our daily table

Welcome to the dahl house.

2011-03-02T17:09:00.000-05:00

It's not that I tend to be late; it's that I like to take my time. The way I see it, so many aspects of our lives require hustle, when I can I prefer to dilly-dally. Putz, if you will. I do not look on this as wasteful, or unproductive. On the contrary, I think putzing is necessary in order to hear the voice inside, the only one, that in the end, really matters. And so, after a long holiday season and a rather abrupt move in the midst of a snow storm, I finally took some time, in the fleeting days of January, to take stock of the past year and set some goals for the coming one. Of course, most of these are private, although as they play out you're likely to hear whispers of them here. But a few of them -- the food-related ones -- I wanted to share.

This year, I want to be here more, because I like it here, and frankly, so few things are completely mine creatively. I want to continue to learn about food, but I also want to turn my attention away from what seems overly excessive, or overly indulgent, or overly privileged. Not that I don't like those things, but they're awfully well-represented. I want to think more about balance and education, and I want to write more about those things, but I also just want to write more in general. I have a more immediate goal, and that is to start cooking with spices. It probably sounds easier that it is, at least to me it does. I mostly work with salt and pepper and nutmeg and often red pepper and dry and fresh herbs. My spice cabinet is full of lots of other things, powders with "exotic" names like Nigerian cayenne, white pepper and turmeric. I've cooked with all of them, but often with mixed-results. So, spices.

A dish that's been in pretty steady rotation lately at my house is a simple dahl (also spelled daal, dal, or dhal). Dahl is a healthy and hearty soup, or stew, made from beans, peas or lentils. Maybe you've had a version of it at an Indian restaurant. When I have it's often yellow in color, and served at the beginning of the meal. Dahl is found in Bangladeshi, Indian, Nepali, Pakistani and Sri Lankan cuisines, and it is a good source of protein if, like me, you eat little or no meat. I found a basic recipe for masoor dahl, Indian dahl made with red lentils (masoor is a type of lentil), online. After several takes, all of which were delicious but varied slightly due to ingredients I had on hand, I found my preferred balance of spices. Dishes being well-spiced, or even spicy, is not enough. Here, balance and intention are key.

Dahl can be garnished in a number of ways and served with rice or bread, such as naan or roti. I finished mine with a dollop of Greek yogurt and a thick piece of sour herb bread (to mop up every last drop).

Simple spicy masoor dahl.

1 cup masoor (or red) lentils, rinsed and picked through
4 cups water, or stock
1 medium white onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger (substitute 1/8 teaspoon dry ginger)
1 tablespoon grapeseed oil, or substitute
1 teaspoon cumin seed, toasted and ground
1 teaspoon fennel seed, toasted and ground
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon tumeric
1/2 teaspoon Nigerian cayenne
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
7 black pepper corns, ground
2 tablespoons tomato paste (optional)

In a small-sized skillet, dry toast cumin and fennel seeds over medium-high heat until the seeds grow slightly darker in color and become deliciously fragrant (3 to 4 minutes). Move seeds to a bowl to cool. Grind when cool to touch.

In a medium-sized stock pot, heat oil on high and sauté onion until it starts to brown (approximately 7 minutes). Add garlic and ginger, and sauté for 2-3 more minutes. Add lentils and water, and bring to a boil.

Once boiling, stir in spices, and reduce flame to medium-low. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes, or until lentils are soft.

Serves 2-4.

Note: Many recipes I read called for the lentils to be brought to a boil before the other ingredients were added. I chose to slightly brown the onion to give the soup a richer flavor (they don't call caramelized onions a vegetarian's bacon for nothing). Also, some dahl recipes call for the spices to be cooked in oil before being stirred into the cooked lentils at the end. I opted to reduce my soup with the spices. It just seemed easier, and it was.

Red, right, return.

2010-06-24T16:18:00.004-04:00

Summer arrived without so much as a pause on my part. I've been busy -- with my restaurant work and freelance work, with bike rides and afternoon beers, with last-minute trips out of the city to my friend's fantastic beach house on Cape Cod. In the last month, I've cooked very little. I've been living on hummus and smoothies and tacos and oysters. Some days, I think I could live like this forever. But I know when things slow down, and I'm home long enough to consider a dinner party, this urge will change. Until it does, a picture from a lovely "uncooked" dinner at a friend's house, and some others from the Cape, where I ate oysters, and my ultimate summer indulgence: lobster. I will return here soon, with bells and whistles and stories of the sea.

Rocking the salad roll.

2010-05-27T12:39:00.017-04:00

I wouldn't say I had a complete breakdown on Tuesday, but I wasn't far off. Thankfully I was alone when -- a mere two hours into what I'm calling Project Salad Roll -- I muttered aloud: What the hell was I thinking? An hour later, it slipped out again. Several times. To no one in particular. Then, half an hour after that, as I was bagging up five little boxes each containing five bundles of shrimp, slaw and vermicelli, I burst: These fuckers better be worth it. Forgive me, but I'd invested nearly four hours on what I thought would be a quick snack.

When I arrived at my friend's house a bit later, I was thrilled (nay, relieved) that they still looked good. Sure, they weren't nearly as pretty as the salad rolls I've had in restaurants, and some of them were sporting holes and leaking a bit, but they tasted good. I knew this for a fact because for every half dozen I managed to wrap semi-correctly, I botched at least one, which of course had to be eaten. I thought it a miracle I actually wanted to eat more of them, but I did. They were that good: the gelatinous chew of the vermicelli next to the crunch of the julienned cucumbers; the salty meat of the shrimp dotted with a brilliantly fragrant red cabbage and carrot slaw.

True to my spirit, I'd gone rogue in my planning; what was intended to be a buffet of individually julienned vegetables, turned into a slaw that stole the show. To the cabbage and carrots, I added basil, lovage and raw shallot. At the last minute, there was some raw ginger and lime juice, rice vinegar and sesame oil. Was it too much? Had my delicate dish been compromised?

Carrying the plate from the kitchen to my friends outside, my emotions were akin to a child's on the first day of school. I was excited and a bit nervous, scared of rejection and fearful that everyone but me would be allergic to shellfish. Did I imagine the "oohs" and "aahs" as I lowered the platter to the table? My friends aren't the kind who blow smoke, of that I am certain. So when they said they were good, I believed them. When they went back for seconds, I sighed. And when one friend exclaimed excitedly that my salad rolls looked like orchids, my heart swelled. The hours spent crouched on a step stool next to my kitchen table -- bowls of warm water on both sides, scads of ingredients all around -- did not fade from memory, but almost turned fond.

Yeah, the fuckers were worth it, all right.

You'll forgive me further, I hope, for not sharing the complete salad roll recipe, because there really isn't one to share. Buy a bag of rice papers, some shrimp and vermicelli, channel some patience and experiment like mad. Some tips I found useful:

-- Be sure to soak rice papers in warm warm water. You should be able to touch it, but the water shouldn't be too cool. Change water frequently, if necessary.

-- Compose rolls themselves on the glass plate. Wet rice papers stick to cutting boards.

-- Have a spray bottle of water on hand. Composed rolls should remain damp. I misted mine, then wrapped them in plastic wrap.

-- Relax. You're going to make mistakes. That just means more chances to sample the goods!

If you feel inclined to give salad rolls a go, try using this slaw. It's an attractive and interesting way to compose an otherwise orderly dish. Besides, it makes your prep work a whole lot easier. Salad rolls, I now know, aren't meant to be easy. But no one ever said pleasure was painless.

Asian-style slaw for salad rolls

Ingredients

1 small head red cabbage
5 small carrots, peeled
1 1" piece of raw ginger, peeled
1 small shallot
1/2 cup basil
1/2 cup lovage
1/2 tablespoon sesame oil
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
Juice of 1 lime
Sea salt, to taste

Using a food processor (or mandolin, or your own little hands), shred cabbage, carrots, ginger, shallot, basil and lovage.

Whisk together sesame oil, vinegar and lime juice.

In a large bowl, mix vegetables and dressing. It will be fairly dry, that's OK. The vegetables will sweat some.

Salt to taste.

Will make roughly 30 small salad rolls, or individually serve 6-8 people.

Everything but the kitchen sink.

2010-05-20T12:14:00.004-04:00

I've had a lively run, as of late. I'm not sure whether I should credit the season and the inevitable heart-breakingly beautiful produce it brings, or simply the season itself: warm enough to drive us to seek lush outdoor spaces in which to drink rosé and casually enjoy fingers full of baby greens, shared pizza pies at Roberta's and the first of the year's barbecues. Over the weekend, there were long walks and "Maine-style" lobster rolls (chilled lobster tossed in mayonnaise, versus the "Connecticut-style" of warm lobster drenched in melted butter). And Monday, after an epic bike ride around Brooklyn, I indulged in a truly seasonal feast: the rarest of lamb chops, rubbed with a little extra-virgin olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt and black pepper, an inspired dash of cumin; minted quinoa with seared shallots; roasted artichoke hearts; and show-stealing spring asparagus. After that, we ate cheese. My friend and I dined picnic-style on the living room rug, sipping wine from tiny glasses while resting our heads on the seat of the couch, faces leaned to the evening breeze creeping in through the open window, the gauzy curtain generously giving way for our enjoyment.

Of course, I don't eat like this all the time. A typical week consists of a handful of truly indulgent meals, punctuated by seemingly austere ones. Breakfast is usually a smoothie or oatmeal with several cups of black tea, and lunch is almost always quinoa salad. I eat so much of the stuff I sometimes feel like it's all I talk about. Anyone who keeps up with me on Twitter knows that this grain is a staple, but I have yet to spend a lot of time here addressing what exactly I do with it. Sure, quinoa is fine on it's own, made sweet with a little milk and honey, or savory with finely chopped fresh herbs, olive oil and salt. But it's easy to make it into something a whole lot more. On a recent afternoon, I took my love of this complete protein to another level when I created a complete meal with it, a salad I fittingly deemed [gentrified] "Brooklyn" through and through.

I tweeted excitedly: "Eating a seriously rad 'Brooklyn' salad: red quinoa/roasted peppers/pickles/sausage tossed w/ ramp pesto/lemon/evoo. I feel triumphant." And I did. So triumphant, in fact, that I've recreated the flavor combination several times. The sausage -- be it real or the imitation kind -- with the pickles and roasted peppers evoke the satisfaction of a sandwich at a street fair, but the soft bits of quinoa and nibbles of crunchy carrot and celery scream healthy salad all the way. The best of both worlds? I added some chia seeds for health and texture, and seasoned it all to taste with fresh lemon, the hot oil from the sausage drippings and the last of my ramp pesto. Variations on this salad abound, and I encourage you to try your own and let me know the results.

Quinoa salad :: BK style

Ingredients

1/2 cup dry quinoa, cooked and cooled
1 large carrot, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
1 large roasted red pepper, chopped
1-2 tablespoons dry chia seed (optional)
2 tablespoons pesto, any variety
1-2 links Italian sausage, real or imitation, sliced into bite-sized pieces
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of 1/2 lemon
Sea salt, to taste

In a medium-sized skillet, heat extra-virgin olive oil over medium heat, add sausage and a pinch of salt. Cook until skins brown and juices start to release (4 to 6 minutes).

In large bowl, combine quinoa, carrots, celery, roasted peppers, pesto and chia seeds, mix well. Stir in hot sausage, any remaining oil and lemon juice.

Salt to taste.

Serve as is, or over a bed of leafy greens.

Serves 2-3.

Kind and simple.

2010-05-13T15:32:00.005-04:00

I know it's not very modern to admit this, but saving time isn't high on my list of priorities. Sure, I respect efficiency, but I'm a fan of putzing and sleeping, in no particular order. I like to linger (over meals, in museums, on a wooded trail), and I believe strongly in the productivity that results from letting our minds wander. I harbor ill feelings toward Racheal Ray not because she's annoyingly chatty and peppy, but because I don't believe in measuring life, especially my food life, in 30-minute intervals. I remember falling prey to her mantra in my early-20s; she made cooking look fast and simple. The only problem was, I didn't want to rush. As I learned to cook, I discovered how much I enjoy spending a leisurely afternoon at the market and in the kitchen, chopping, simmering, smelling and finally eating. Making meals from scratch sounds old-fashioned, but it's immensely satisfying and -- I think -- better for our health. Making the kinds of meals I enjoy eating takes time, and that time -- for me -- is always well-spent.

That all said, I gotta to tell you: what attracted me to this cookie recipe was it's promise of ease. The first time I made them, I had a craving for something sweet, but I was short on time and ingredients. Luckily, the seven called for are house-hold staples. So, I whipped up and baker's dozen in less than 10 minutes, and made a pot of coffee while they baked. Fifteen minutes later, I had a warm cookie in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. It was the perfect little treat, not too sweet (the only sugar used is in the jam) and not at all unhealthy. That first batch was gone in less than two days, and since then these cookies have been appearing on our table frequently. They also slip nicely into a coat pocket or purse, should you want to get lost for a while.

S.H.E. (simple, healthy and easy) thumbprint cookies
Adapted from The Kind Life

Ingredients

1 cup raw almonds
1 cup rolled oats
1 cup spelt flour 
1/2 cup grape seed oil
1/4 cup maple syrup 
1/4 cup molasses
Jam of your choice 

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
 
In a food processor, blend almonds and oats until they have the consistency of flour. Transfer to a large bowl, and mix in spelt flour.

In a separate bowl, whisk together grape seed oil, maple syrup and molasses.

Combine wet and dry ingredients. Mix well.

Wet hands and form batter into balls approximately 1-inch in diameter. Using your thumb, press each ball into the cookie sheet, forming an indentation on each top. Fill each cookie with a small spoonful of jam.

Bake for 15 minutes.

Cool and enjoy.

Makes 13-15 cookies.

Localized pleasures.

2010-05-06T13:39:00.013-04:00

Earlier this week, I did the unthinkable: I made a breakfast smoothie. I know that doesn't sound too radical, but for a girl who once claimed to not believe in liquid food, trust me: it was a very big deal. I once broke up with a guy because his daily pilgrimage to Jamba Juice upset me so much. And to this day, I defend my reasoning: you can't fall in love over juice. Love is meant to happen over croissants and soft-scrambled eggs, omelettes oozing with goat cheese and herbs, pancakes. Not a styrofoam cup full of soy protein and wheat germ. That stuff, while good for you, is best consumed away from those you hope to be romantic with.

My housemates frequently make smoothies, and typically I haughtily turn my nose up at their offers to share. I struggle with their consumption of so much non-local produce. I'm paralyzed by the number of plastic bags of frozen berries they go through. In the height of summer, our garbage smells like a Caribbean beach after a bonfire: moist and sweet and slightly rotten. It's understandable, then, that my craving the other morning for a banana and wild blueberry smoothie, thickened with coconut oil, flax seed and Greek yogurt, caught me off guard. What made me do it? I suppose the same thing that drives a lot of people to opt for lighter meals: heat and health. It was warm -- uncharacteristically so -- for a spring morning, I was out of eggs and I'm making an effort to eat more fruit (vegetables are never a problem for me, but fruit is, especially in these painful pre-summer months of yearning for ripe local berries, peaches and anything -- God, help me -- other than an apple).

Now, here's another confession: that smoothie was delicious: cool and juicy, nutty from the flax seed and tangy from the yogurt. I've made one daily for the past several days, and I've taken to enjoying a little experimentation. One day I used almond milk, another I skipped the coconut oil and used coconut water instead. I've tried yogurts of different consistencies. And they were all fantastic. The best part, though, is I'm developing a more realistic relationship to my food sources. Sure, oranges taste better picked from my mother's backyard in California, but not eating fruit is not really an option for me in terms of my health. Of course, whether I consume non-local or local fruit, I choose organic whenever possible.

It was in the midst of this non-local fruit affair that I remembered my last bunch of ramps resting in the refrigerator. Immediately, I felt guilty, as if I'd written off all the gorgeous greens from this week's green market in favor of the dazzling violet of non-native crushed berries. The ramps had to be eaten, and soon, as I'd already had them for days and well, it was time. I knew I wanted to make a pesto; it was the vehicle for the pesto I struggled with, since, as I mentioned earlier, I'm making an effort to eat a bit healthier (i.e., less butter, white flour, refined sugar, etc.). I had a bunch of kale and I was craving protein, but I felt tired of quinoa. In the cupboard was a can of chickpeas, which I opened and rinsed. Setting them aside, I set some water to boil for a little pappardelle (I know, not healthy at all, but it was perfect for my plan). While I waited for the water to boil and my pasta to cook, I chopped half a bunch of washed and dried raw kale. Lastly, in the food processor, I made the pesto below. Dinner took less than 20 minutes, but lingered -- thanks to the pungent flavor of the ramps -- much longer. It was light but filling, healthy save the pasta, vegan and utterly satisfying. Would you believe me if I told you I'd have eaten it for breakfast? That is, had there been leftovers, and my smoothie wasn't calling my name.

