Thursday morning No. 7.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.