Poetic Appetite

Macaroni & Cheese with Mushrooms & Chard

2012-01-19T18:18:00.000-08:00

Today I want to talk about plans, and how we have a tendency to get all hoity-toity about our goals and loudly broadcast our epiphanies and then -- as if to prove who's really in charge -- the universe makes us topple.

That's how it's been around here for the past couple of weeks: Challenging. So challenging that if you pressed me, I might say it's March but when I check the calendar it turns out that nope, we're just past the middle of January.

I've been hiding from the world a bit, escaping into Mad Men (can you believe I never caught that bug before?), reading (The Sense of an Ending, Foreign Bodies, The Lonely Polygamist, Just Kids, and now, Coming to My Senses), and knitting. There has been lots and lots of knitting. I'd forgotten how much I love the rhythmic click of the needles and the feeling of accomplishment that comes from simply finishing another row.

There was also this macaroni and cheese. Remember way back at the beginning of the month when I vowed we were going to eat healthy: Less meat and less wine? Well, it's worked, more or less, with the exception of a tiny stand-off about macaroni and cheese.

"There isn't meat in it," Sean said. He's right, of course, even though I'm thinking, "It certainly isn't healthy!" And truth be told I don't really love macaroni and cheese -- even homemade -- and I certainly never crave it. But he had a small fever and was home from work for the day and so I made it, wilted greens, dehydrated mushrooms, bechamel sauce and all, and you know, it was good.

But what I'll remember more than the crispy breadcrumb topping, or how it paired so perfectly with a tiny glass of crisp French Chardonnay, is taking photos of my just-out-of-the-oven casserole.

"That photo is terrible!" you think. And you're right. But what's a girl to do? She has this heavy dish full of steaming pasta and she can hear her new husband on the phone receiving some very bad news. She doesn't know if she should go sit beside him and grab his hand, or leave him for a moment to process what might be happen next.

So she turns on every light in the house, as bright as they can get. And she takes photo after terrible photo of the macaroni. Close up. Far away. On the floor, on the table, on a bright dishtowel that has a cheerfulness that mocks the gravity of the situation. Each photo is worse than the one before, the shadows darker, the light alternately sickly green or stark florescent. But it feels oddly apt to be documenting -- even in a very small way -- the exact moment when everything started to change. And when the phone was finally hung up, there was nothing to do but eat.

Macaroni and Cheese with Mushrooms and Chard
Adapted from The Beekman 1802 Heirloom Cookbook
3/4 lb. chard, stems cut from leaves (about 5 1/2 cups) -- original recipe calls for kale, so you know
8 ounces elbow macaroni
1/2 ounce (1/2 cup) dried porcini mushrooms, rinsed
3 tablespoons olive oik
4 garlic cloves, minced
3/4 pound crimini mushrooms, halved and thinly sliced
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon sage
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
1 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups sharp cheddar cheese
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup panko bread crumbs

In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the chard for 5-7 minutes. With a slotted spoon, transfer the chard to a colander, but keep the pot of water boiling. Run the chard under cold water to stop the cooking, and then drain and squeeze out any liquid. Coarsely chop and set aside.
Add the macaroni to the boiling chard cooking water and cook according to package directions. Drain.
In a small bowl, combine the dried porcini with 1 cup warm water. Let stand until the mushrooms have softened, about 20 minutes. With your fingers, lift the mushrooms from their soaking liquid, leaving the grit behind. Line a fine mesh sieve with paper towels, a coffee filter, or cheesecloth. Pour the mushroom soaking liquid through the sieve into a bowl. Reserve the liquid. Coarsely chop the mushrooms.
Preheat oven to 325F.
In a large, heavy bottomed pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until tender, about 2 minutes. Add the mushrooms, thyme, and sage and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms have wilted and released their juices, about 5 minutes. Stir in the flour and cook for 2 minutes. Add the mushroom soaking liquid, milk, paprika, and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture has thickened, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the cheese until melted. Add the macaroni and chard, and toss to coat.
Transfer pasta to a 9x13 dish or spoon into individual ramekins.
In a small skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the panko and toss to coat. Scatter the butter crumbs over the mac and cheese. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the sauce is bubbling and the top is crunchy and golden brown.