Ramp pesto

Ingredients

1 bunch ramps -- bulbs and stems, washed, trimmed and cut into 1/2" segments
1/4 cup pine nuts
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Parmesan, to taste (optional)
Sea salt, to taste

In a food processor, combine ramps, a pinch of sea salt, pine nuts and 1/8 cup of olive oil. Blend.

Transfer mixture to a bowl. Stir in additional olive oil, Parmesan and salt to desired consistency and taste.

Serve with pasta, on bruschetta or as a starter for salad dressing.

Yields approximately 1 cup of pesto.

Seasonal shift.

2010-04-29T15:41:00.006-04:00

In typical April fashion, the weather's been unpredictable: lows as low as 40, and this weekend's to be twice as warm. There have been rain storms, with lightening and thunder. I wake to gray clouds blanketing the sky and am blinded -- suddenly -- by brilliant blue midday. The cherry blossoms and tulips have bloomed, and they've impressed me by standing strong against the winds, which still carry a chilly punch. Despite it still feeling like soup weather, my diet is shifting: a thick slice of toast smeared with fresh ricotta; eggs scrambled with sweet ramps; lentil salads; gorgeous rapini, flowering yellow and white.

Spying some carrots at the green market this week, I remembered a salad I enjoyed at Marlow & Sons a few years ago. It was a simple dish made of chunky bites of raw carrot, crushed raw almonds, finely chopped herbs (parsley being the most notable) and a shallot vinaigrette. It's one of the finest salads I've ever tasted (crunchy, earthy, healthy, sweet), and as I wait to see if they'll recreate it this year, I've been experimenting at home. Toasted slivered almonds and baby spinach were added to carrots above. And just now, I mixed chopped almonds and carrots with shaved apple and chiffonades of kale. A little heartier than the original, but as Mother Nature continues to remind me, April -- even at it's end -- is no May.

Love like soup.

2010-04-27T11:15:00.003-04:00

Because I like to cook, and perhaps more because some might describe me as a little possessive of my kitchen, it's not often that others prepare home-cooked meals for me. When it does happen (and it does happen and I cherish every moment), I am always grateful. It's inspiring to see how others work in the kitchen, what kinds of dishes they are driven to create. Selfishly, I'm often most thankful for the opportunity to truly sit back and relax, a task I find difficult and surrender to only with force or wine. It's occurred to me that this is one reason cooking for others gives me such joy: it's a gift of time and a sign of affection. Feeding someone is one of the most thoughtful things we can do. It's love in action.

When my friend Chris arrived at work Sunday with a bag in tow, I thought he'd brought himself dinner. So imagine my surprise when he handed it to me and said, "I have a gift for you." Inside was a container of caldo verde, a Portuguese soup made with garlic, kale, potatoes, onions and chorizo. I had never heard of it, but it sounded downright dreamy and the perfect antidote to the rain that had been falling hard for what felt like weeks. Leaving work Sunday, I cradled my bag of soup to my chest, and rushed it to the safety of my own kitchen, where I reheated it late yesterday afternoon, adding some crusty bread and a few meaty olives.

And boy, did I feel special. I'd been out -- again, in the rain -- since morning, and I was cold and wet and exhausted. Warming the soup took less time than the toast, and I savored the extra minutes by standing over the warm stove, inhaling deeply the smokey aroma. The soup itself was light and simple. Chris later told me he'd pureéd the soup base of garlic, potatoes, onion and sausage, then added thin chiffonades of raw kale, which retained a little of their hearty texture and turned the soup a brilliant mossy green. I added a pinch of red pepper for color (and taste), and between that and the garlic, I felt alive.

I also felt inspired by the gesture. Forget muffins. Nothing says love like soup.

Oh, I'll eat cake.

2010-04-20T13:12:00.002-04:00

But first, I must preface this by admitting I'm not a dessert person. I know, you don't need to tell me; more than once, I've questioned my own authority in the blogosphere -- as a would-be "food blogger" no less -- where so many people are swapping stories about cakes and crumbles and pies and tarts (one would think they include a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking with the sale of every MacBook Pro). Several friends (and several more ex-boyfriends) have admonished me for my boredom as a dinner companion; no sooner does the dessert menu go down than I'm asking about cheese in the same breath as I'm ordering another glass of wine. If I could, I'd write about eggs every day, but we've seen where that will get us. Instead, I've tried to find a balance: an egg soliloquy here, a salad recipe there, a mention of chocolate every once in a tweet. Perhaps no one would've noticed, had I not let the cat out of the bag just now. Is it not best, though, to beat the naysayers to the punch? I thought so.

No, that's not true. What I thought yesterday afternoon, as I cleaned out our pantry on a head-cold driven rampage, was, "Why do we own four and half [insert expletive here] bags of powdered sugar? Four and a half! I don't even like dessert!" Then: "What the [expletive] am I going to do with four and a half [expletive] bags of powdered sugar!?" Then, I sat down I had some water. And while I calmed down, I Googled "powdered sugar" and studied up on frosting and sugar cookies.

This knowledge will likely remain unused, since I plan to maintain my "I'd-rather-eat-cheese" stance against the sweet stuff (although, you never know, next Christmas could be the one where I finally make those gift boxes I've been planning all these years). But this cake I stumbled upon, then made and ate in its entirety (there were five of us) wasn't that sweet. Yes, it made an amazing dessert, still warm from the oven and served with some strawberries a friend salvaged from his local bodega. But I suspect this cake would make a fine breakfast or afternoon snack, as well. It's made with lemon and yogurt, so it's light enough for any time of day and any season, too. More than that, it's easy: I whipped it up in 10 minutes (it then bakes for 30). So, in the time it takes to eat dinner (including a proper cheese course) and finish that bottle of wine, you can bake this cake, allow it to cool and set some water to boil for tea. Last night, I made chamomile spiked with bourbon. Alongside a slice of this beauty, I felt like I was indulging in a deconstructed hot toddy.

Dessert naysayer to hipster pastry chef in one pantry cleaning. Where is my mind?

French-style yogurt cake with lemon and sugar glaze
Adapted from Orangette*

Cake

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 cup plain yogurt
1/2 cup grape seed oil
3 large eggs
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest

Glaze

1/4 cup powdered sugar
Juice of 2 lemons

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large bowl, combine sugar, yogurt and eggs. Stir well. Add flour, baking powder and lemon zest. Add oil, and stir into a smooth batter.

Pour into a buttered 9-inch round cake pan.

Bake approximately 30-35 minutes, until cake feels springy to the touch and a toothpick tests clean. Do not over bake.

Cool -- in pan -- for 20 minutes, then turn cake out of the pan to cool completely.

Once cake is thoroughly cooled, combine lemon juice and powdered sugar in a small bowl. Spoon over cake. Glaze will be thin and will soak into cake.

Serves 8-10.

* Note: According to Orangette: "This type of cake is an old classic in France, the sort of humble treat that a grandmother would make. Traditionally, the ingredients are measured in a yogurt jar, a small glass cylinder that holds about 125 ml. Because most American yogurts don't come in such smart packaging, you'll want to know that 1 jar equals about 1/2 cup." I converted the recipe above, but the next time I get my hands on a yogurt jar, I'm making this cake the French grandma way.

For the love of health. And muffins.

2010-04-15T13:23:00.000-04:00

Last week, I was beyond excited to tell you about these muffins. I baked them once before, last fall, and everyone who ate them loved them, and -- in turn -- everyone who ate them loved me for making them. They said they were incredible, and they were -- like banana bread, only lighter. They were moist and nutty, and although vegan, I thought they were perfect with a smear of butter. When I unearthed a black mush of a banana from the back of our refrigerator last week, I did not think: "Garbage;" I thought, "Muffins! Those muffins every one loved so much!" So I whipped up a dozen, setting a plate out for my roommates and packaging a few for a friend, which I delivered wrapped in pink tissue and twine. Then, I waited, not necessarily for undying love and affection, but for some sort of feedback. A day passed, and I got nothing. By the end of the next day, only a few muffins were gone at home. Worriedly, I shoved one -- sans butter, I was too anxious for butter -- in my mouth. It was delicious, which made the lack of love all the more confusing. Why wasn't everyone falling head over heels for my muffins?

The friend who'd received a handful put it plainly: "Way too healthy." He quizzed me: "Are they bran?" (In fact, they are a combination of all-purpose, spelt and whole wheat flours). "And were those raisins, or dried cranberries?" It didn't matter, because he disliked both. Never mind that I liked the texture they added, the little nudge of sweetness. But even that wasn't enough for one roommate, who offered up a dislike for their lack of sweetness, almost apologetically. Somewhat disheartened, I ate another muffin. And I still thought it was delicious.

To be fair to my friends, these weren't the same muffins I'd made last fall. Then, I didn't have all the ingredients, and even last week, I substituted brown rice syrup for molasses, arguing they're both brown. The molasses turned them a deep chestnut -- almost pumpernickel -- and gave them more than enough sweetness for my palette. The raisins, along with toasted walnuts, added some chew, some crunch. And the remaining wet ingredients -- maple syrup and grape seed oil -- insured that the muffins were pleasingly moist, even today, six days later. Just now, I ate the last one, with a smear of butter, a slice of apple, a cup of coffee. One roommate and I have been savoring these muffins, for breakfast, for an afternoon snack, for dessert with a little cream cheese. Like me, he thinks they're fantastic. And you just might, too. But I had to warn you. Not all muffins are created equal, and these muffins are not for the faint of health.

Molasses banana muffins with raisins and walnuts
Adapted from Goop

Ingredients

3 ripe bananas, puréed
1/2 cup maple syrup
1/4 cup molasses
6 tablespoons grape seed oil
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup whole spelt flour
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons fine sea salt
1/2 cup raw raisins
1/2 cup toasted walnuts (or pecans)

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Roast walnuts on a baking sheet for approximately seven minutes. Chop.

In a medium-sized bowl, sift flours and baking soda. Add salt.

In a separate bowl, stir together puréed bananas and liquid ingredients. Mix well.

Make a well in the dry ingredients; pour in wet ingredients. Fold together until mixed. Add the walnuts and raisins and fold a few more times to incorporate. Do not over mix.

Line muffin tins with papers. Distribute batter evenly among the cups.

Bake approximately 25 minutes, or until a toothpick tests clean.

Cool in a pan for a few minutes, then remove to a cooling rack.

Makes 12-15 muffins.

Thursday morning No. 2.3.

2010-04-01T13:18:00.022-04:00

A good deal of my morning was spent thinking not about breakfast, but about soup, specifically the pot I whipped up last night. It seems as if everyone (but me, thankfully) has been plagued by colds this season, and yesterday I took advantage of a friend's to make matzo ball soup. I love a good chicken soup, and while my version of matzo ball soup is far from traditional, it's full of health-giving ingredients such as garlic (for cough and croup), ginger (for fever and to increase blood circulation), lemon (vitamin C) and hot peppers (more vitamin C plus a sinus decongestant). These things, paired with the pure joy of eating a nice, fluffy matzo ball, are sure to clear a stuffy head and offer up a metaphorical hug. It's possible I enjoyed the soup more than the patient, since my sense of smell and taste are in tact. To be sure, we both felt great after a bowl (OK, two) and several episodes of Rome.

Cooking for health is not a topic I spend a lot of time on here, but now seems a good opportunity to plug what I'd like to think we already know: in the same way food is medicine, food -- including lack of food -- can run us down. Although most of what I share here seems to born from pleasure, I also hope that my emphasis on local, organic and seasonal produce; whole grains; and a mostly vegetarian diet acts as inspiration to consider what you put in your body. A few weeks ago, I did a little cleanse (no alcohol, caffeine, dairy, meat or processed foods). By sheer coincidence, a Twitter friend urged his followers to do the same for 30 days, with the assurance: "It will change your life." While I'm not willing to be quite so extreme (I am, after all, a bartender), I do think that stepping away from certain foods and substances can provide a chance to evaluate how your body changes with and without their use. My cleanse left me feeling great, and knowing unequivocally that I do not need certain things on a daily basis, no matter how much I enjoy them.

Matzo ball soup, incidentally, isn't something I would eat on a cleanse. More likely, I'd make a broth like this one. But on these fleeting days of winter, I think there's nothing better. For those celebrating Passover this weekend, opt for a vegetarian version. Enjoy!

Hearty and healing matzo ball soup

Ingredients

Soup

1 large onion, diced
2 medium-sized carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons raw ginger, peeled and minced
3 small organic chicken breasts, trimmed and cut into bite-sized pieces
1 quart organic chicken broth
3 tablespoons dried basil
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon nutmeg
2 tablespoons dried rosemary
1 to 3 whole dried chili peppers
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt, a pinch and to taste
Black pepper, to taste

Matzo balls

2 eggs
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 packet Manischewitz matzo ball mix

In a medium-sized stock pot, heat extra-virgin olive oil over medium heat, add onions and a pinch of salt. Cook until onions become translucent (2 to 3 minutes).

Add carrots and celery. Cook until they begin to soften (3 to 5 minutes).

Add garlic and ginger. Cook for roughly 30 seconds, then add chicken. Stir until contents are mixed and chicken is just seared (2 minutes).

Add stock. Liquid line should be roughly two inches above meat and vegetables. Bring to a boil.

Add chilies, herbs and nutmeg. Cover and simmer 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a small bowl, beat two eggs with vegetable oil. Add packet of matzo ball mix, and stir until even. Refrigerate for 15 minutes.

In a separate pot, bring 2 1/2 quarts of salted water to a boil.

Wet hands and form matzo batter into balls approximately 1 1/2 to 2-inches in diameter. End result should be 7 or 8 matzo balls.

Gently drop matzo balls into boiling water, reduce heat and cover for approximately 10 minutes.

Using a slotted spoon, remove matzo balls from water and add to soup. Simmer another 10 minutes.

Upon serving, finish with black pepper. Salt to taste.

Serves 4.

Thursday morning No. 2.2.

2010-02-25T11:14:00.011-05:00

We have a Swiss friend visiting this week. He arrived Tuesday with a seemingly never-ending supply of cheese and chocolate -- cheese and chocolate he assured us we could not find in the United States (no, not even in New York City). He surprised us after dinner the other night with a bottle of absinthe I wish I'd had last fall. Always charmed by a good accent (or even a bad accent, for that matter; Massachusetts, anyone?), I giggle inside when he says things like "It would be a great pleasure" in complete earnest. He's mixed up the routine of our little commune in the quietest of ways, which might explain why the other day, while running through my daily required reading, I took a special interest in this post over at The Blue Hour (one of my favorite blogs, by the way; I encourage anyone with an interest in food, men's fashion, photography and rock of the indie variety to explore it).

Bircher muesli: a staple from my past when I lived on Nantucket Island and pretended because I was so goddamn different than everyone there I was from Europe and not simply Oregon. My roommate then and now, Michael, would make it with berries and grapes, and after hearty bowlfuls we would ride bikes from one end of the island to the other, often with a stop at Miacomet Beach, where I'd adorn myself in seashells and play mermaid. Last night, I prepared my muesli with the winter ingredients I had on-hand: apples, cashews, organic oats, plain sheep's milk yogurt and whole milk. I used the tiniest amount of sucanat. This morning, after another quick stir, I topped my bowl with some pitted dates. And since I know you're wondering, yes, I had two cups of tea.

Between my new Swiss friend, the muesli and the snow, I felt like I was someplace else. Homemade meals don't often inspire that feeling in me, and it caught me off-guard, like a good surprise. Maybe it was the muesli all along. Maybe it's my active imagination. Either way, I look forward to tomorrow, another helping and whatever memory -- distant or future -- it may bring.

Scenes from a dinner party.

2010-02-24T13:25:00.010-05:00

It wasn't meant to be a party per se, but what started as an intimate and relaxed meal at home with friends turned out to be one of the finest nights I've had in a long while. There were cocktails and chit chat while I finished cooking, followed by lively conversation and laughs and a Vietnamese feast. I made braised tofu in caramel sauce for the second time, along with a chili and cucumber salad that simultaneously burned and soothed my lips in the best way possible. We drank Riesling and Pinot Noir. After dinner one guest, who is Swiss and arrived in New York yesterday afternoon, shared cheese and chocolate and a very good bottle of absinthe. We left the dishes and retreated to the living room, where we listened to The Mamas & the Papas on vinyl and let sleep set in. And it was a fine sleep, full of aquamarine dreams inspired by a good day's work and some damn good tofu. Below, some scenes captured by Tracy.

Variations on pesto.

2010-02-23T12:19:00.017-05:00

We eat gluttonous amounts of pasta in my house, especially in winter, when local tomatoes are a distant memory and our bodies don't seem to mind a few extra pounds. Our favorite dish, which we've come to refer to bluntly as "crack pasta," is a simple combination of either rigatoni or spaghetti (we prefer De Cecco brand), marinara (Rao's is a favorite) and Tofurky Italian sausage browned in extra-virgin olive oil. Sometimes my roommate Gregory (our in-house pasta expert) will doctor the sauce with fresh garlic and dried herbs. Other times, he'll skip the browning of the sausage and toss it directly into the cooked and sauced pasta to warm. Any and every way, it has a drug-like effect on the mind and body, pleasing to dangerously high levels of elation, relaxing to the point of sedation. I just can't get enough.

