really didn't receive anything but decent food on their plates, but to me it's obvious they appreciated the effort. It made me smile. The kitchen, like friendship, really offers its own rewards. 

I adapted this recipe from an old, now defunct mag called Eating Well. That this adaptation of it has been used every warm season since 1998 speaks to how well it goes over. Plus it's relatively labor-free - providing of course you thoroughly check the bones!

Rubbed And Roasted BBQ Chicken 

For the rub... 

1.5 turkey thighs or 2 lbs chicken thighs, preferably skin removed

1 TBS brown sugar

1 TBS cracked black pepper

1 TBS paprika

1 TBS coriander

1 TBS ancho chili powder

2 tsp chipotle powder

1/2 TBS dry mustard

1 tsp kosher salt

1/4 to 1/2 tsp cayenne (to your taste)

For the barbecue sauce.... 

1/2 cup good quality ketchup

1/4 cider vinegar

1/4 cup apple juice

1/4 cup bourbon (use something with a higher sugar content like Maker's Mark)

1 TBS black molasses

2 tsp brown sugar

juice of half a lime

1 TBS Tabasco 

1/2 TBS Worcestershire sauce

1. Preheat oven to 300 F. 

2. Put all dry ingredients for spice rub into a bowl and whisk to combine thoroughly. Rub into chicken (or turkey) thighs. Set aside.

3. Place pieces of fowl in a roaster, covered with foil, and slide into oven for about an hour and a half. Remove foil and check. Allow to continue cooking for at least another half hour without the foil cover. At the end of two hours, check a piece for doneness (approximately 180 to 185 F.) If pieces are cooked through, remove from oven and allow to sit, at least ten minutes, so pieces can seal. This will also allow it to cool to the touch so that you can shred it off the bone. 

4. In a nonreactive pan place all ingredients for the barbecue sauce, except the lime juice. Allow sauce to build from a simmer to a slight boil, stirring frequently. Turn off heat and stir in lime juice. 

5. Add pieces of shredded meat to the BBQ sauce, place back on stove and heat to medium high. Serve on rolls. 

NOTES: I've made this with both turkey and chicken and I admit I like the turkey better. It has a more, well, wild flavor than the chicken. The dark meat of both birds is perfectly suited for this slow roasting as they stay moist longer. You can make the BBQ as the meat is cooking and allow it to sit on the stove. The flavors of both the spice-rubbed meat and the BBQ sauce only get better as they meld so there's no rush to get them together unless drying out is an issue.

Gobba Gobba Hey: The Gobs Leave Home!

Well, the gobs left home today. It was only a matter of time before they outgrew this little "room." They have a site of their own now, and while I'll still post about them here, I'll be writing more about them primarily at www.gobbagobbahey.com . 

The original Chocolate and Blonde On Blonde gobs were joined today by a new, as of yet, unnamed carrot cake version. I like the idea of a christening them with a Ziggy Stardust reference since they have a lot in common with that particular Bowie incarnation, but I'm still undecided. 

Thanks to everyone who's given them such a warm welcome, and please, don't be a stranger at their new site! 

Absinthe Frosted Gobs, or There's Nothing Here To Look At People, Just Keep Moving Along

Something bad happened in my kitchen yesterday. A good recipe went wrong. Horribly wrong. As a result, sometime between midnight and, what I'll just refer to as "a not so early hour this morning," I passed out. 

When I woke up this morning in a happy and well-fed yet admittedly hazy and confused state, I looked around at the sunny, sunny bedroom, spied the clock and gasped "What the hell happened?" 

Soon enough my mental circuitry started to snap and spark. It all came back to me very clearly. No wonder I felt like I'd been wrapped in gauze: I was fighting a hangover. A gob-induced hangover. Make that an absinthe-frosted-gob-induced hangover. And that beguiling green bottle was to blame. 

Now that I look back at my decision to make an absinthe-frosted gob, countless cautionary tales are coming to mind. Here are just a few:

1. Just because it's edible, it doesn't always mean you should put it in your mouth.

2. Just because it works on paper, it doesn't mean it's going to work on the palate. 

3. If something was illegal for nearly a hundred years, there must have been a good reason.

4. Follow directions. If the label cautions one part absinthe to four-to-six parts water, again, there must be a good reason.