The Scared Center of the Dining Room Table

2012-01-13T12:26:00.000-08:00

A Short Panegyric
by Mark Strand

Now that the vegetarian nightmare is over and we are back to
our diet of meat and deep in the sway of our dark and beauty-
ful habits and able to speak with calm of having survived, let
the breeze of the future touch and retouch our large and hun-
gering bodies. Let us march to market to embrace the butcher
and put the year of the carrot, the month of the onion behind
us, let us worship the roast or the stew that takes its place once
again at the scared center of the dining room table.

A note from me: In case you didn't know (and I didn't) a panegyric is "formal and elaborate praise." The dictionary also defines it as a eulogy, "a lofty oration or writing in praise of a person or thing," which makes me think of a prayer, which reminds me -- thanks to this poem-- of the words we can use to bless our food. My family always says this prayer: "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful." You?

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup (And an Epiphany)

2012-01-05T13:47:00.000-08:00

“Life is always changing.”

Yes, I thought from my downward dog position, watching the San Francisco sunlight pour into the yoga studio, feeling my shoulder protest the deepest stretch. Yes, it is.

Change. It’s something we’re all aware of, something so ubiquitous that mentions of it quickly begin to sound overly yogic or Zen, especially when they are pounded into our brains in this week after the dawn of a New Year. We’re collectively encouraged to make resolutions (though now, the popular thing seems to be to call them “intentions”), clean up, cut back, and start fresh.

I’m into this concept of self-renewal. Though I didn’t take down the tiny tree, the collection of penguins on the mantle, or the merry line of cheerful cards just yet, I did scour the fridge, organize the laundry and utility closet, and go through a jumbo stack of papers and old to-do lists. We committed to trying to eat vegetarian for the entire month, and vowed to limit the booze. It felt good, like I was setting the tone for a productive 2012, a year where I’d never feel flustered or behind.

But the real revelation came when I was making soup: Herb, Chard, and Feta soup from the January 2012 issue of Bon Appetit magazine. The instructions were simple. After tossing a bunch of chard and herbs into a pot along with some vegetable stock, you blend the cooked greens and top with feta, Greek yogurt, lemon juice and more herbs.

Here’s where things got funky. With immersion blender in one hand, I stared down the pot and felt my stomach sway. The greens looked swamp-like, and I had an immediate memory of a rank, raw green juice I choked down one hot New York day.

You see, I grew up not eating anything green. There was no lettuce, no celery sticks, and certainly no spinach, broccoli, or chard. I didn’t even eat guacamole. I think I may have made an exception for asparagus, but that’s not much of a compromise, is it? This changed quickly, in my early twenties, as my mother promised it would, and now I eat greens in abundance.

Still, the soupy sludge was testing me. I thought about the decades where I never ate a vegetable and how they led to this confrontation, this Me vs. Chard Soup Showdown. I thought about this time two years ago when I was broken-hearted, and how I met Sean, miraculously, on Epiphany. About how this time last year I wasn’t married, and now I am, and how this time last year I was an anxious, about-to-be-published writer, now I’m an anxious published writer.

Life is always changing. Sometimes the change comes from decisions we make: Resolutions, intentions, to-do lists, whatever. And sometimes the change comes from within, or around. Sometimes the change is quick. Other times it is so subtle and collective that you’re not even aware of the blunt force of it all until you’re left alone in the kitchen, two days into a new year, with an immersion blender and a pot of green soup, marveling at just how far you’ve come.

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup

Once I got past my fear of this green brew, I fell in love with this Yotam Ottolenghi recipe from the January issue of Bon Appetit. The soup is savory, silky, and has a richness that belies its 100% healthful ingredients. The best part may be that it keeps for a day or two and makes for vibrant lunch leftovers. I recommend stocking up on the crumbled feta; we found we liked the soup best when it was liberally sprinkled with cheese.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, coarsely chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 pound Swiss chard leaves (center ribs and stems removed) or spinach, coarsely chopped (about 10 cups)

3 1/2 cups vegetable broth

1 cup coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley

1/2 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro

1/4 cup fresh mint leaves

1 tablespoon dried mint

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

salt and freshly ground black pepper

Garnishes:

5 ounces plain Greek-style yogurt (about 1/2 cup)

1/2 cup mixed chopped herbs (such as parsley, cilantro, and mint), divided

4 ounces feta, crumbled, divided

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Fresh lemon juice (optional)

Olive oil (optional)

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and cook, stirring often, until translucent and soft (do not brown), 7–8 minutes. Stir in chard, broth, parsley, cilantro, fresh and dried mint, and nutmeg. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer, stirring occasionally, until chard is tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper. Working in batches, purée soup in a blender until smooth. Return to pan. DO AHEAD: Can be made 8 hours ahead. Cover and chill. Rewarm soup before continuing.