Then a few weeks ago, walking home from the subway in the blistering cold and craving that thing only pasta seems to satisfy, I thought of something different. Recalling a summer favorite -- spaghetti al limone with toasted almond pesto -- I kicked off my snow boots and ventured into the kitchen. The dish requires very few ingredients, and all of them are staples: garlic, fresh lemon juice, raw almonds, extra-virgin olive oil and pasta. Simply toast a cup of almonds and purée them in a food processor with a few cloves of garlic, extra-virgin olive oil and salt. Then, while your pasta cooks, warm a little more oil and fresh lemon juice in a large skillet. To this, add the finished pasta and pesto, stir, and eat your winter blues away!

For sure, the meal was success, but it was the pesto that stuck with me. An easy solution for not just pasta but other whole grains, as well, I even thought it'd make a nice salad dressing. So, a few days later I recreated it, this time adding a random hot house pepper I'd picked up at the market that was threatening to go bad. Instead of pasta, I made quinoa, and while that cooked I quick-pickled a shallot and chopped a bunch of raw kale. I tossed the kale with the pesto and shallot, the heat from the almonds actually wilting the raw kale ever so slightly. On a plate, I smeared a little more pesto, added a spoonful of quinoa, then added my salad. The taste was exhilarating: earthy and fresh from the raw kale and full of strong flavor from the shallot. Again, the almond pesto delivered: toasty and sweet and the prettiest of colors. There was just enough left over for a single helping of spaghetti. It is, after all, still winter.

Kale and pickled shallots in toasted almond and pepper pesto

Ingredients

1 bunch kale, washed and dried
1 medium shallot
1 red pepper, seeded
1 cup raw almonds
1-3 cloves garlic
3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon sugar
Sea salt, to taste
Juice of 1 lemon

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.

Remove skins from shallot, and thinly slice.

In a small bowl, whisk together apple cider vinegar and sugar. Add shallot and allow to marinate for 20 minutes to an hour, stirring occasionally. Shallot will turn pinkish in color.

Chiffonade kale leaves -- removing stems -- and set aside in large salad bowl.

Toast almonds for approximately 12 minutes, remove. Using a food processor, purée toasted almonds, garlic, pepper and 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil. Mixture will be fairly thick.

Add pickled shallot (including remaining vinegar) and half of the pesto to the bowl kale. Toss, adding lemon juice and remaining olive oil. Salt, to taste.

Serve over quinoa. Use remaining pesto to garnish.

Serves 4.

Thursday morning No. 2.1.

2010-02-18T13:07:00.018-05:00

Yes I still keep a Thursday routine, although lately it's been surprisingly unconventional. Is it the "dog days" of winter that have me tired of eggs and oats? I never thought I'd bore of either, but this documentation process has me thinking an awful lot about variety. As much as I'd like to eat pancakes every day, I pride myself on eating fairly healthfully. With locally grown fruit scarce because of the season, it's a challenge. I like to sauté kale in extra-virgin olive oil with a clove of garlic and red pepper flakes. Or, make an apple salad. But today I wanted something different. It's no wonder that after several cups of PG Tips, I was inclined to indulge in a sort of brunch.

I made a pot of lentil soup yesterday, and like all soups, it tasted even better the day after. While it reheated, I set an egg to boil. I also boiled a little more water for a fresh cup of tea. Sheep's milk yogurt has become a staple in my house, and I thought a spoonful would brighten and add tang to the earthy and sweet lentils (which I'd cooked in water with carrot, celery, onion and potato and spiced with coriander, cumin, nutmeg and tumeric). It did, and the egg added nice texture. I forced myself to pause mid-meal to snap the photo above at bottom right. I wanted to remember the meal just like that: healthy, hearty and oddly beautiful (at least to me). Hours later, I am still satisfied, and happily distracted by future possibilities.

* Note: Snazzy egg holder was a gift, and is made by Holmegaard.

Hail the pancake!

2010-02-16T15:07:00.018-05:00

This isn't an excuse. I've already given plenty of those. This is simply an account of my Tuesday, thus far, a day in which none of the following was intended.

I woke early, at dawn, smelling faintly of bourbon and sweat. It wasn't a dirty smell, but rather a sweet one, swollen with the ache and satisfaction of a long -- long isn't even the right word, I'll say epic -- weekend at work. I tip-toed to the kitchen and downed a glass of orange juice, then I remembered it was snowing when I ended my shift last night. In the living room, outside the giant south-facing windows, I could see bare tree tops weighted with white, the skinny arms of their branches struggling to reach the heavens. I stood there for what seemed like hours, in fact it was minutes, then I returned to my nest to sleep some more. I've been giving into sleep this year, embracing the body's inclination to hibernate. I cannot begin to tell you how good it's been, the strength it's given me.

But this morning, despite being exhausted, I could not fall back asleep. So, I went online for a bit (that always makes me tired), and in my aimless wandering I learned today is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday. Growing up, I knew today as Fat Tuesday, but Pancake Day is so much better. Because pancakes are incredible. Pancakes are like people, always fascinating and endless in their variety. Some are big and fluffy. Others and small and thin. I like medium-sized flapjacks, the kind I can eat dozens of without feeling guilty. Pancakes, I realized as I lay there restless, deserve celebration. I giggled at the thought of my later breakfast, my dreams sent my heart aflutter. I awoke ravenous.

I'm not the pancake expert in my house. That distinction belongs to my roommate Michael, who has mastered a vegan recipe that I love not only because it's delicious but because I tend to think of vegan food as being healthy. The pancakes I made today were not vegan, and I'm sure most of their health benefits were emotional. They were neither fluffy nor thin, but dense and enjoyable to chew, like a fresh corn tortilla. They were buttery, and they were bright and sweet from the lemon juice and powdered sugar I dressed them in. Best of all, they were incredibly easy to make; the name says it all: one cup pancakes. I ate them like a woman possessed, by winter and snow and a hunger I have been neglecting, a hunger to cook and nurture my body and my soul. In the last bites, I went crazy, smearing soggy pieces of cake in orange and ginger yogurt.

I called everyone I knew, but no one could join me. Perhaps tomorrow. Pancake Day should be celebrated often and with reverence. Pancake Day is worth getting out of bed for.

One cup pancakes with lemon and powdered sugar
Adapted from Jamie Oliver

Ingredients

1 cup flour (all-purpose or self-rising)
1 cup whole milk
1 egg
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon butter
1 lemon
Powdered sugar

In a medium-sized mixing bowl, whisk together flour, milk, egg and salt. Batter will be fairly thin and runny, but smooth.

Heat a small cast iron skillet on medium heat, add 1/4 of the butter.

Once butter has melted and pan is hot, ladle batter into the pan. One ladleful will fill the skillet and yield 1 pancake.

Cook for several minutes until the edges start to brown and small bubbles appear on the surface. Flip, and cook for another minute.

Transfer to a plate, carefully wipe the pan, and start again.

Upon serving, finish with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of powdered sugar.

Serves 2-4.

The time.

2009-12-21T19:01:00.002-05:00

For a little while, I thought could slip back in here without mentioning that elephant in the corner. Despite my swelling schedule (due mainly to holiday commitments, the odd extra shift at work and a long list of friends passing through town, which happily resulted in many delicious coffees and lunches out and about), I doodled countless lists of ideas, recipes, thoughts on seasonal entertaining and general to-dos. I wanted to share them, but I felt stunted by limited amounts of time in the kitchen. I found myself forced to keep things simple. Instead of indulgent mornings spent cooking and reading, I turned oddly agrarian. I topped quick pots of oats with toasted pumpkin seeds and maple syrup. I wrestled with cravings for flapjacks and fried eggs. Cooking variations of beans and rice and braised greens seemed decadent. One night out, I ordered (and devoured) a bowl of oxtail chili. Chili!

Then a few weeks ago, on the first full day I've spent home in what felt like ages, I treated myself to something special. I walked down the block to my local wine shop, where I selected a 1998 Rhone Syrah -- a bit lean, but full of leather, spice and tannins -- then I marched into Bedford Cheese Shop and said to the guy, "I wanna make the best grilled cheese ever." He offered up little slivers of several types of cheese before I settled on Beeler Wildspitz Bio, an organic raw cow's milk cheese with a gulp of goat's milk. The flavor is intense, not unlike traditional Swiss cheeses but way funkier. I thought it would be perfect sliced onto Amy's seeded wheat bread, generously spread with the butter. With some collard greens and jazz, the night was a success.

But it was more that that, too. That night affirmed not just my joy of cooking, it reminded me of all the other magic: the actual meal itself, the people and places that help create it. I love chatting with the guy at the cheese shop, the girl at the market, or any number of my friends about what they're dreaming up in the kitchen. I seemed to have lost that in the daily hustle and bustle, and I'm sorry. To the friends who weren't afraid of the elephant, thank you.

Improvisation.

2009-11-30T14:07:00.001-05:00

The other night, as I licked the last of my applesauce from my plate and contemplated the sauces of my future, my friend Tracy appeared, all smiles and a spunky new hat. Immediately, I felt guilty for not having saved her a bite, because this stuff tasted like a holiday party not to be missed. I confessed to feeling a bit piggish and promised to make more soon, before giving her a quick run down of my day in the kitchen. That's when she caught me off-guard with four little words: Do you ever miss. "That's funny," I laughed aloud. Do I ever miss?

I wish I could've answered her with an assured "no," but in truth, I'm forced to improvise often -- from lack of planning, lack of proper ingredients (file under lack of planning), biting off more than I can chew, distraction. I thought of a salad I made recently for the opening of a friend's gallery: crispy delicata squash and shaved apple salad. If it sounds good it's because it was, but it was not what I intended. I planned a roasted delicata squash and shaved apple salad, buttery soft bits of squash that would melt in mouths of art lovers, tart bursts of apple. Then I burned the squash, prompting an internal debate over whether -- when entertaining -- it's better to have a table heaped with snacks (some nearly blackened) or a less-bountiful spread that's a sure thing. To my surprise, I chose the former, arguing that despite the crispy edges of the squash pieces, the salad was very good. So good, in fact, several guests asked for the recipe.

Of course, I would not have served it if I thought it was inedible, so it wasn't quite a miss. But it was close.

Crispy delicata squash and shaved apple salad

Ingredients

Three medium delicata squash, halved, seeded, cut into 1/4" pieces (skins on)
Two medium red-skinned apples
1/3 cup parsley, chopped
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
Juice of 1 lemon
Salt and pepper, to taste

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.

In large mixing bowl, toss squash segments in 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, taking care that each piece is lightly coated. If needed, do this step in batches.

Place segments in a single layer on two baking sheets. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Roast until underside of squash blisters and can be pierced easily with a fork (20-25 minutes). Allow to cool slightly (20 minutes).

Meanwhile, core and thinly slice apples. In a large mixing bowl, toss apples with lemon juice and parsley. Add cool squash, remaining olive oil and vinegar.

Season to taste.

Serves 10-12.

When life gives you apples.

2009-11-17T18:28:00.010-05:00

Some times, it's as if the stars have aligned for my taste buds, and today was one of those days. I awoke this morning with a serious hunger, the kind that inevitably follows an indulgent dinner the night before. In my case, it was an impromptu feast at Sfoglia, where I once worked for several years, first as head bartender, later as general manager. Sfoglia specializes in rustic Italian food, the kind -- they say -- you'd have at grandma's house. With no offense to any of my grandparents, Sunday dinner never once consisted of arctic char crostini with pickled shallot, or a Caesar-style salad of young arugula, shaved fennel and julienned watermelon radish. Nor did any one in my family make perfectly fluffy sweet potato gnocchi and toss them with braised oxtail, apples and leeks. And for that matter, while we did enjoy the occasional pork chop, never once was it smeared -- as it was last night -- with a spoonful of gorgonzola and a heap of bright green and gorgeous celery mostarda, a perfect marriage of tang, salt and sweet. Thank god, they sold out of the bread pudding before it came time for dessert. I'm not even going to start with the bread.

Let's just say you go there. And the next morning, as you contemplate the contents of your fridge and weigh them against your previous night's meal, consider those two apples on the top shelf, the bruised and mushy ones you meant to throw away last week. Pull 'em out, because you're going to eat them, but first you're going to turn them into a quick and delicious apple sauce. With wine. This recipe takes less than 25 minutes, plenty of time to brew a pot of coffee, boil an egg, toast a few slices of bread and gather some reading materials. Relish the goodness of this meal: rustic -- like Sfoglia -- in a different vain.

Call your grandmother.

Applesauce with cinnamon and red wine

Ingredients

2 medium red-skinned apples, cored and quartered*
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup red wine
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 pinch salt

Heat olive oil in a medium-sized sauce pan over medium heat.

Add apples. Cook, stirring every few minutes, until apples start to break down (5 minutes).

Add wine. Cover and continue to cook until apples soften completely (10-15 minutes).

When done, apples will mash easily with a fork.

Stir in cinnamon.

Serves 2 if you're feeling generous.

* Note: I suppose you could peel the apples, but it's more work, and it is breakfast, and the skins help maintain a rustic charm.

Thursday morning No. 9.

2009-11-12T14:12:00.011-05:00

A few days ago while waiting for my flight home from my other home in Portland, Ore., I bought a few novels at Powell's Books. Powell's is a Portland mainstay, a great "City of Books" within a slightly larger world of artists, baristas, beer lovers, bicycle commuters, chefs, dee-jays, fashion designers, foodies, musicians, outdoorsmen and women, strippers, revolutionaries and wine makers (to name a few). Growing up in the Portland-area, I used to relish my trips to Powell's, and when I was old enough to drive and later lived downtown, I'd go there several times a week -- to read, to see what other people were reading, to stockpile books for winter. At the airport location, I was drawn to a section devoted to literature of the Pacific Northwest. Sherman Alexie, David James Duncan, Stepahnie Kallos's Broken For You, which I devoured in a long day and night years ago. I picked up A Country Called Home by Kim Barnes and Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (I passed, reluctantly, on Hard Rain Falling by Don Carpenter). I've wanted to read Robinson since she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2005, and I thought her first novel was a proper start. Barnes I knew nothing about, but the cover description of a pair of young lovers heading west in search of a simple life tugged at something in me good. So it was A Country Called Home that I reached for as my plane lifted east, and I didn't set it down until it was finished.

The novel is set in rural Idaho and is largely about relationships -- mostly familial, some platonic, a few romantic -- and I found them engaging. But it's the landscape that really drew me in. The vast potential of the land, and the meals that it inspired: coffee brewed over campfires, foraged berries and bitter greens, newly-caught fish gutted and roasted alongside rivers, tasting of earth and muck and salt. There were less-rustic meals, too: simple omelettes, steaming bowls of oatmeal, roast chickens and pies. In one chapter, a character inventories the various gravies cooked for him over the course of his childhood: "Redeye gravy stained with ham drippings and spiced with coffee grounds. White gravy thick with flour; brown gravy made rich with Floral Bouquet. Bacon gravy, sausage gravy, turkey gravy -- any bone would do, any carcass stripped, simmered, the broth set to cool, the fat rising and skimmed." Never have I craved biscuits so badly. The mention of fried apples made me weak in the knees.

It was no surprise, then, that I woke this morning craving something hearty, a camping meal. I thought again of fried apples and a bowl of farina, before remembering something better. I've been saving this recipe for curried oats with caramelized onions, waiting for the right day, the perfect mood, enough time. Caramelizing onions takes a good deal of it (mine took more than an hour), so I made a large pot of coffee to keep me company. And while I watched the segments turn from white to golden to brown then black, I reflected on my recent trip to Oregon, artisan coffee, the smell of wet leaves after a good rain, leisurely drives out to Dundee, toast. I was so entranced by memories and onions, I nearly forgot the accompanying grains. Instead of oats, I opted for farina, which I spiced with cinnamon, coriander, cumin and turmeric. A little salt. Then, at last, a heaping spoonful of caramelized onions. Crunchy and sweet, they bound to the farina for perfect savory bites. It was a special meal, and it left me warm, happy, thankful.

Welcome to The Stock Agency.

2009-11-07T22:35:00.010-05:00

We're happy you're here.

Tonight we are celebrating years of dreaming and months of hard work. I designed this menu with Tamara -- a vegetarian -- in mind. Some of our best times have taken place around a table, breaking bread, trading stories.

All food is local (most is organic) unless otherwise noted:

Spiced olives, Grand Central Bakery baguette.

Roasted hazelnuts.

Rainbow carrots, sea salt.

Cypress Grove Humboldt Fog.

Hummus, cracked pepper crackers.

Roasted beets, thyme, olive oil, sea salt.

Crispy delicata squash and shaved apple salad.

Sautéed shitake mushrooms, elephant garlic, parsley.

Autumnal sangria -- apples, brandy, pears.

Thursday morning No 8.