5. Don't play with your food. 

Why was I attempting to incorporate absinthe into a gob recipe? Like every other great challenge, the answer is simple. Because it was there. But mostly because my gobs are about to start making more appearances on the streets, and in at least one store, in the city where I live and I wanted to have five solid versions under my belt. (I was going to say "under my apron" but that just sounds wrong in more ways than I can count.) And with this being San Francisco, not only does food have to be good, it has to be unique. Like the song says, it's hard out here for a pimp. Or in this case, it's hard out here for a barely-employed food writer who's learned that it's not enough in a recession just to be able to write about food. You have to be able to cook it, write the recipe, make sure it's like nothing else that's out there at the moment, take the dish's damn photo, put it up on line, promote it, take it to the streets, sell it, and then, if you can grow your own yeast, filet your own sashimi plate, create water from air, balance the tires on someone's car or check their oil while you're doing everything else, then maybe, just maybe someone will pay attention to you. Or at least that's how it is in this town! There is always someone better than the best around the next corner. 

"Oh yeah, it's definitely a city of producers," a friend of mine who is a lifelong resident of this great city confirmed yesterday when I was sharing how amazed I am at the level of talent contained here in the 7 X 7. That talent, and the inspiration that it offers, is one of the reasons why I wanted to move here in the first place. 

Don't worry, this isn't where I break into the Mary Tyler Moore theme and throw my hat up in the air, nor is it where I start singing about "spreading the news." But it is where I'm going to rewind back to yesterday when I was tilting back the bottle of absinthe as I tried to get the balance right in the frosting I was making for this new batch of gobs. I'm not going to disclose all of the ingredients or the recipe since I'm not giving up on it just yet. I will share though that every ingredient was given a lot of thought and theoretically they all should've harmoniously clicked, like yin and yang, when the two gob halves were frosted and then fitted together. 

They're not bad. But like anything that's suddenly given power, in this case through a jolt of high octane alcohol, they just don't know their own strength. And I didn't know it - their power, that is - either. At least not until I returned home last night from a certain crowded concert venue and found myself in a ravenous state through no doing of my own. Since this is a family-oriented blog, I'll let you figure that one out for yourselves. Happily standing in my kitchen at around midnight and looking for something to eat, I was overcome with a giddy rush as I remembered the gobs I'd baked earlier in the afternoon. I quickly devoured two of them. I remember washing them down with some milk straight outta the carton. And the next thing I knew it was morning. 

So, the moral of this recipe? Know your ingredients. (How many times have I said that to myself in the past few weeks?) And measure them accordingly. 

I will probably give these gobs another go, tempering my pour on the absinthe. In the meantime, I have a fridge full of these things over here at the Folsom Test Kitchen. San Francisco peeps, you know where I live! But please, if you come over, bring along a designated driver: You will be eating at your own risk. 

Gazpacho Shooters: The Classic Chilled Soup Goes High Octane For Brunch

I think I'm one of those people who wears their influences on their proverbial sleeves. From my taste in movies and music, to my favorites in fashion and food, I think I'm pretty easy to read: I am a product of my generation. Take my love of gazpacho, for instance. I began coming into my culinary own, so to speak, right around the time that the Tex-Mex and Southwestern crazes were spicing up the American kitchen. I was living in Baltimore back then, and a small restaurant in Fells Point called South By Southwest inspired my palate with a simple side dish of black beans and white corn. In another part of town, the menu at a place called the Cultured Pearl offered an equally-influential gazpacho. Those two dishes set me on a course of personal study. I stayed up late reading books by Diana Kennedy. I combed through recipes in magazines and newspapers, training my eyes to spot words like "ancho," "poblano," and "mesa" at cincuenta pasos. And I faithfully watched PBS series like Southwest Tastes: Great Chefs of the West or Julia's Cooking With Master Chefs, which featured the about-to-be Too Hot Tamales Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger. 