Place 1/3 of yogurt in a medium bowl. Add 1/2 cup warm soup; whisk until smooth. Repeat process twice more, adding a total of 1 cup more soup. Whisk yogurt mixture into soup in saucepan. Stir 1/4 cup herbs and half of feta into soup. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and lemon juice, if desired.

Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with remaining 1/4 cup herbs and 2 oz. feta. Drizzle with oil, if desired.

Candied Orange & Anise Scones

2011-12-23T09:08:00.000-08:00

Have you ever spent Christmas away from home? M.F.K. Fisher did in 1929. This was long before she was the famed food writer who composed evocative prose about the exquisite pleasures of the table. Then, she was a young bride who had just moved to Dijon, France with her new husband, Al.

The two traveled South for Christmas, to a little town on the Mediterranean Coast called Cassis. On Christmas Eve, the couple drank rum punch and waited sleepily to go to Midnight Mass at a little church on the top of a high hill.

Fisher would describe it as an evening that rang like crystal in her memory: “Midnight mass, with fishermen playing wild sad songs on oddly shaped hautbois and windy flutes, over the bleating of two sheep by the alter glittering with candles; a new human baby wailing in its modern cradle trimmed with blue satin bows, and filled with Christmas straw; all the short square women dressed in black, with shawls over their heads.”

When Mass ended, instead of going to sleep, Mary Frances and Al joined a crowd of village revelers for a traditional French holiday celebration. She was handed a plate piled with an anise flavored bread, a piece of sweet nougat, and a glass of pale pink wine.

The seemingly random selection was, in fact, thoughtful. It was a few of the Thirteen Desserts, an array of sweets -- fresh and dried fruits, nuts, bread, nougat, and candies -- that are traditionally served after Midnight Mass and signify the 13 participants in the Last Supper.

An essential part of the 13 Desserts is a sweet bread made from olive oil and flavored with anise, orange water, and candied citrus. Similar to an Italian panettone, the bread -- called gibassier (or pompe à l’huile) -- must be torn with the hands when served to insure good luck in the new year.

That night, she and Al were strangers at the holiday feast. She was far from home and family, but the gift of food and wine soothed her soul.

I prefer my 13 desserts to be of the chocolate variety and like to have gibassier for breakfast. When I wrote this piece for The Kitchn, I made "real" gibassier (you can find the original essay that recipe here). But I also wanted to share an easier version of gibassier, something that could be easily made up on a busy pre-holiday morning, but that still shared the same lovely flavors of anise and candied oranges. These scones are very easy but, like the original gibassier, are best warm, smothered with butter and honey, beside a mug of bitter black coffee.

Happy Holidays, one and all!

Gibassier-Inspired Scones
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/4 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup chopped candied orange peel
1 tsp anise seeds
1/2 - 1 tsp orange flower water

1 Tbsp melted butter for brushing the tops
sugar for sprinkling the tops

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Line a baking pan with parchment paper.

Sift or whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, lemon peel and anise seeds in a mixing bowl. Add the cream and orange flower water and stir gently with a fork. Stop mixing when it starts to come together and the cream seems fairly absorbed. Be careful not to overmix. The dough will look loose and lumpy and not like a finished dough.

Pour the mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Using a very light touch, begin to gather and gently pat into a 9” circle, taking care to press the edges into a solid border. It will come together just enough to look like it might work. Do not handle very much to achieve maximum tenderness!

Using a lightly dusted bench scraper or sharp knife, cut into 8 scones. Use the bench scraper or a metal spatula to lift the scones gently onto the baking sheet. Be careful as they are very soft and delicate to handle. Brush the tops with a bit of melted butter and a sprinkle of sugar.

Bake on the middle rack for 15 minutes or until they are golden. Serve immediately. These scones are best warm.