2009-11-05T22:20:00.000-05:00

Last night and this morning bled into one, the result of my tendency to over commit and plan with a little too much ambition. After getting off work around 1 a.m., I ducked into my favorite watering hole for a little company and a shot of whiskey. I was glad to find both while I rode out the night; about a month ago I booked a 7:30 a.m. flight to Portland, Ore., on a whim, and rather than go home last night for a few hours of sleep, I opted to dance with the dark (and save myself 50 bucks in cab fare). Around 2 a.m., I boarded a Manhattan-bound F train, eventually landing at Penn Station for the first train to Newark International Airport at 4:15. By the time I settled in at my gate, I was exhausted, famished and beyond thankful for the meal I packed for my journey.

Just thinking about airport food makes me grumpy, but that's not the only reason I travel with a sack lunch. Yes, I like to know where my food comes from, and yes, I like to eat as many fresh and unprocessed foods as possible. But I also prefer to eat on my own terms -- and often -- and I've found both difficult and expensive when traveling. On a recent trip home from Southern California, after downing the bag full of snacks I'd packed before take-off, I was forced, upon arriving in Dallas for my layover, to eat at Chili's. And it was awful. Shuffling unsatisfying bites of iceberg lettuce, mealy tomatoes and pre-packaged shredded cheddar cheese between my plate and mouth with a plastic fork, I vowed next time -- and forever after -- I would pack enough for several meals. The food I packed for today easily stretched into three.

Discussing food for travel last week with a chef friend, she mentioned that she likes to use pre-packaged cartons of arugula to pack her travel meals; I love and recommend this tip. I don't often buy packaged greens, but many come in bio-degradable containers, which make them perfect for care-free travel (no need to worry about finding a recycling bin, or getting your favorite piece of Tupperware home). To build my lunch, I removed half the arugula from my container to make room for other food stuffs. I then added one cup of raw almonds, one cup of oil-cured olives, a few ounces of fresh goat cheese, some prosciutto and a whole lemon. It was like a bento -- a super-sized bento -- but still… Because I did not dress the greens, the arugula stayed crisp and delicious. I ate some wrapped in a slice of prosciutto with a dollop of chevre and a few olives. Later, I bought a bagel and made a sandwich. Along with a cup of Earl Grey tea, I was just as happy as I would've been at home. I admit I would've preferred flatware, but a plastic knife is surprisingly effective against a whole lemon. I cut the tip off mine, then pierced the flesh with my fork to release a little juice for my greens. When I was done, I used a little more lemon juice to clean my hands before attacking a bar of chocolate I brought along. Nibbling on a few squares, I found myself thinking ahead to next week and my trip home. What could I add to spice things up? What would you pack?

Looking forward.

2009-11-03T13:34:00.009-05:00

Despite purchasing a new MacBook, I have been largely offline the past few days; instead I've been celebrating Halloween, some birthdays and the visit of a good friend. I haven't cooked a lick, which makes me sad, and I'm going out of town tomorrow, so that won't be changing. But I have had many meals out lately, some at my favorite haunts. They were meals that inspired new ideas and triggered unexpected memories. As I look ahead to the remaining fall and the arrival of winter, I hope to continue celebrating some of my favorite things (epicurean, and otherwise):

Bike rides
The Brooklyn Academy of Music
Dinner parties
Letters
Manhattans
The Paris Theater
Pasta fagioli
Quince
The Russian and Turkish Baths
Sweet and sour (onions, raddichio, soup, etc.)

Thursday morning No. 7.

2009-10-29T14:07:00.006-04:00

Some days -- if I'm still -- I can feel the Internet getting the best of me. I once mistook it for the World, but now I know it's really the Internet. We hang out here an awful lot, and -- seeing that it's limitless and all -- it can feel pretty daunting. I don't know how to walk away, nor do I really want to; so much of my life is connected to this thing I only sort of understand (I have good people who explain the complicated parts to me). I rely on it for so much, and I am thankful for the family and friends it keeps close despite distance. I am thankful for the new ideas and people it introduces to me. I am beyond thankful for the opportunities it provides, the infinite possibilities of my own life, re-imagined through its cyber lens.

I received a text message the other day from a friend that reminded me to "smile eat walk love." Then: "there's nothing more than that." So simple, and so true. Sometimes we need to go the simple route, like I did this morning. A full French press and my new coffee set, two slices of perfect sourdough toast, generous pats of butter and my aunt's triple berry jam. WNYC. And because few meals feel complete without a little company, my old friend the World Wide Web.

Anything pasta, even with eggplant.

2009-10-27T16:37:00.008-04:00

Around this time of year a few years back, I remember thinking that if I never saw another summer squash, I'd be fine. I'd had my fill, so to speak, and frankly, I was running out of ideas on ways to use the abundant vegetable. This year, I feel the same way about eggplant. Don't get me wrong, I love both. But how much of either can a person eat? A fairly creative person, no less.

Last week, faced with more eggplant from my CSA share, I attempted a pasta dish similar to one typically served in early summer, at the beginning of eggplant season. Spaghetti di melanzane, or spaghetti in eggplant, is a delicious, light and simple pasta perfect for warm weather. At Sfoglia, where I once worked, they top theirs with ricotta salata, and it adds a nice tang to an otherwise earthy dish. I didn't have any ricotta salata, and I was out of spaghetti. But I did have some hearty whole wheat fusilli, and I thought it would hold a chunky expression of this dish nicely.

I started by roasting several eggplants -- thinly sliced, skins and all -- in extra-virgin olive oil with a few whole cloves of garlic. After 35 to 40 minutes, they were almost oozing and I removed them from the oven, transferred them to a mixing bowl, and smashed them with a little more extra-virgin olive oil, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and a little pasta water. Then, I added my al dente fusilli and some crushed red pepper flakes. The whole wheat pasta made for a much heavier meal than the one I recalled. But, it was perfect for a mid-autumn night: filling and flavorful. I just might make this one more time. I do have a few more eggplants, and a mean hankering for anything pasta.

Hot apples for raw kale.

2009-10-26T14:58:00.015-04:00

I can confess to a many odd food tastes: I salt and pepper melon, and I don't care for dessert. I think most meals -- including, at times, breakfast -- are better when started with soup. My roommate says I have an uncomfortable relationship with expiration dates, and by that he means I don't think they exist; I have no problem scraping mold off cheese, or bread for that matter. I think a corn dog with yellow mustard is the world's best guilty pleasure, and I love raw kale more than any other leafy green. Of all these quirks, this last one gets the most criticism. Some say raw kale is too tough and can feel almost waxy on the tongue. Others question why I wouldn't quickly sauté or steam the vegetable when it makes such an easy difference. I have no good excuse, I just like it. And I think I've hit upon a recipe that might make the naysayers like it, too.

Over the weekend, I was sautéeing some apples, intending to put them atop hot cereal. But when my roommates arrived home with our CSA share, and in the bag was a gorgeous bunch of kale, I changed my plan. After washing and drying a few leaves, I cut them into chiffonades. Then, almost spontaneously, I poured the hot sautéed apples -- extra-virgin olive oil and all -- into the salad bowl. I added a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon, and I tossed the salad a few times. The heat from the apples softened the raw kale ever so slightly, and their sweetness combined wonderfully with the earthiness of the greens. The lemon kept things bright, the salt honest. If I'd had some walnuts, I would've toasted them and added them for texture. Raw red onion and a little chevre might find their way into the next incarnation. And there will be many more incarnations...

Kale with sautéed apples

One bunch kale, washed and dried
5 medium apples
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons sucanat
Juice of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste

Chiffonade kale leaves -- removing stems -- and set aside in large salad bowl.

Core and quarter apples, immediately tossing with juice of half a lemon to prevent discoloration. (I prefer to leave the skins on.)

Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a medium-sized skillet over medium heat, add apples. Cook, stirring every few minutes, until apples start to break down (5 minutes). Add the 1 teaspoon of salt and sugar. Continue to cook until apples soften completely (10 minutes). The olive oil, lemon juice from the apples and sugar will bind into a loose sauce.

In a large salad bowl, combine kale with hot apples. There should be enough liquid remaining in the pan to dress greens. Add remaining lemon juice.

Salt to taste.

Serves 4.

Something different.

2009-10-23T11:14:00.003-04:00

I've been spending way too much time in front of my computer, mostly doing nothing important. I had wanted to write about apple pie and grilled cheese sandwiches, but both will have to wait. I'm taking myself out for ramen, before heading to work for what promises to be a busy weekend. In the meantime, some thoughts:

Everybody's talking about Jonathan Lethem, while I'm reading poetry.

And listening to and loving "Album" by Girls, especially this song.

While sighing over photos at The Blue Hour.

And sipping the ultimate fall cocktail, rechristened The Second Line, exclusively at Buttermilk Channel.

All the while longing to go to Paris, but beyond excited for Portland.

Thursday morning No. 6.

2009-10-22T14:25:00.008-04:00

It was a rough morning and I accept full responsibility. I stayed out late last night celebrating a friend's birthday, and I arrived home later -- via the G train, no less -- to the reality of recycling day. I was cranky and hungry (and a little tipsy and tired). I didn't want to eat because of the hour, so I drank a glass of water and called it a day. It's no surprise this morning I was ravenous. And I should've done the easy thing and gone out to breakfast. Instead, I got lost on the Internet for an hour, started making coffee, got distracted by the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then took a phone call from my brother. I was feeling excessively emotional about the 16 egg yolks I wasted because I had not stored them properly. We only had sliced bread. And old coffee, the stuff I turn to sheerly out of desperation. Worse still, I felt, for the first time, the pressure of my Thursday morning routine, and I was ashamed to write about yet another omelette.

Sometimes, I get ahead of myself. And that's when I take a deep breath (mom, that's for you).

Next, I put the kettle on for coffee. While waiting for the water to boil, I rinsed and chopped two gloriously large collard leaves. These things were bigger than my head, and I knew they alone contained the power to heal. But I went further. In a large skillet, I warmed two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil and added the ribbonlike greens. There were faint pops and sizzles, as they softened in a pinch of salt. After three minutes, I added a minced clove of garlic, and after a minute more, the juice of half a lemon. In a separate pan, I quickly soft-scrambled two eggs in a dollop of butter (all you have to do is stir them a few times over medium heat; I like to add a little salt). I had some kidney beans that had been cooked in a million herbs. They were part of an incredible soup, but today they were strained and piled atop my greens. The eggs followed, with three twists of the pepper mill. Breakfast, at last, was bright, buttery, crunchy, earthy, salty and sweet. It made me feel alive. I easily forgave the unfortunate toast.

A twist on tabbouleh.

2009-10-21T11:46:00.000-04:00

Whether it be for a picnic or a dinner party, I never plan a meal without considering my guests. When planning the vegetarian option for my New York Cares Day lunches, I wanted something more interesting than a veggie sandwich or pasta salad, something volunteers would be excited to receive and nourished by. For obvious reasons, I needed the lunches to be hearty and satisfying, and I needed items I could make in advance and that did not require refrigeration. Because they are both vegan, hummus and tabbouleh fit the bill. Along with a hunk of Sfoglia bread, an apple and chocolate cookie, it's a lunch I'd eat any day (and I often do).

Shopping my neighborhood markets, I had a hard time finding bulgar. A friend suggested I use couscous, but I prefer quinoa to most grains for its nutritional benefits. I was able to find gorgeous local onions and parsley at the farmer's market, but I was forced to buy mint and tomatoes at the supermarket and so scaled back on both for this recipe. This made for a tabbouleh-style salad with considerable more bulk. Although I typically eat salads such as this one in the summer, especially a green-heavy tabbouleh, variations are still possible for the coming weeks. I plan to make a version that eliminates mint and substitutes raw grated beets for tomatoes. Finely chopped kale and even apple make delicious additons, too. I like to make grain-based salads in advance, and package them in individual servings for a grab-and-go lunch.

Tabbouleh-style quinoa salad

Ingredients

1 cup dry quinoa, cooked and cooled to room temperature
1/2 medium yellow onion, diced
1/4 cup mint, chopped
1 bunch parsley, chopped
1 medium firm tomato, seeded and diced
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of 1 lemon
Salt, to taste

In a large mixing bowl, combine quinoa, onion, mint, parsley and tomato. Toss lightly.

Add extra-virgin olive oil and lemon juice. Toss until coated.

Season to taste.

Serves 4.

Unsung heroes.

2009-10-20T17:04:00.008-04:00

Last week consumed me, and it was intentional. I am not sure where to start, other than the beginning, which occurred roughly two weeks ago -- almost three -- when a friend asked if I'd be interested in making a few lunches for some volunteers as part of New York Cares Day, one of several annual city-wide days of action in which unsung heroes help rebuild New York communities. Earlier that day he'd visited the school he was assigned to manage and was discouraged -- but not surprised -- to discover little in terms of lunch options. There was a McDonald's and a Taco Bell nearby, and I think he mentioned a fried chicken joint. Wouldn't it be nice, he reasoned, to provide people with healthy, nourishing lunches? And wouldn't it be fun to write about? Without thinking, I agreed. Had I thought it through for a minute -- even a second -- I would have realized how much work I was committing myself to. I would've recalled a commitment I had on the day of the event, not to mention a potential date the night before. And really, do I need more subjects about which to write? Well, that's neither here nor there...

I am not a chef, nor have I ever claimed to be. But having worked in my fair share of restaurants, I wasn't going into this thing blind. First, I wrote a menu: brown bag lunches gone gourmet. I'd make turkey sandwiches on Sfoglia bread with meat and cheese from Urban Rustic, and my salt and vinegar potato salad. I'd buy apples from the green market, and bake cookies (this is -- by far -- the funniest part, because I hate following directions, which makes for horrible baked goods; I literally googled "Orangette easy cookies" to find this recipe, and it still proved taxing). I needed a vegetarian option, so I dreamed up little containers of homemade hummus and tabbouleh-style quinoa, along with the aforementioned apples and baked goods. I envisioned my lunches to be a grown-up twist on a childhood favorite. They would be delicious and healthy and sourced locally. Best of all, they would be affordable, costing $7 per person. It sounded so good and easy, until I realized how little could be done in advance. Fresh equals good, which meant the food needed to be prepared within 48 hours of the event. There was no way I could do that by myself. That's when my heroes stepped in.

There was Chris, who helped carry 50 pounds (maybe more) of produce home from the Union Square green market. On Thursday, while he and our friend Alex shopped for paper goods, I made 25 pounds of potato salad, and there was a moment when, squatting over two stock pots, mixing the stuff with gloved hands, I thought I'd break down then and there. When I confessed this to my coworker Jon later that night, he offered to help the next day, his day off. And he did; he chopped and listened and stuck around after I scolded him for being messy. With his help, I baked roughly 120 cookies, and packaged 51 containers of potato salad, and 12 containers each of hummus and tabbouleh. Later that night, my brother delivered fresh-baked bread, and Chris returned to help with the sandwiches, which we layered with olive oil, red onion and watercress. After they were wrapped, I sent Chris to bed, and I packaged the brown bags and grouped them accordingly. This ended up taking the most time, because I needed to be careful not to break the cookies and I wanted them to be beautiful. And they were. Almost too pretty to eat, and just like the ones my dad packed me as a kid, full of goodness and love and even a little hope. Another friend, Seth, helped transport them, and Chris reported them a success. I got word as my roommate Michael was reviving me with coffee and washing the dishes I dirtied.

Unsung heroes New York over, I could not have done it without you. And believe me, I'll never do it again.

Thursday morning No. 5.

2009-10-15T12:56:00.012-04:00

I haven't eaten so much butter in one sitting since my trip to Portland, Maine. It was at Becky's Diner, where I enjoyed an honest meal of two eggs scrambled, hash browns and an English muffin, washed down with plenty of diner coffee, the meth of the java world: cheap, easy and always leaving you wanting more. Today's breakfast was a stark contrast, save one ingredient. And even though the mushroom guy told me I could cook my wild hen of the woods mushrooms in extra-virgin olive oil, I knew butter would be better. Yesterday, I sautéed them with parsley and salt. Today I added a clove of garlic, and a little more salt. In a separate pan, I browned some more butter before adding two beaten eggs. They cooked into a perfect blanket for my mushroom filling. Two pieces of sourdough toast (spread with a little more butter), a spoonful of my aunt's triple berry jam, a cup of French press coffee and The Clientele. I've heard it's cold outside, but I wouldn't know. I'm swaying on a mushroom cloud over eucalyptus branches.

Some hints of gladness.

2009-10-14T20:25:00.014-04:00

Midway through today I could no longer control my urge to shout from the rooftops: "New York, I love you!" And so I did the next best (and possibly more-effective) thing: I tweeted about it. "Experiencing an intense I love New York day. We've got a real winner, folks." And how! Morning coffee led to several hours poking around the green market with a friend, where we acquired roughly 50 pounds of produce (more on that later this week). I also picked up a small bunch of wild hen of the woods mushrooms, and when we returned to my house I sautéed them in butter with parsley and salt. I toasted some bread. I reboiled the last of my soup. I plated the mushrooms atop the toast with a little more butter. I discovered some feta cheese in the fridge. We feasted. It was a simple meal made more exciting by the fragrant bouquet of eucalyptus I had spied at the market and decided to buy last minute. Fresh flowers (or, in this case, branches) are a real treat for me, my roommates and our guests. They give a space an air of being well-cared for, even loved. They seem to beckon, and to quote Mary Oliver: "give off such hints of gladness. / I would almost say that they save me..."