I quickly discovered the importance of balancing my spice blends, tempering a fiery patch of peppers with a cooling dollop of sour cream. Before long, I was perfecting dishes. Gazpacho was one of the first. The cold tomato soup provided a great way to learn the subtleties of fresh ingredients and how they can make, or break a meal. A seemingly benign cucumber, for instance, can practically poison a recipe; red onions, if not used judiciously or if used so much as an hour past their prime, can likewise befoul a dish and sentence it to the compost bin. Gazpacho empowered me to follow my instincts. I began to improvise with varying degrees of success. Not all of my experiments yielded tasty, or even edible results. To this day my former housemate Margo will not let me forget my disastrous orange chili chicken. Comparing its flavor to, and I quote directly, "a vomit patch" she blames that meal for putting her off of what she now generalizes as the "meat-fruit-nut combo" dishes. 

If TexMex foods were all the rage when I was carving out my kitchen's niche, then vodka was the beverage of choice. Drinking vodka became as much about stylist choice as it was about taste, a trend established by the distiller Absolut. Absolut Vodka ads were everywhere in the mid and late 1980s. The era was all but defined by the images for the company by artists like Andy Warhol and Keith Haring. 

Unlike my trial-and-errors with south-of-the-border recipes, my experiments with vodka are probably best left for chronicling elsewhere. But this is one that's safe to share: I've always had a strong urge to wed my early love of vodka with my gazpacho recipe. 

I'd always thought a Bloody Mary could practically be served in a bowl, anyway, and wasn't gazpacho really just the unleaded version of the classic cocktail? Well, as I discovered when I attempted to create a gazpacho shooter for an upcoming brunch, the answer is no. The cucumber, once again, is the wild card, as is any chili pepper that you decide to use. 

So after a few wretched batches, and one wicked mid-day hangover, I hit upon a recipe for Gazpacho Shooters. Enjoy responsibly, please, and ask if you have any questions. 

Gazpacho Shooters

For the soup... 

1 can whole peeled tomatoes in juice (28 oz)

1 lemon, sliced into rounds

half a medium-sized cucumber, peeled and sliced into rounds

juice of 1 lime

2 strips of fresh jalapeno, sliced lengthwise 

1 cup vodka

2 to 4 TBS lemon-thyme syrup (see Gobs Gone Wild post on this blog)

Tabasco sauce

kosher salt to taste

fresh ground black pepper

chives for "straw" garnish

1. Pour vodka into a shallow bowl or baking dish. Do not use plastic as it will sully the flavor. Place lemon slices and cucumber slices in vodka. Cover and refrigerate for at least four hours. 

2. Puree tomatoes in a food processor or blender. Add cucumbers from vodka and puree with tomatoes until smooth. Squeeze lemon slices into tomato and cucumber mix. Puree well. 

3. Add at least two tablespoons of the lemon thyme syrup to tomato mixture and puree again. Starting with one tablespoon of lime juice, begin to balance out the flavor. You might find that you want to add more sweetener. (I usually put a bit of strained honey into my gazpacho.) The lime will counter the lemon nicely. Add the lime juice to your taste, but puree after each additional seasoning. (SEE NOTES BELOW.)

4. Add two or three healthy dashes of Tabasco to the soup and puree well again. 

5. Using a funnel and a ladle, pour into individual shot glasses, top with cracked pepper and serve with a "straw" of fresh chive. 

NOTES: The vodka in the gazpacho was almost overpowering on my first three attempts. If I'd just been a little more patient I would have discovered that with some extra pureeing - and a bit of time - the flavors would meld together wonderfully. Don't give up on this if at first it tastes too strong, or if the flavors seem disproportionate. Balance it to your liking with the lime and the lemon-thyme syrup. And then let it sit for at least ten minutes in your fridge. Taste it again. It will come together on its own. I used canned tomatoes here just because the fresh are still a little too unpredictable. Choose a cucumber that is medium sized and hopefully not seedy and pithy. Also, if the jalapeno smells the least bit acrid when you slice into it, don't use it!