This recipe was adapted from one found on the blog Bread Baby.

Gifts for those who like words, wine, food & beauty

2011-12-19T10:27:00.000-08:00

I saw an ad the other day that read: Nothing says "I think you're brilliant" more than a book. I couldn't agree more.

I try not to do a lot of overt self promotion on my blog. I'd get tired of it and so would you. But it's Monday December 19th and I still have a few gifts to pick up. Maybe you do too? If so, I'd be honored if you'd consider one of these books to wrap up and hand off to someone you love. Of course I'm seriously biased, but they do seem to be pleasing, and they certainly are lovely:

An Extravagant Hunger: The Passionate Years of M.F.K. Fisher. My first book, soon to be released in paperback. Get the hardcover while it's available -- I can't imagine that there will be anything prettier.

Love in a Dish and Other Pieces by M.F.K. Fisher. Published in the UK by Penguin's Great Food series, this book is a perfect hostess gift. You can also buy the full Great Food collection for the devout food historians on your list.

Love in a Dish and Other Culinary Delights by M.F.K. Fisher. The American version of the Great Food book. Post winter supper, you'll look great curled up on the couch with this and a glass of cognac.

The Food and Wine Magazine 2012 Wine Guide. I helped wrangle the world's top 500 wine producers that were selected to be featured in this handy guide. This makes a great gift -- perhaps packaged with some of the featured bottles?

I've linked to Amazon, but would love it if you bought these books from your local bookstore {Omnivore Books, The Booksmith, Book Passage, The King's English, Word Brooklyn, Powells, Third Street Books McMinnville and Ravenna Third Place Books have all been very good to me this year.

Happy Holidays! I'm so thankful for the success 2011 has brought and owe much of it to readers like you. xoxo

My Winter List

2011-12-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

So, it's nearly the middle of December. We have a tiny tree, a snow globe collection, a parade of penguins lined up on the mantle. Every morning I light candles to brighten up those grey moments between night and day. Yesterday, there were even some Christmas tunes involved.

And yet -- I just spent six days in New York and am headed to Los Angeles later today. While I dream of cookie baking and gift wrapping, my reality is flight check-ins, email returns, and detail management. I'm the kind of person who sees a photograph of snow in April and starts to countdown till Christmas. The fact that I can't quite fully embrace the holiday spirit makes my heart hurt.

And yet -- Two weeks ago we attended a friend's lyric choral concert. It was in a chilly but beautiful church. The music was in Latin; full of highs and lows and lots of melody. We paused and listened.

The next night, we went to the Singalong Sound of Music in the Castro. To see it on the big screen -- those mountains and hills! -- was a treat. We laughed and sang.

And yet -- Some night next week Sean will surprise me. We'll get in the car and head south towards West Portal, stopping along the way to look at the big houses with opulent Christmas lights. Once arrived, we'll buy a ticket for a movie. (Any movie, but nothing too morose, maybe The Muppets?) Last year we were sneaky and brought in burgers.

The lesson? Sometimes, instead of you finding the holiday, the holiday finds you.

And yet -- There are some traditional things that just must be done, because without it, it wouldn't seem like the holidays. Here are some cozy, wintery things I'm looking forward to this season:

Forcing my brother to decorate sugar cookies with me. He always resists. He always dives in. (Albeit with typically "boyish" results. Ex: A bloody reindeer.)

Reading by the tree, in front of the fireplace. That spot in the photo is the most prime lounging real estate in the house.

My mom's holiday table. Believe it or not, this is a weeknight meal.

Snow. Walking in it; looking at it; skiing through it. Snow.

What's on your Winter List?

Weekend Away

2011-12-08T05:57:00.000-08:00

Last month, Sean and I spent a romantic weekend away at the Berkeley City Club. Designed by the famous architect Julia Morgan it's known as the "Little Castle."

The Berkeley City Club is both a social club and a historic hotel. This meant the rooms were small and sans tv or mini bar. The bathroom was covered in charming colored tile. There were quiet hours (No loud talking after 10PM, please!)

The next morning, Sean went swimming in the decadent indoor pool and I wandered the halls, took photos, and sat with the paper and a big cup of coffee. Being at the Berkeley City Club made me so curious about Julia Morgan. Apparently she was very private -- but obviously filled with creativity and inspired by the beauty of Europe and its grand buildings.