Just when I thought things couldn't get better, I received an invitation to afternoon tea, complete with fresh-baked scones, jam and whipped cream. I plucked several branches of eucalyptus and bundled them with twine. I grabbed a sweater and I set out. Walking through Tompkins Square Park to my friend's I kept thinking, almost singing, Oh, how I love the goodness inspired by days like this one, days when my own lust for life catches me off-guard and I'm left smiling like a fool at any stranger willing to make eye contact.

Editor's note.

2009-10-13T13:52:00.006-04:00

This can of worms I opened, it was an accident, I assure you. Yesterday, in writing about my faux ribollita, I alluded to being a vegetarian. On my beloved pastime of clipping recipes from the newspaper, I wrote: "I started in college, when I was forced to learn to cook. I wasn't particularly good at it, but being a vegetarian made mastering a few dishes easier." I see how this can confuse. The "I started in college" is a reference to clipping recipes, the "I wasn't particularly good at it" a reference to cooking, and the "being a vegetarian" simply an argument for why, as a novice cook, it was easier for me to "master a few dishes." To clarify:

I am not a vegetarian, and, at the moment, I have no interest in being one. In my late-teens and early-20s, I was a vegetarian for a split second, and looking back I see my commitment was half-hearted and ill-informed. I lacked conviction. I sometimes ate fish, and I doubt when dining out I ever inquired about exact ingredients and stocks and such (I assure you, as a service professional, vegetarians should always inquire about the stock used in their food). I ate a lot of starch and dairy, and I might've been slightly anemic for it, although I did take iron supplements. I know, for sure, that I've been eating meat since 2001; I remember the steak and bottle of Zinfandel that did me in.

That said, regular readers may have noticed I eat a lot of vegetarian -- even vegan -- meals (above is a picture of my lunch: mizuna and radish in buttermilk dressing with roasted purple potatoes). I live with a devout vegan, a pescetarian, and my other roommate is a lot like me: we'll eat meat, but it's not a priority. I'm rarely inclined to do so at home, because I like to cook things that we can all enjoy, and I've learned so many ways to do that. Eating meat is certainly not something I think a lot about, except when I'm entertaining guests or I feel like I'm eating too much, which might amount to four or five servings per week.

I've heard all the arguments in favor of vegetarianism and veganism; they make sense. Eating a plant-based diet is better for your health; it's also better for the environment. I'm all for both, and eating a mostly vegetarian -- largely vegan -- diet makes me feel good. But right now, at this point in my life, mostly is the best I can do. I'm open to eating all things, especially if I know where they come from. That goes for my dairy, eggs, fish, meat and vegetables. Being an educated consumer is a big committment and one of my top priorities. It's guided me to the place I am today (as a writer, thinker, cook and engaged citizen), and I expect it will continue to do so in the future.

Soup re-imagined and reboiled.

2009-10-12T14:19:00.015-04:00

It's funny to think that -- once upon a time, and not too long ago -- I saved recipes from the daily newspaper. Like clipping coupons, it seems outdated and even quaint. With the death of print magazines (or, because of it), saving favorite issues makes some sense. But newspapers dirty your hands and the print fades. They pile up quickly and are outdated by press time. Most of the good ones are archived online. Saving them (nostalgia aside) seems pointless. Yet, I used to enjoy -- even look forward to -- doing just that, especially recipes (coupons inevitably went unused). I started in college, when I was forced to learn to cook. I wasn't particularly good at it, but being a vegetarian made mastering a few dishes easier. I still cook many of the same things: grains and legumes and simple pastas. I remember the first time I made soup from scratch. I felt triumphant. And all I had to do was follow some instructions.

Those instructions, memorized and long-ago re-imagined, are the basis for most of the soups I make today. I start with an onion, a few carrots and a couple stalks of celery, then I add whatever is on hand. The other day, I had a bag of bok choy from my CSA share, and I gambled on adding it to the pot. I had some radish greens, too, and as I watched them wilt, I envisioned cannellini beans and tomato. Cans of both went into the pot, along with two bay leaves, a handful of dried basil and a few sprigs of fresh thyme. The result was a simple and hearty faux ribollita, one I've been enjoying more and more every day. The bok choy retained a wonderful crunch, while the tomato and white beans are sweet, a little buttery and comforting. I like the idea of having a pot of soup on the stove at all times, one like this one; it's vegan, so can sit out all day, and it can be added to and reboiled. Maybe it's a little old-fashioned. But so are coupons and newspapers and many other things I love.

Faux ribollita

Ingredients

1 large yellow onion, diced
2-3 medium carrots, scrubbed (but unpeeled) and sliced into rounds
2 stalks celery, washed and sliced
1 to 2 pounds leafy greens, washed and trimmed
2 15-ounce cans of cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 28-ounce can of crushed tomatoes
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to finish
2 tablespoons dried basil
1 tablespoon fresh thyme
1 tablespoon salt, plus more to finish
2 bay leaves

In a medium-sized stock pot, heat extra-virgin olive oil over medium heat, add onions and a pinch of salt. Cook until onions become translucent (2 to 3 minutes).

Add carrots and celery. Cook until they begin to soften (3 to 5 minutes).

Stir in leafy greens. When the greens begin to wilt, fill pot with water (or stock) until the water line is roughly two inches above vegetables. Bring to a boil.

Add basil, bay leaves, thyme and remaining salt. Simmer 30 minutes, then cool.

Add beans and tomato, and reboil. Salt to taste.

Serve with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and a nice piece of bread.

Soup will reduce and thicken with each reboiling.

Serves 6-8.

Thursday morning No. 4.

2009-10-08T15:28:00.009-04:00

I awoke this morning with an unmistakable craving for my childhood. I wanted my mom, and a certain breakfast she used to make called milk toast, which consists of buttery toast, dusted in cinnamon and sugar and soaked with warm milk. It's not unlike hot cereal, but because it's made with toast, it's better. I use to love it, and my craving was so intense earlier I almost ran to the store to buy the ingredients. Instead, I took a long hot bath with a little baby oil (I loved this as a child, too), and when I emerged I was back to my savory breakfast-craving self. I didn't want milk toast, I wanted eggs. And I wanted someone else to cook them.

I love my Brooklyn neighborhood for many reasons, but especially for a handful of restaurants I would gladly eat at daily. One of them -- Egg -- is my go-to for breakfast, and not because it's a block away (although that is very nice). I like Egg because they give you crayons and your own French press with coffee so strong it makes you spin (that's a good thing). I like their pretty staff and the music they play while I wait (today it was Pavement). I like that the restaurant runs a farm outside the city on which they grow their own produce, and today there were little table tents announcing farm news (the lettuces are thriving and they torched their blighted tomato plants!). I love their menu. It's simple and honest and consistently great. They call my favorite dish Eggs Rothko, and it's essentially a grown-up version of what most people know as Eggs in a Basket. To make it, you need a thick piece of brioche with a hole cut in the center. Cooked in that hole is an egg, and melted on top is a slice of Grafton cheddar. I normally fry my mine, but Egg's version is easy-cooked and light. The Rothko is served with a gorgeous spoonful of broiled sweet tomatoes, and a choice of meat or seasonal vegetable. I opted for the latter, which today was sautéed ribbons of kale in a little olive oil. It was a delicious and far cry from milk toast, and yet so heart-warming. The only thing missing was mom.

The Everycook of the future.

2009-10-06T15:40:00.012-04:00

Last night, while my roommates, a couple friends and I sat around our dinner table, picking at our unplanned Asian/Italian fusion dinner of two kinds of salads (arugula and mizuna with balsamic and mixed seaweed) and two kinds of noodles (spaghetti with marinara and egg noodles in peanut sauce), sipping wine and later Scotch, and chatting about our days, I asked their thoughts on Condé Nast's morning announcement to close four of its publications, including Gourmet, the high-gloss and -- some say -- high-brow picture Bible of all things epicurean. I'd spent a good part of the afternoon reading news articles, blog tributes and surprisingly emotional tweets on the subject; it seemed to be all anyone was talking about. When my inquiry was met with blank stares and more questions (mainly "What?"), I was first caught off-guard and then put in my place. Food news is a big deal for me; I follow some 70 food bloggers, journalists and industry personalities on Twitter. Most of them would have us convinced that U.S. food culture, by way of food education and standards, is on the rise. Yet, here were five young, professional New Yorkers -- three of whom belong to their local CSA, three of whom are ardent vegetarians, one of whom is a former restaurant publicist, and all but one of whom like to cook -- and none of them had heard the news. When they did, their reactions weren't all that passionate; they were pragmatic.

By now, those who care about Gourmet's fate know the reason the magazine was closed is purely a matter of economics. The New York Times reported today Gourmet's ad revenue was down 43 percent this year, and its circulation was roughly two-thirds of Bon Appétit, its in-house rival who survived the cut despite being, in the minds of many of aforementioned bloggers, journalists and food industry personalities, the lesser magazine. Bon Appétit is for the Everycook, Gourmet for the, well, gourmand. "In choosing Bon Appétit over Gourmet," The Times said, "Condé Nast reflected a bigger shift both inside and outside the company: influence, and spending power, now lies with the middle class." Are we to assume, then, that the middle class isn't on the same page as the rest of us?

I consider myself to be very much a part of the middle class, and the idea of a luxury magazine not appealing to me is absurd on many levels. First and foremost, to me Gourmet was not a luxury magazine. It appealed to food lovers and travelers on a deeper, more sensual and serious level; if that's luxurious, so be it. Taste exists outside of class (surely there are New Yorker readers who did not go to college, classical music aficionados with nothing more than a keen ear for what they know to be good). I once attended a cocktail party at which a middle-aged textile designer was lamenting the string of designer budget lines being sold at Target. In his eyes, good design was not for the masses, but for the well-appointed. To that I shouted, Garbage!

The real sadness, for me, is the closing of another publication for which I will never write. That's what I raised my glass to last night (and that inspired a whole other conversation about the future of print media, in general). Clearly, I think blogs are important, but if they are the death of print media, then shame on me and all of us. Show me a blogger who wants to go it alone, and I'll show you 10 just looking for a way up and out. Yes, I write about food because I love both food and writing. Both make me very happy; both inspire and motivate. But I also write a blog hoping someone will take notice, and hopefully take a chance on me. With each magazine closure, an audience dies. And with it, they take a little of my hope that there is a future -- not just for me, but for all of us -- in this business.

Making haste.

2009-10-05T13:39:00.007-04:00

My Saturday routine is in desperate need of a shake-up, because lately it looks a lot like this: snooze, snooze, snooze, run to claim my CSA share, cappuccino, home, where I rush to put away my vegetables, lament the amount of uneaten food in my house, embark on a totally unrealistic cooking project, abandon said project in favor of looking half-way presentable for work, rush to work... It's hardly the pace at which I want to live my life, but it is my current pace nonetheless. On Saturdays, at least.

Last weekend, I revolted by making sauerkraut. Not much of a revolt, I know, but I had this head of cabbage that was in desperate need of use, so I used a quick sauerkraut recipe I'd read a while back. All I had to do was shred the cabbage, pack it into glass jars, add a little salt and a little sugar, and top it all off with boiling water. Easy enough, but after I'd made my sauerkraut my friend Amy posted about wild fermentation. Clearly I'm not an expert on these things, and Amy's wisdom shows me I have a lot to learn. Still, my brief venture into the world of fermentation -- even if it now feels like cheating -- was sort of empowering. Over the next couple of weeks, I'm adding "check sauerkraut" to my Saturday to-do list. And when I have the time, I look forward to trying things Amy's way.

Quick, easy and shameless sauerkraut

Ingredients

1 head cabbage
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
Salt and pepper, to taste (optional)

Shred cabbage (I use a food processor).

Pack cabbage into a large glass jar.

Add salt, pepper and sugar.

Fill jar with boiling water.

Allow to ferment four to six weeks.

From here, recipes differ. Some end. Some say do a water bath. I will be sure to address this in a couple weeks when my kraut is finished.

About that breakfast...

2009-10-02T13:25:00.011-04:00

Amidst yesterday's hustle and bustle, I did manage to treat myself to a good breakfast. It was a meal I've been thinking about for weeks, and last Tuesday I took the time to acquire the proper foodstuffs to pull it off. From Marlow & Daughters, I got a bag of flint corn polenta, so flaky and golden it could pass for confetti. I'd also picked up a few cans of San Marzano tomatoes and eggs. From my CSA share, I had some beautiful purple potatoes that I'd roasted over the weekend with some dried rosemary. There were only a few wedges left (they were almost as good as French fries), so rather than reheat them, I moved them from the refrigerator to the counter to bring them to room temperature. Then, I set to work on the polenta.

Confession: until last week, I'd never made polenta. It's always seemed so labor-intensive, and in that unpractical. In college, I would buy pre-made polenta to fry, but my vision involved creamy polenta, the kind that satisfies like steel-cut oats and wouldn't seem too out of place alongside poached eggs and coffee. My craving was fierce, and so I had no choice but to turn to the Internet. Turns out, making polenta isn't hard; it's boring. Other than salt and water, it requires only constant stirring, so I was forced to stand attention over the stove for roughly 30 minutes while the grains congealed. While I did this, I warmed a tomato sauce I had made days earlier by sautéeing (in extra-virgin olive oil) half an onion, one red pepper, and a healthy handful of washed, dried and chopped braising greens. Once these had cooked down, I stirred in one can of peeled and whole San Marzano tomatoes, which broke down into soft and tender chunks. I seasoned this to taste. (Sauces like this are easy to make and store. I prefer chunky sauces for their versatility -- they can be used atop pastas, polentas and other grains, and they make great bruschetta, too.)

As my polenta neared completion, I brought a small pot of water and a few dashes of vinegar to boil for poaching eggs. While they cooked (2 to 3 minutes), I smeared a generous spoonful of polenta onto a plate and topped it with a spoonful of tomato sauce. The eggs nestled perfectly into this, and -- when broken -- married the flavors in the exact way I'd hoped. It was comforting, savory and a little sweet, too. Most importantly, it was hearty, and some days demand a hearty breakfast. Considering the amount of time it took to prepare, I don't think I'll recreate this one too often. That said, yesterday's was my third helping.

The Deather of Thursday morning.

2009-10-01T14:25:00.007-04:00

Among other things, I'm a bartender. I don't think I've let this little fact slip through, and the only reason I mention it now is because Tuesday night was a big one for me. A month ago, I was invited to participate in a cocktail contest for "the" Rachel Maddow, host of The Rachel Maddow Show(s) on Air America and MSNBC. The invitation alone was a thrill, a sort of I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-me moment that inspired conceit and jitters and -- ultimately -- fear that I'd fail horribly and "the" Rachel Maddow would not come over to my house to hang out and watch Keith Olbermann. Hosted by the fine folks at Gothamist as a follow-up to this interview, the event was an intimate gathering of bartenders (nay "mixologists"), Gothamist staff, Ms. Maddow and a smattering of friends. The parameters for the contest were loose. We were asked to create a Scotch cocktail, and we were told Maddow was interested in moving beyond the Blood and Sand (a reference to the Prohibition-era cocktail made with Scotch, sweet vermouth, cherry brandy and orange juice). Knowing this, I veered away from sweeter liquors and created a riff on the classic Sazerac. I named my drink in honor of a current Maddow joke (which, I am pleased to report, made her laugh).

The Deather

2 1/4 ounces Scotch whiskey
1/2 ounce Lillet Blanc
2 dashes Highland Heather bitters*
Absinthe

Muddle one cube sugar and a wedge of fresh lemon with bitters.

Combine with ice, Scotch and Lillet.

Stir, and pour into an chilled, absinthe-rinsed martini glass.

Garnish with a lemon twist.

Gothamist reports the contest a tie, but I still feel like boasting. I got 5 minutes with Rachel Maddow. Rachel Maddow made me a cocktail. Perhaps the best news: The Deather will be featured on the fall cocktail list at Buttermilk Channel. For political reasons, I may have to change the name. The Maddow has a nice ring to it, no?

* Note: Artisan bitters made for Buttermilk Channel in Brooklyn. Can be replaced with the traditional Peychaud's Bitters.

The eggplant experiment.

2009-09-29T12:16:00.010-04:00

Earlier this year, while visiting my mom in San Luis Obispo, Calif., she paid me a compliment I carry with me. It hides beneath my mess of hair, about an inch from my ear, nearly in the back crook of my neck, so it's easy to forget about completely. But every once in a while, it asserts its presence in a whisper: "Who would've thought," mom said, "that my daughter would be a great chef?" Her pride simultaneously warmed my heart and filled me with anxiety, because even though I've come a long way since I nearly burned the house down attempting to cook bacon for the first time at age 14, I feel like I'm harboring a dark secret: most of the time, I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't think I'm supposed to say things like that, but it's true. My brother says I'm an idea person, which means simple thoughts often lead to hours spent online researching how to pull said ideas off, or asking around to get a feel for what people I trust might do. I usually do things my own way, despite my findings, and lately I've been lucky.

A few weeks ago, confronted by a dozen or so eggplants from my CSA share, I asked a coworker if she knew a way to preserve them. She suggested pickling, which sounded like a fine idea, except I've only quick pickled a few things -- garlic and watermelon rind -- so, of course, I had no idea where to start. My online research turned up a wealth of recipes and stories; like so many age-old recipes, each was slightly different. That, of course, empowered me to do what I do best. So, I took to the kitchen, and began to experiment. I used four or five small eggplants, thinking it would yield more than one jar; I should've known they would shrink. Ever the optimist, I reasoned it was good my test batch was small. It might, after all, taste awful, or worse make me sick (in all my reading, I found only one mention of botulism, and it was brief, essentially suggesting following the proper precautions and consuming eggplant within a few weeks. I also read that, if stored in the refrigerator, pickled eggplant is good for up to one year).

Thankfully, the experiment was a delicious success -- the eggplant was just vinegary enough and surprisingly firm in texture, although dripping with a slightly spicy olive oil. I'd added a few cloves of garlic to the pickling mixture, and crushed red pepper flakes as well as a small hot pepper to the oil. I also had added some fresh basil (this was a few weeks ago), which provided a gorgeous -- if not slight -- aroma. I ate the entire jar in one day (on a sandwich, with some mozzarella, as a side) and used the left-over oil to dress salads. Then, as soon as I got my hands on more eggplant, I made another batch. I spiced the second batch differently, using dried herbs instead of fresh and omitting the garlic, and it was just as good. I served it at breakfast the other day, something I'd never thought to do. Again, we ate almost the whole jar. Good thing I had doubled the recipe.

Pickled eggplant packed in olive oil

Ingredients

4-5 small eggplants
Sea salt
1 cup white wine vinegar
2 cups water
2 cloves garlic, peeled and whole (optional)
Crushed red pepper flakes
Dried oregano
Extra-virgin olive oil

Slice eggplants into silver-dollar sized rounds, put slices in a colander, and sprinkle generously with sea salt. Weigh slices down with a plate and allow to sweat for at least four hours (when sweating eggplant, be sure to put a deep plate under your colander to catch the run-off). This tenderizes the flesh of the eggplant and helps reduce bitterness. Remove excess moisture with a towel.

In a medium sauce pan, combine vinegar, water and garlic. Bring to boil.

In batches, boil eggplant slices for approximately 3 minutes. Set aside to cool.

In a sterilized jar, tightly layer cooled eggplant slices and chosen herbs.

Cover in extra-virgin olive oil.

Store at room temperature until opened. Pickled eggplant can keep in the refrigerator for up to a year.

Yields one 12-ounce jar.

Thursday morning No. 2.

2009-09-24T11:53:00.011-04:00

I was planning a real feast for this Thursday morning; while trolling the neighborhood the other day, I picked up some gorgeous flint corn polenta and a big can of San Marzano tomatoes at Marlow & Daughters. I bought some eggs there, too, and for the past two days I've been dreaming about a bowl of creamy polenta topped with simmered tomato and a fried egg. My mouth waters every time I consider it -- even now, when I'm no longer hungry and I ate something else entirely different. Maybe next week, because today I didn't have time. I have a friend in town and all spare moments have been spent seeing shows, visiting New York friends and getting caught up on life. Last night, we chatted and giggled well past 2 a.m., so when the alarm buzzed at 9, I immediately rewrote my breakfast plan. Today would be an eggs and toast day. Besides, I justified through half-dreaming eyes, we're having lunch at Tabla, so we can't be too full.

Eggs and toast is my favorite breakfast, and this variation -- poached eggs over sautéed greens with garlic and hot pepper -- took less than 20 minutes. While I brought the kettle to boil for coffee, I also boiled a small pot of water with an added dash of vinegar (I use rice, but white is fine). Then, in a heated skillet, I sautéed a handful of washed and dried radish greens in a tablespoon of extra-virgin olive oil. When the greens started to break down, I added a minced garlic clove, a pinch of salt and a big pinch of crushed red pepper flakes. When the garlic began to release that wonderful cooked garlic smell, I removed the skillet from the heat and dropped the bread to toast. By this time, the water was boiling. While the coffee steeped (I use a French press), I carefully poached two eggs. As they took shape (2 to 3 minutes), I drizzled our toast with a little more olive oil and topped it with the greens. I finished that with the eggs and a dash of black pepper. The coffee was ready, and Camera Obscura was playing that way they do. It was -- without planning -- exactly what I wanted.

A new routine.

2009-09-17T12:10:00.011-04:00

My friend has the enviable habit of taking himself to Balthazar every Wednesday morning. Ever since I learned of this, I've longed for a morning tradition of my own. I love the idea of being a breakfast regular, your server knowing how you take your coffee before you even sit down. I wonder if I'd be the type of person to order the same thing every time, or if I'd eat my way through the menu? Likely, it'd be the latter, because as much as I dream of having a routine, I'm not that kind of girl. Hence, I'll enjoy farina and dried fruit for breakfast one day, cold pizza with market arugula the next. Coffee, it seems, is the only constant in my daily routine.

I was thinking about this, just now, as I chopped some leafy greens and a perfect orange pepper for an impromptu omelette. I love making myself a proper breakfast, but often I don't make time. It's a shame really, because sitting down to an omelette or a plate of pancakes is pure joy, especially when you can do it in your pajamas. I adore blogs such as Simply Breakfast, where a single image can capture a quiet morning, early light, ambition.

I am not a photographer. I like photography; I even took a few classes in college. But I am a writer, a writer who loves breakfast, and today I'm starting a tradition of my own: Thursday breakfast at my house, wherein I'll share a photo or two, and a little how-to. I hope you enjoy, and are inspired to treat yourself to something special and enjoy the morning calm. The omelette above I filled with sautéed garlic, greens, pepper and sun gold tomatoes (all from my CSA share). I served it alongside a toasted bagel and Greek yogurt topped with a spoonful of honey and red pepper flakes. I made myself a cup of China Rose tea, my favorite. And I licked my plate. You can't do that in a restaurant, which is why it's better I eat at home.

A potato salad for all seasons.

2009-09-16T23:02:00.010-04:00

I gave up French fries for summer: an admittedly silly attempt to watch my waistline and heart health, because things felt a little out of hand. Initially when I swore off the chips, I thought I'd discover worthy substitutions. But I didn't even try. Not seriously, anyway. I did slow roast countless batches of spuds in olive oil with fresh herbs (the ones below were with dill flower and garlic scapes, and they were spectacular), but I decided almost immediately upon taking my fry-free oath that the only way I would succeed (and survive) was to simply ignore my cravings and ride out the season. I confess to cheating twice: once on vacation (so it didn't really count), and once when I was eating mussels and so ordered the compulsory fries and failed to even remember my vow until I was down to maybe 10, and at that point...

A month into my experiment, I came across a recipe on the consistently lovely Blue Hour blog: salt and vinegar potato salad. Like chips, but not fried. It was the answer to my summer dilemma, so I bookmarked the recipe and promised myself I'd make it as soon as I could. But as the days passed and I kept thinking about that recipe, I realized that potato salad, like mussels, has stipulations. Mussels need frites, and potato salad needs a party, preferably in the park, with a gentle bit of sunshine and a slight breeze.

Of course, my fry-free summer was shy on garden parties, due to travel, weather and that thing we call work. But last Monday, on what may have been the last day of summer, I whipped up 10 pounds of this salad for a little soirée in Prospect Park. And it was awesome -- the perfect complement to the fresh-shucked oysters and pulled pork sandwiches. The vinegar onions are much more subtle than you'd expect, almost sweet. And the oil and vinegar dressing was, as always, perfect. Thankfully, there was enough left over for me to eat two more helpings when I got home, at which point I made one last promise: I'm going to make potato salad an all-seasons food, because this salad is as good as French fries.

Not better, but better for you. And wasn't that my whole point?

Salt and vinegar potato salad
Adapted from Gourmet

Ingredients

1 large red onion, cut into 1/4" segments and separated
5 pounds medium potatoes (Gourmet recommends Yukon Gold, I used russet)
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to finish
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
2 1/2 teaspoons Old Bay seasoning
2 teaspoons salt
1 1/4 teaspoons sugar

In large bowl, mix 2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar with 1/2 teaspoon salt. Add onion and toss. Marinate at room temperature, tossing occasionally, until onion softens and turns pink (1 hour).

In large pot, cover potatoes with cold salted water. Bring to a boil, then simmer uncovered until tender (20 minutes). Drain and allow to cool, then peel and slice into 1/2" wedges.

In separate bowl, whisk together Old Bay seasoning with sugar, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar.

Add potatoes to onion mixture, and toss with vinegar mixture and extra-virgin olive oil.

Season to taste. Finish with additional oil if necessary.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves 10-12.

The morning after.

2009-09-12T17:00:00.001-04:00

I've been devouring (or, I could say re-devouring) the letters of Martha Gellhorn, a/k/a Mrs. Ernest Hemingway III; I'm absolutely crazy about her. Her writing is candid and sharp and admirably self-deprecating, and I wish she were still alive so I could write her letters half as good as the ones in this book. I know loads of people -- myself included -- who lament the death of letters. Reading Gellhorn's, I'm reminded of a time in which I journaled and wrote little notes to my family and friends. I was too young then to practice the sort of discourse Gellhorn was clearly born for, but now...well, now is different. The only thing stopping me is my lack of ability. Or, is it my lack of time?

These are the same excuses I use for not cooking a certain meal or entertaining certain groups of friends. Like conversation and letter writing, dining (both in and out) is an art, and it's one I strive to practice well. These all are traditions that nurture familial bonds, friendships and romances. They inspire conversation and ideas. They nourish both literally and figuratively. I believe all this, but I believe this, too: "... I think parties are really the last refuge of the empty and shrivelled brain, and are more destructive to the body than cocaine and more destructive to the spirit than jail." Martha Gellhorn wrote that to Alexander Woollcott in 1942, the morning after. I take from it this: our time is precious, let us use it wisely.

Central Park, how green your garden grows.

2009-09-08T14:27:00.023-04:00

Central Park was bustling yesterday, as New Yorkers celebrated Labor Day with picnics and books, on bikes and with balls, but I trekked uptown for another reason: Wildman Steve Brill's foraging tour. A few weeks ago, my friends Michael and Liz took Wildman's tour of Forest Park, and the abundance of that trip inspired another. Turns out, New York City is teeming with edible plants, and yesterday I spent four hours learning to identify those in-season, gathering and taking notes. We even managed a quick picnic of our own, but the day's culinary highlight was our dinner salad of foraged Asiatic dayflower, lady's thumb, lamb's quarters and yellow wood sorrel. I know it sounds and looks rustic, and I'll gladly admit it was heartier than the salads I'm used to eating. I snapped the picture below after washing my finds, but before I leafed through them (pun intended) to remove stems and other plant parts I found unappetizing.

The sturdy, tear-shaped leaves pictured on the lower right are from the Asiatic dayflower, which flowers a beautiful purple and has kernel-like seeds -- all edible. Sadly, my flowers had closed by the time I got home, but they reminded me of pea shoots in texture and a bit in flavor, too. The leaves, however, were so...weedlike, I opted to chiffonade them, making them easier to eat and prettier to look at. The lady's thumb and lamb's quarters were also pretty hearty, and Wildman warned us about the flowers on the former, which taste -- go figure -- like plant. Wanting the full experience and the health benefits of the latter (lamb's quarters is an excellent source of B-complex vitamins, beta-carotene, calcium, fiber, iron, potassium and vitamin C), I used everything I had of both, cutting and tearing where I found appropriate.

The most naturally edible looking of the foraged plants -- and by far the tastiest -- was the yellow wood sorrel, which looks like clover and tastes like lemon. Its delicate leaves were a welcome addition, but despite its presence I couldn't help but think, "This salad looks foraged from a compost pile." Quickly, I added the only other raw edible I foraged: a red devil apple from the apple trees behind The Met. These red-fleshed gems were new to me, and pretty tart on the apple spectrum. I picked up four or five (you can't very well erect an apple ladder in Central Park, so we shook a branch and collected ours off the ground), and I might bake the rest. I also read they make a lovely pink-hued hard apple cider.

Tossed with this oil and vinegar dressing (along with some foraged wild mustard seeds from Forest Park), my Central Park salad almost looked conventional. It certainly tasted like salad, and -- to my relief -- we all lived to tell the tale. I look forward to joining Wildman on future tours (he's leading one at Stone Barns Center on Sunday, Nov. 8), and to sharing those experiences with you. Mostly, I'm excited to have a garden to call my own, especially one I don't have to tend to.

Something happened today...

2009-09-05T12:54:00.000-04:00

Actually it happened Wednesday, and chances are if you read Our Daily Table on a regular basis we already know each other and are therefore connected via The Internets. Please bear with me while I pretend otherwise for a moment. Because something happened, and it filled me with joy and excitement and a little bit of nerves, too, which I think is a good thing. Wednesday, I had a little interview published over at Jauntsetter, a fantastic travel sight for New York ladies, but a friend of mine on the west coast was quick to argue it's useful for anyone who loves to travel, if for nothing more than inspiration. I couldn't agree more. In the couple months I've been receiving Jauntsetter's weekly newsletter, I've considered a heap of new travel destinations (like this gorgeous eco-retreat in Vieques, Puerto Rico). I've also spent a good deal of time reflecting on my own.

I've seen a few things, and writing about them made me want to see more. It made me want to take a few more photos and keep a better journal (because this memory of mine isn't getting any better). It reminded me of my desire to speak other languages beyond being able to translate a dinner menu. But the truly exciting part -- the part that has me happier than a pig in...well, you know -- is that it affirmed a decision I made about a year ago to alter the way I live my life. At the time, I worked so much I hardly had time for my family and friends, let alone a little time away from home. I had fallen into a trap, and I was not that happy. And so, I mustered up some courage and I changed. I quit my job, and I did a little soul searching. I got a new job, and I started a few projects (Our Daily Table being one of them). I learned the difference between "my job" and "my work."

The changes have not come easily; I'd say that I am -- like this blog -- a work in progress. But I'm getting there. One step at a time, with a little help from my friends, my eyes and my heart open wide. If you've made it this far, thank you for indulging me. Now, let's get back to that business of food...

The heat goes on...

2009-09-01T23:54:00.018-04:00

I arrived home tonight from another trip to Southern California, and I realized on the flight back that these last five days may well have been the last of my summer jaunts. Sadly, they weren't spent relaxing, but wrapping up some family business. Still, I found time for a Double-Double and chocolate shake from In-N-Out (aren't they pretty up there?), and I even did a little cooking. As always, I was amazed by the local produce: in my aunt and uncle's kitchen, I was greeted by a heaping bowl of pomegranates (a fruit I associate with Christmas, but was surprised to learn grows this time of year in sunny SoCal); their garden was over-flowing with little cherry tomatoes, summer squash and squash blossoms; and even the larger supermarkets had plentiful displays of local greens (and red and yellows).

The above tomatoes aren't from California, they're from Garden of Eve Farm on Long Island. Just as I started to write off this year's tomato crop, my CSA share turned out some gorgeous heirlooms and slicing tomatoes. Typically when the weather is warm, my cooking amounts to little more than a few chops and slices, a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt. The thing I am willing to turn on the stove for (and the dish I keep turning to for an easy hors d'oeuvres, quick lunch or savory side dish) is crostini, or bruschetta. As far as I can tell, the difference between bruschetta and crostini is in the treatment of the bread. For bruschetta, bread is rubbed with garlic and olive oil, and for crostini, it is not. I suppose, then, that bruschetta is a type of crostini, I also bet there's a nonna somewhere who will gladly correct me.

Crost -- err, bruschetta -- makes great use of tomatoes. Simply thinly slice bread (I like Amy's seeded wheat), rub each slice with a garlic clove and drizzle with olive oil, then top with tomatoes and Parmiggiano-Reggiano. I prefer to broil everything together -- allowing the flavors to melt into one glorious garlic-tinged cheesy tomato crouton -- and top with fresh basil. If you prefer your tomatoes a little sturdier, toast your garlic-rubbed and oiled bread before proceeding with raw tomatoes. When those are gone, you can substitute pickled eggplant or stewed peppers or whatever else comes to mind (raw corn, roasted peaches, poached apples, sautéed kale...I could do this all day).

Call it what you want. Just don't call me late for dinner.

California dreamin'.

2009-08-18T13:21:00.001-04:00

I was pleased to have caught chef Dan Barber's editorial on late blight in last Sunday's New York Times, despite my being in The OC and the lure of another almost foreign daily (that would be The Los Angeles Times). Late blight -- even the name sounds boring, and maybe a bit more serious than it actually is. The disease does not harm people, but it can decimate potato and tomato crops across an entire region within days. It was one of the first topics of conversation when I returned to work in New York. My boss wanted us to be sure we understood what it was and the effects it was having on the local tomato crop (i.e., fewer tomatoes, higher prices). Mostly, he wanted us to be prepared for customers to grill us on the origins of the gorgeous heirloom tomatoes we serve in our panzanella (New Jersey). It's been a long while since I fielded questions from a customer so engaged, but I'm glad to carry some of Barber's wisdom with me and to pass it on.

Understanding where food comes from and the obstacles farmers face in getting that food to market has helped foster a deep appreciation for the hands that feed me. It also helps me relish the local, seasonal food I encounter while in different parts of the country. In California, where late blight was nary an issue, I enjoyed beautiful, local heirloom tomatoes as much as possible. The gems pictured above and below were on the menu at The Winery restaurant in Irvine, Calif. Sliced and layered with a creamy burrata, topped with a touch of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic and micro arugula, they embodied summer on a plate. But like summer, all good things come to an end, and I was reminded of that when I picked up my CSA share this week: two baby heirlooms and a pint of sun gold tomatoes. All delicious, I assure you, but regrettably not as plentiful.

All eyes on nectarine pie.

2009-08-07T04:35:00.011-04:00

I'm not a dessert person. When a good meal ends and most minds turn to something sweet, I'm the guest who craves a nice piece of cheese or another glass of wine. OK, maybe I'll sneak a bite of your flourless chocolate cake or creme brûlée (because who doesn't love flourless chocolate cake and creme brûlée?), but rarely does another catch my eye, and if it does, rarely do I indulge.

I have theories regarding my dessert indifference. One is that it stems, like so many of my food preferences, from my childhood. In my mind, we weren't a dessert family. Yes, there were always cookies in the Cookie Monster cookie jar, and boy did I love me some puddin' pops, but I remember those indulgences being just that: occasional snacks and treats, not a regular after-meal course. Another theory is that my brother got all the sweet-tooth our genes could afford. Watching my brother eat dessert is one of my most thrilling pastimes, his dedication and endurance legendary.

Last night my brother ate two pieces of this pie to my one, although I easily could've had another. Turns out, the right kind of pie is more than mere dessert: it's an event, a celebration of seasonal fruits, family (in this case, my aunt's birthday) and butter. Oh, how I love butter. And really, there's not too much in this recipe. Just a cup to make the crust nice and flaky. Inside I packed a combination of fleshy, sweet nectarines and tart blackberries from the fantastic Avila Valley Barn in San Luis Obispo, Calif., along with toasted slivered almonds. I used as little sugar as possible, wanting the fruit to shine. A little lemon juice helped keep things bright, and while so many fruit pies call for cinnamon, I used nutmeg.

Making this pie was as satisfying as eating it. Nectarines are one of my favorite fruits, and they bake beautifully, softening while retaining their shape and texture. The blackberries burst like tiny paint sacks, dotting the filling deep magenta. The almonds added crunch, and the crust was flaky in all the right ways.

Juicy, tart, earthy, sweet. Dessert, I'm eying you.

Nectarine and blackberry pie with toasted almonds

Ingredients

2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter, chilled and diced, plus 2 tablespoons more
1/2 cup ice water
5 medium nectarines, peeled, deseeded, sliced
1 1/2 cup blackberries
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted
3/4 cups sugar
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg white, beaten (optional)

In a large bowl, combine 2 1/2 cups flour and salt.

Cut in 1 cup butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

Stir in ice water, a little at a time, until mixture becomes a doughy ball. Cut in half.

Wrap two balls in plastic and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.

Roll out to make two 9-inch pie crusts.

In large bowl, combine remaining (1/4 cup) flour, sugar, nutmeg and almonds. Gently mix in nectarines, blackberries and lemon juice and vanilla.

Line pie pan with one crust, spoon in filling, top with second crust.

Seal and flute crust edges.

Brush top pastry with egg white. Cut slits in top.

Protect edges with foil strips; these will be removed in the last 15 minutes of baking.

Bake at 425 degrees for 35-45 minutes, until crust is golden brown.

Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream.

Serves 6-8.

Will travel for coffee.

2009-08-05T11:33:00.022-04:00

OK, maybe that's a little extreme. But whether traveling or at home, I will shamelessly seek out the finest cuppa joe a town has to offer. Coffee, for me, is like pizza: I've never met a cup (or slice) I didn't like, but some are definitely better than others. In New York, I get my caffeine fix at places such as Abraço and El Beit; being an Oregonian, I've enjoyed watching the Stumptown Revolution in Brooklyn and beyond, and I like to visit there and Albina Press when in Portland, Ore. I often dream of living in the Hayes Valley neighborhood of San Francisco, just so I could saunter up to the Blue Bottle kiosk every morning (never mind that I love nothing more than starting my day with a pot of French press at my kitchen table). Philadelphia's La Colombe, Rockland, Maine's absolutely stellar Rock City Coffee, I could go on...

Then there's Southern California, where a solid 75 percent of my family resides. Kéan's is really great, and I used to love the Diedrich's in Old Orange before it morphed into a Starbuck's. On my most recent visits, my uncle and I have traded tips and taken turns pulling shots and whipping up lattés on his in-home espresso maker, which is all fine and good. But it turns out my love of coffee is just as much about, well, coffee as it is coffee shops, with their crush-worthy baristas, obscure magazines and piles of newspapers, always spinning the perfect soundtrack for the occasion.

Imagine the happiness I felt yesterday when I entered Lamill Coffee. Radiohead was playing softly and the 20 or so tables were abuzz with quiet chatter. My mom and I were mid-way through our drive from Orange County to her home in San Luis Obispo, and the Silverlake neighborhood of Los Angeles seemed as good a place as any to break. I'd read about Lamill on Ruth Reichl's Twitter feed, of all places, and some research revealed I needed to check it out, not just for the coffee but the food, too. Mom and I shared a totally indulgent lunch of clam fritters with yuzu kosho mayonnaise and a panino of coffee-rind cow’s milk cheese, scallions, chorizo and piquillo pepper, served with house-made potato chips, olives and cipollini onions. All very good, but the yuzu stole the show, brighter than lemon or lime, super tangy and perfect as a dip for the fritters (as intended), as well as my half panino and chips (inspired)!

Just as impressive is Lamill's drink menu, several pages in length and featuring coffee, espresso and tea. Serious coffee geeks will appreciate that they offer five methods of extraction and three times as many varieties of beans. Anyone not from L.A. will appreciate that they serve a green tea called "Nip and Tuck," which promises to "firm the skin and reduce fine lines around your eyes and mouth naturally." They also serve the Best Iced Coffee in Los Angeles, as voted by Los Angeles Magazine. Mom tried that with a little milk and was still shaking four hours later. I opted for my usual, an Americano. Not as much crema as I've seen or like, but still good enough to have me daydreaming about my next trip to L.A., something I never thought I'd do.

Make this coleslaw.

2009-07-31T11:46:00.012-04:00

Along with a cold beer, this simple slaw will cool you down. I promise. Amber, who writes the lovely Worth My Salt, sent the recipe to me upon seeing this picture:

That's kohlrabi, and every summer I receive a few with my CSA share. A few weeks ago I got one, and before I even got around to doing anything with it, I got two more. This slaw was a great solution to my mounting kohlrabi problem. It took less than 10 minutes to make, required little effort (read: sweat), and was so darn refreshing. I ate the whole batch before I even thought to snap a picture!

Fresh coleslaw is a real treat on a hot day (or any day), as a snack or a side. I'll be making more later, just to have around, and when kohlrabi season ends, I'll revert to using traditional cabbage.

Kohlrabi coleslaw

Ingredients

2 kohlrabi, peeled
4 carrots, peeled
1 red onion, peeled
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
1 1/2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon sugar
Juice (or zest) of 1/4 lemon (optional)
Salt and pepper, to taste

Using a food processor (or mandolin, or your own little hands), shred kohlrabi, carrots and red onion.

Whisk together vinegar, mayonnaise, sugar and lemon juice.

In a large bowl, mix vegetables and dressing.

Salt and pepper to taste.

For maximum relief, chill before serving.

Serves 4.

Corn is a many-splendoured thing.

2009-07-25T12:41:00.016-04:00

When I was in my early 20s, long before I fell for food, restaurants and entertaining to the point where I was utterly consumed by them, I dreamt up my first book of short stories, entitled (brilliantly, I thought) "Olives and Avocados." This must have been around the time I read "Like Water for Chocolate" because before reading that magical little novel I don't think I'd ever equated food and affection. Afterward, the two were so entwined it seemed only natural to name a collection of coming-of-age stories after my two favorite foods. Was I masterminding a dozen metaphors in terms of appetizers and condiments? Were the pits of these fruits symbolic of the pit young love had left in my stomach and heart?

Reflecting on those days, I feel a little foolish, a little nostalgic. But I also feel a little proud of my budding culinary instincts. Olives and avocados are still some of my favorites, and although I rarely enjoy the two together (I prefer avocados on my toast in the morning, and olives as a amuse-bouche at dinner), their connection back then instilled in me the importance of food pairings. Take, for instance, the almost prosaic PB & J. Good individually, yes; but together, stellar. The same has been said for eggs and toast, chips and salsa, and pie and coffee.

Then there are the more organic couplings: apples and cheddar, fennel and orange, strawberries and tomato, to name a few. I know for some they might not hold the same appeal as the combinations we grew up with, the ones we know and trust. And yet, when sampled, it's as if the sky opens -- and to steal imagery from Margaret Atwood's "They Eat Out" -- "a voice sings Love Is A Many / Splendoured Thing."

I swear that very tune was playing this afternoon when I gorged myself on a corn and cucumber salad I made from my weekly CSA share. So fresh and tender, unguarded and full of surprises, this salad had me swooning over the buttery, young corn kernels; the bright, refreshing cucumber bits; and the earthy and intense herbs, such as purple basil, cilantro, dill and Italian parsley. It's easy to make, no recipe is really required. Simply chop a handful of fresh herbs and one large cucumber (I like the skins and seeds, but you can feel free to remove them), and add the raw kernels of two medium stalks of corn. I also threw in a couple cherry tomatoes, a handful of raw almonds and one diced scallion for a little bite. Mix with this dressing, and eat with whole leaves of lettuce or as a side to some tacos or even a sandwich.

Dive in. Head over heels, no holds barred, your stomach on your sleeve. Don't share.

It was hot, we ate vegetarian.

2009-07-22T13:09:00.010-04:00

I laugh at myself often for fronting a flippant attitude toward cooking and entertaining. While it's true I'm not a planner like, say, Martha Stewart, I'm not exactly a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl (I wish I was, but I'm not). Last week, I didn't have much time to prepare for my dinner party in advance; I had a lot of time to think about it, though. I spent countless hours meditating on the menu, chatting with food friends about their favorite meals to serve, and perusing cookbooks and Web sites for inspiration. I had decided the meal would be vegetarian, since one of my guests is a devout one, and I wondered briefly whether my other guests would mind. I decided it was important to accommodate my vegetarian friend (to paraphrase another friend who's also a vegetarian: nothing's worse than going to a dinner party and having to eat a bunch of side dishes, like you were an after thought). Beyond that, though, I did nothing. On Saturday, I surveyed my weekly CSA share, and on Sunday, still undecided but feeling inspired (by the weather, by my produce, by my love for accessible, simple and -- dare I say? -- sexy foods), I asked myself a very important question: What sounds good?

Here's what I came up with:

Campari and soda, lime

Spicy olives courtesy of the Bedford Cheese Shop
Tortilla Española
Ombra NV Prosecco

Chilled cucumber and coconut purée, roasted beets
Broadbent NV Vinho Verde

Spaghetti with roasted summer squash, Parmigiano-Reggiano, lemon
Mixed greens
Italo Pietrantonj 2006 Montepulciano d'Abruzzo

Mast Bros. Chocolate

Part Italian, part Spanish, it was a Mediterranean feast! The only thing missing was a terrace. I'm still giving myself little back pats and smiling smugly; it was so nice. And easy. And good. And did I mention easy? Had I planned ahead, this meal would've taken 30 minutes to assemble. Instead, it took roughly two hours; not bad, considering.

When cooking multi-course meals such as this one, I like to prep (i.e. wash, chop, mince, slice, peel, deseed, etc.) everything I'll need to cook the meal before I start actually cooking. I find it makes the process so much easier, and it kind of makes me feel like I'm on the Food Network. Once that's done, I strategize, or map out the order in which I'll do what. Since the cucumber purée required several hours to chill, I started there, first sautéing some onions and garlic before pulling out the food processor to blend together the remaining ingredients. Once that was done and in the fridge (er, freezer), I tackled the tortilla -- a common Spanish tapas made of thinly-sliced potato and onion, cooked with egg, olive oil and salt. A tortilla is typically served at room temperature, so I let mine cool at the heart of the table while I set our places around it. Meanwhile, I had a handful of beets roasting in the oven (a foolproof way to roast vegetables quickly, I like to make a "hobo-pack." Fill parchment paper or foil with washed and trimmed vegetables, a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper. In roughly 40 minutes at 400 degrees*, beets will be tender with skins that easily rub away).

With the first two courses done, only the pasta remained, and that I saved until just before we sat to eat. Campari and soda in-hand, I set the water to boil, and while the pasta cooked for roughly 10 minutes, I halved and juiced a lemon, and tossed some already roasted summer squash and Parmigiano-Reggiano into a bowl. When the pasta was done, I quickly drained and tossed it into the bowl with a drizzle of olive oil. The heat from the pasta melted the cheese, lemon and oil into a bright but delicate sauce that allowed for the earthy flavor of the summer squash to shine. Surprisingly, it was the hit of the night, although I can't stop thinking about the chilled cucumber purée, so refreshing and simple. I think, along with this chocolate, it's my new summer staple.

Chilled cucumber and coconut purée with roasted beets
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living

Ingredients

4 medium cucumbers, peeled, seeded and sliced in 1/4" segments
5 small to medium-sized beets, roasted (see above)
2 medium onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups coconut yogurt (or 1 1/2 cups plain yogurt)
3/4 cup water
3 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to finish
Juice of 1 lemon (if substituting plain yogurt, use the juice of 1/2 lemon)
1/2 cup fresh dill or parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper, to taste

Heat olive oil in a medium-sized skillet over medium heat, add onions, garlic, and a pinch of salt. Cook until onions are translucent, add 1/4 cup water. Cover and cook until soft (2 minutes). Let stand until cool.

In a food processor, combine onions, garlic and cucumbers. Process until smooth. Add coconut yogurt, another pinch of salt, and 1/2 cup water. Process until smooth.

Refrigerate mixture in a covered bowl for at least two hours.

Before serving, stir in dill or parsley and lemon juice. Salt and pepper, to taste.

Garnish with chilled, roasted beets and additional parsley.

Serves 6-8.

* Note: Cooking time is approximate and could vary depending on vegetable type.

My No. 1 summer essential.

2009-07-14T16:30:00.009-04:00

Last Friday, my house was a flurry as my three roommates packed and readied for jaunts abroad: Jason to Greece, and Michael and Greg to Spain (expect a guest post from Michael upon return). Not wanting to add to the confusion, I planned to spend most of the day out of the house. Instead, I spent the late morning and early afternoon at our kitchen table, a big old farm-style table we salvaged off Craigslist from some guy in the East Village years ago. It's the center of our home, and from my seat on Friday I enjoyed watching my friends pack their bags, exchange travel tips and leave me detailed instructions on how to care for our many plants. Around 1 p.m., we were all a little hungry, and Jason wondered aloud if he should leave early to have lunch out. Knowing we had more food than I could possibly eat myself, I told him to go out for some beer and that I would make lunch.

Quick and easy lunches are almost as good as long leisurely ones; they certainly can be as restorative and satisfying. As always, I like to seek inspiration from my favorites: Chez Panisse in Berkley (love the new Web site), Le Languedoc on Nantucket, Mass., and Blaue Gans here in New York. Friday, I prepared for ours by boiling a few eggs and putting together a cheese platter with some aged cheddar and feta. Next, I washed some lettuce from our CSA share, chopped a garlic scape and a handful of raw almonds, and mixed an oil and vinegar dressing. Finally, I tossed some leftover spaghetti with marina (I didn't even bother reheating it) with some extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar and red pepper flakes. So it was a little more Italian than French or German, it was still delicious and a nice way to say "bon voyage."

While recounting the afternoon to a friend yesterday, I realized none of it would've been possible without a few staples, the things I can't cook without. My list of must haves is short: good coffee, extra virgin olive oil, a handful of vinegars (I like this white wine vinegar from Zingerman's in Ann Arbor, Mich.) and lemons. With these four things in my possession, I feel like I can conquer the world, or at the very least entertain a few hungry stomachs. Of course, actual food is required to do the latter, and what's in the house varies depending on season. For now, it's loads of gorgeous produce from Garden of Eve Farm, like bok choy, frisée, kale, lettuces, cucumbers, dill, garlic scapes, summer squash and this thing:

That's kohlrabi, and it's not as scary as it looks. But until I decide what to do with it, I'm sticking to what I know best.

The only salad dressing you'll ever need (really)

So fresh and simple, a nice oil and vinegar salad dressing will allow for quality produce to speak for itself. And the best part is, variations abound: olive oils and vinegars range from sweet to spicy, and fresh-squeezed grapefruit or lime juice can easily replace the lemon. Chopped herbs or cheese (a crumbly blue or feta works well) can be added for texture.

Ingredients

2 parts extra-virgin olive oil
1 part white wine vinegar
1 part lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large boil, whisk together above ingredients. Add desired produce. Delicately mix by hand.

I'm planning a dinner party.

2009-07-08T11:17:00.007-04:00

Two dear friends are visiting me next week from Portland, Ore., and I want to throw them a party, a dinner party, the kind of affair that strikes boredom in the hearts of some and sheer excitement in the hearts of others. I obviously fall into the latter category, although my excitement can be peppered with stress and long lists of to-dos (clean bathroom, fluff pillows, pull extra wine glasses from storage). This is often made worse by the fact that I am not a planner. I prefer spontaneity, which means I won't think about food until I assess my weekly CSA goods and run to the market the day before. Wine is a bit easier, since in the summer I love a good rose or Txakolina or -- even better -- this killer Txakolina rose from my local wine shop. However, one bit of planning is best taken care of sooner rather than later: the guest list. This dinner will be small, since I prefer intimate dinner parties; my table seats eight, which leaves me five invitations to extend. Although I could call my guests or shoot them a quick email, I like to use crush3r.com. I've always admired handwritten invitations, but sometimes I just don't have time. Crusher makes sending a clean, smartly designed invite hassle free; neither you nor your guests have to create an account, but you might want to.

So-so-so-so(ba) satisfying!

2009-07-07T17:29:00.014-04:00

Summer has been strange and slow to start, and my food swings have been utterly confused as a result. On hot days, I crave yogurt and berries for breakfast, leafy salads for lunch, and I much rather go out than cook dinner. On rainy days, I want nothing more than a big pot of coffee, NPR and a full day in the kitchen. But on a hot rainy day (the only kind of day we seem to have anymore), my stomach and heart can't seem to agree. Instinctively, I crave autumnal meals, but saucy pastas, risottos and stews are hardly appetizing when the humidity is nearly 70 percent. Likewise, the quinoa salads I rely on for quick, easy meals haven't satisfied nearly enough.

Inspiration truly does come from the most unlikely places, including mine, which came last week from a local Chinese food chain restaurant called Ollie's Noodle Shop, which has a location near the restaurant-starved Lincoln Center where I was headed for a movie. I can safely say I've never been to a place like Ollie's, which boasts a stellar take-out business, has two sizable floors of seating and offers hundreds of dishes (one source I found estimated 200). It's the kind of menu that quickly excites me by the number of possibilities, then paralyzes me for the same reason.

Now, I don't love Chinese food, but I do have a major weakness for a good garlicky black bean sauce. I ordered that with eggplant and brown rice, and it was really good. But the star of the meal, the thing I carried with me, was our cold noodle in sesame starter, a simple dish of chilled soba, julienned carrots and scallions, and a light sesame dressing. It was perfectly satisfying then, and it was fun to riff on for today's lunch (and maybe again for dinner -- it's that good!).

Soba noodles are fairly common and should be easy to find in the Asian section of your grocery (my local health food store stocks Eden Organic products in the macrobiotic section). You'll also need tahini, or sesame paste, but raw peanut butter would work, too. The remainder of the ingredients -- a hodgepodge of leftovers and greens from my weekly CSA share -- I had on hand; the pickled carrots were a gift and we have garlic scapes (not as intense as raw onion, sweeter than actual garlic) in abundance, thanks to that aforementioned CSA share. Like with most cooking I do, I like to use whatever is fresh (and preferably local) and whatever needs to be eaten (because I hate wasting good food).

Making this salad was easy and fun. The shaved celery offered a nice crunch before cleansing my palate for the double punch of garlic and sesame. The pickled carrots were also crunchy, but sweet versus earthy and a bit tangy, too. And the soba, cooked in six minutes and quickly chilled, was like a nice pasta, only lighter and seemingly weather appropriate. Looks like I finally found a compromise.

Chilled soba and vegetable salad with spicy sesame dressing
Inspired by Ollie's Noodle Shop

Ingredients

8 ounces soba, cooked and chilled
3 garlic scapes, julienned
2 stalks celery, shaved
1/4 cup pickled carrots, julienned
4 tablespoons tahini (or substitute)
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
2 teaspoons crushed red pepper flakes
Juice of one lemon
Salt, to taste (optional)
Toasted sesame seeds (optional)

Shave two stocks of celery (using a vegetable peeler, peel celery like a carrot) into a bowl filled with ice water. Refrigerate until celery curls and grows crispy (10 minutes).

Julienne remaining vegetables, set aside.

Whisk together tahini, vinegar, pepper and lemon. Salt to taste.*

In large bowl, mix noodles, julienned vegetables and dressing.

Upon serving, top with a small handful of chilled celery curls and toasted sesame seeds.

Serves 4.

* Note: For sweetness, feel free to add a little honey or soy sauce.

French fries, I love you. That's why I'm leaving.

2009-06-09T21:34:00.012-04:00

I have a problem with French fries. And like so many problems, it took me a while to realize that things were getting out of hand. They used to be an indulgence, a side for the occasional burger or sandwich. Even then, I'd sometimes be strong and substitute a salad, knowing that fried food -- like red meat and raw cookie dough -- should be consumed in moderation. Then I started working at a restaurant that cut its own fries, and I started to slip. At the end of the night, I'd sneak a few from the fryer (they just sit there, waiting for their death by garbage). I'd anticipate the nights the staff was served them for dinner, and if I had a craving, I knew I could order a batch, crunchy and salty and made from potatoes, which are clearly my ambrosia. Thick, thin, crisped to a brown, sagging with grease, salted, peppered, doused with Tabasco, even baked (which in my heart of hearts seems extremely wrong), I love French fries.

Try to imagine, then, the joy (and the impatience) I felt when Ellen tipped me off to Duckfat in Portland, Maine. A quick look at the restaurant's Web site will tell you everything you need to know: owned and operated by the renowned Hugo's folks, this little eatery is celebrated for its fries and sandwiches. Make that Belgian fries and panini with ingredients of duck confit, meatloaf and tongue. They also serve soups and salads, beignets and churros, and a "Five dollar" milk shake that will set you back a cool $4. But the real star of the menu, and the thing I sought out on my recent trip, was Duckfat's poutine.

If I were on death row and offered the choice of a final meal, Duckfat's poutine might just be it. This seems fitting because, in a way, it sort of was. Before my trip, in a moment of inspiration (or perhaps guilt or panic) I vowed to give up French fries. Not forever, but for the summer, I decided. Like I said before, moderation is key. Besides, there have to be some satisfying alternatives to salad and slaw. I want to find them. But first:

Poutine is essentially cheese fries, only in Quebec, where the dish hails from, the fries are topped with fresh cheese curd* and gravy. I learned of poutine on a trip to Montreal a few years ago, but have never seen it stateside. Duckfat's version is far better than anything I had north of the border: medium-sized fries cut in-house, fried in duck fat, then topped with nice big chunks of cheese curd and a thick, slightly peppery, duck gravy. It sounds insane...because it is. My friend and I were actually embarrassed to be splitting an order and a panino, until the couple next to us ordered two. We had no problem then justifying an order of beignets and a pot of coffee, never mind I'd already had a house-made cream soda.

* Not unlike cottage cheese, a friend tells me they actually sell this stuff by the bagful -- "like popcorn" -- at the Madison, Wis., airport.

Rhubarb. I never knew.

2009-06-05T12:04:00.011-04:00

I've been distracted all morning by the rain falling loudly outside my open windows, the sounds of the passing cars singing that wet pavement tune that always reminds me of home. Rain in Brooklyn is different than rain in Portland, Ore. In Portland, you come to expect the rain the way you do a good cup of coffee: always just around the corner. Here, the rain sneaks up on you like a bat out of hell. In the late-spring and early-summer, the sky grows dark seconds before a dirty and violent storm descends, flooding the streets and subways. It's the kind of rain that demands an umbrella, that awkward accessory weathered Oregonians shun. It unearths complainers.

For the last three years I've doubted whether or not I'll ever get used to New York rain. Now, I'm beginning to think I don't want to. Associating rain with a double Americano (like the one I snapped above at La Colombe coffee in Philadelphia), NPR and tummy-warming foods brings me great joy, which is why, this morning, instead of a quick egg or a scoop of hummus on toast, I treated myself to a bowl of oatmeal with rhubarb compote and pumpkin seeds.

My love affair with rhubarb is a new thing, borne as much from my love of all things pie as my commitment to all things local. A few weeks ago at the farmer's market, bored of apples and impatient for summer berries, I picked up a few stalks for fun. Then I trekked home and realized I had no idea how to use them. On a friend's recommendation, I sprinkled some salt on a stalk for a quick snack, but it was much too tart for my palette. Not wanting to labor over a pie and not wanting to waste, I did a quick online search and turned up this recipe courtesy of Tasting Menu.

Try as I might, the above picture does not do this compote justice. It's a color that, in artificial form, would be revolting, really. Pinker than salmon, browner than orange, it's gorgeous, and when cooked down a little longer than the recipe recommends, it takes on a unexpected creaminess. Dolloped on oats, smeared on a bagel, served alongside cheese, it's no wonder people rave about it's versatility. Out of sheer excitement, I gifted most of my first batch. Thankfully, rhubarb is available locally for a few more months, giving me plenty of time to stock up on compote before the real rain comes fall.

They're called fiddleheads and they're delicious.

2009-06-04T12:54:00.006-04:00

While planning my trip to Maine, I stumbled upon this post at the lovely Last Night's Dinner that both tempted and inspired. I'll never forget the first time I encountered fiddleheads. It was in the spring of 2004 and I had recently moved to Nantucket, Mass., for the summer. The restaurant where I worked was pairing fiddleheads with the night's fish addition and I had to admit to the chef I'd never heard of -- let alone tasted -- the funky green ferns. Throughout the night, as I told my tables about the evening's additions and witnessed the enthusiasm over this mystery vegetable, I got the feeling I was missing out on one of Mother Nature's best-kept secrets. Later that night, as I bit into the crunchy green -- buttery and salty from the sauté pan -- my suspicions were confirmed. Often compared in flavor to asparagus, fiddleheads are delightfully strange and satisfying on the tongue, and they instantly make a playful plate. Not only that, but they serve as a reminder of the goodness we can find locally.

In Maine (fiddleheads are reportedly common across New England, as well as Asia; Australia and New Zealand; Michigan; and Ontario, Canada), fiddlehead season runs roughly six weeks starting in April. Throughout my trip, I saw and tasted them as often as I could (tossed with farfalle, lemon zest and ricotta salata at Chase's Daily in Belfast; sautéed with butter and served alongside a gorgeous filet of halibut and pickled ramps at Bresca in Portland), and I bought a bagful at the fabulous Belfast Co-Op to experiment with on the camp stove.

Because I wanted to highlight the fiddleheads, and because we'd indulged in a rather large lunch of lobster rolls, onion rings, locally-brewed beer and pie (I had strawberry-rhubarb with vanilla ice cream, my friend had blueberry with wild Maine blueberry ice cream -- Oy!) at the Docksider in Northeast Harbor, I opted to use the ferns in a light dinner of quinoa salad. Quinoa is so easy and delicious, cooking in about 10 minutes, and it's healthy, too. I use it often for simple salads such as this one.

While I boiled some water and cooked the quinoa, I chopped some young kale, pickled carrots and raw shallot. Then in a bowl, I mixed roughly a handful of each of the following: kale (leaves and stems); the pickled carrots and some amazing pickled sunchokes courtesy of Get Fresh Table and Market; raw raisins; and raw walnuts. To this, I added the cooked quinoa and set aside.

In a separate pan, I sautéed the fiddleheads* and shallot in olive oil until tender (roughly 10-12 minutes), then added to the mixture. All of this I tossed with fresh lemon, sea salt and pepper for a simple and satisfying meal. The tanginess of the pickled carrots and sunchokes, paired with the earthy crunch of the fiddleheads and raw kale, and the sweetness of the raisins, is worth recreating. Had I thought of it soon enough I would have packed some fiddleheads home for freezing and pickling. Until next year, I'll make salads such as this one with whatever seasonal produce I can get my hands on.

* Note: Because of numerous outbreaks of food-borne illness associated with eating fiddleheads, the ferns should be thoroughly cleaned and either boiled for 10 minutes or steamed for 20 minutes before eating. I found this article extremely useful.

The way life should be, indeed.

2009-06-02T13:59:00.012-04:00

Last week I returned home from a much-needed vacation in Maine, where I mainly (forgive me) ate and drank and slept and ate some more. It was glorious, not just because it was filled with my favorite things, but because the variety of ways in which I traveled proved that fine food and drink are easy to have, whether camping in a national park, cruising down the coast or living it up in the state's largest city. Planning proved as much of a necessity as impulse.

Maine has been on my radar for years, ever since a chef friend of mine left a prestigious gig in Boston for Portland's burgeoning (nay bourgeois) restaurant scene. And I'm not the only one. No sooner was the trip on the calendar than recommendations started pouring in from friends, co-workers past and present, even strangers. How, I wondered, could I possibly squeeze four lobster rolls into a week's time, plus what was rumored to be the world's best wild blueberry ice cream and coconut cream pie? What about the cooking I wanted to do? And the handful of Portland restaurants I wanted to check out?

So many meals, so little time, hardly a problem. Especially in Maine, "the way life should be".

The weeks leading up to my vacation were especially taxing, so my plan for Acadia National Park was simple: cook and eat the way I like. I packed various dry goods, such as farina, pasta and quinoa; nuts and seeds; and good olive oil and salt. I also brought a jar of mixed olives, a nice hard salami and a big hunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano courtesy of the folks at Bedford Cheese Shop, and a half-dozen lemons because I can't live without them. Finally, I brought money to shop along the way. In Belfast, Maine, my friend and I stopped by the co-op to get some local goodness, which was abundant. Bok choy, fiddleheads, young kale, all gorgeous and green, found their way into my basket, as did some pork chops and coffee. The last hour of the drive had me squirming with possibility, not to mention just plain hungry.

Upon arrival, we quickly set up camp and started a fire. During that time, I also brought a small pot of water to a boil on our awesome and indispensable camp stove. While the pasta was cooking, I washed and chopped the soft, young kale and used a paring knife to chip some nice chunks of cheese. To this I added a generous handful of pumpkin seeds, the juice of half a lemon and a drizzle of olive oil.

Simultaneously, the fire had grown hot enough to grill the pork chops, which I had rubbed with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. Cooking food over an open flame, whether it be pork, marshmallows, even bread, is pretty much the best thing ever, at least that's how I continue to feel about our meal that night. By the time the meat was seared, the pasta was done. Combined with the kale, etc., and plated cowboy style in a pie tin, we felt like rouge foodies. Our neighbors might have been snickering at our wine glasses, but you can't drink Montepulciano -- even a bargain one -- out of plastic. And why should we have? It's vacation.

My first recipe is a simple one.

2008-11-13T08:58:00.010-05:00

An introduction.

I cannot say when my completely serious and premeditated love of food started. I like to think it's grown over the years, the way they tell us a good marriage grows, or even a good child. It's been nurtured by family and friends, countless ex-boyfriends and total strangers -- the village that's raised me, if you will. It's been tested by my mother's fish, ethics and the five senses. It's been informed, first by magazines and working in restaurants, then by books and working in better restaurants, but mostly by eating and cooking and eating some more.

This is an exploration of that love, and I'm hoping it will prove more unconventional than not. Yes, there will be recipes and plenty of anecdotes, but this passion of mine, this insatiable interest, has become so much bigger than "How I Made What". It is consuming. To quote Ted Hughes on his early obsession with Sylvia Plath: "I was focused, / So locked onto you, so brilliantly, / Everything that was not you was blind-spot."

It's a good time to love food, and I'm not the only person who thinks so. Alice Waters, the Slow Food Movement, and global and social awareness (thank you, Michael Pollan) are praised endlessly for the roles they've played in introducing America to Taste, the Conviction (vs. Taste, the Sensation). I like to think we can give ourselves some credit, as well, because knowing something and acting on that knowledge are very different things. And so I begin.

Here I hope to examine not just what we eat and why we eat it, but how we eat. I want to look at the reasons and the ways in which we come together for a meal -- a basic need, yes, but also an occasion. In my house, we often gather around a gorgeous farmhouse-style table, and now that the election is over, I hope fewer meals will take place with Keith Olbermann and more will happen here, at our daily table, or out, because there is so much good food and so little time.

My first recipe is a simple one. I borrow it from my father. He, of course, would not call it a recipe because the result, he says, is a successful relationship, but I think it works well here, too. The ingredients: luck, persistence and faith. No preparation necessary.