In our 24 hours in Berkeley we went book shopping and to the museum, had dinner at a cozy neighborhood joint, and saw a movie. There were lots of colored leaves to gather and lawns to lay on. By the time I got home I was so relaxed, I couldn't remember how to spell Potrero -- the name of our San Francisco neighborhood. Now that's the sign of a good vacation.

The Colors of Home

2011-11-30T17:02:00.000-08:00

One of the best parts of the holiday week was the abundance of colored leaves on all the trees.

I wasn't expecting much. I had heard rumors of several big storms, and was sure I'd arrive home to bleak trees and lawns piled with dead leaves.

Instead, there was an astonishing array of color: red, yellow, orange, brown and green. The leaves crunched under my feet and the air smelled delightful -- dry and rich, like toast. There were morning walks, evening walks, and pre-Thanksgiving dinner tromps in the Utah foothills. It is, without a doubt, my favorite time of year.

As long as autumn is on the brain, don't you think we better make this pumpkin curry for dinner? Sean and I had it on Halloween and I promise it's so easy and so satisfying.

I'm heading into the kitchen to butcher our last small sugar pie pumpkin now.

Isn't It Enough?

2011-11-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

Simply Lit

Often toward evening,

after another day, after
another year of days,
in the half dark on the way home
I stop at the food store
and waiting in line I begin
to wonder about people—I wonder
if they also wonder about how
strange it is that we
are here on the earth.
And how in order to live
we all must sleep.
And how we have beds for this
(unless we are without)
and entire rooms where we go
at the end of the day to collapse.
And I think how even the most
lively people are desolate
when they are alone
because they too must sleep
and sooner or later die.
We are always looking to acquire
more food for more great meals.
We have to have great meals.
Isn't it enough to be a person buying
a carton of milk? A simple
package of butter and a loaf
of whole wheat bread?
Isn't it enough to stand here
while the sweet middle-aged cashier
rings up the purchases?
I look outside,
but I can't see much out there
because now it is dark except
for a single vermilion neon sign
floating above the gas station
like a miniature temple simply lit
against the night.

Poem by Malena Mörling

Postscript: I'm going away for a few days. If I don't get the chance to tell you, have a lovely and abundant Thanksgiving.

Pretty and Ugly: Anchovy Onion Tart

2011-11-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

When it comes to writing, one of the things I struggle with most is pretty versus ugly. I want to be honest in my work. But the truth is, it takes skill to produce writing that reveals both the bad and the beautiful. Often it's easier to be glib than it is to invest the time needed to write words that artfully convey the frantic, sugarcoated malaise that is often life.

It's a lot like the conversations most of us have every day:
"How are you?" They ask.
And I say. "Great." "Fine." "Super."

But really, it's always more complicated than that. There are disappointments, and scuffles, and funny things that make me laugh but that nobody else would understand, and stories that are just too long to tell because they require sitting and listening, something we don't do enough of these days.

Already I sound malcontent. But I promise, I'm not. Like everyone, I'm just tired of trying to do it all. I'm tired of eating out; I'm tired of cooking. I'm tired of laundry and a cluttered house, but who wants to clean up? I'm tired of deadlines and being chained to my computer, and hugely embarrassed that almost every day this week I've worked in my pjs till 3PM.

And so, instead of trying to make it seem like all is easy and perfect in my world, I'm going to be honest. I've been working a lot lately. We've been eating out more than usual, and the rest of the time Sean's been in the kitchen. I've been demoted to breakfast and lunch service (and as we all know, my lunch is usually pretty monastic).

A couple of Sundays ago I did make an onion-anchovy tart. It was inspired by this recipe and article I wrote for FoodShed, but this time, instead of filo, I used the pre-made pizza dough from Whole Foods. You know the stuff -- it costs less than two bucks and all you have to do is plop it on a floured surface, roll it out, spread on the toppings, and bake.

To me, this is the perfect pretty/ugly meal. It isn't exactly a beautiful, but one bite of this intensely savory, salty, and sweet combination will make you realize what a quiet stunner this dish is. It's a meal made for those who feel like they don't have enough time, but it satisfies enough to instantly transport you to Southern France.

"Hey," you might think. "I really can do it all."

And maybe you can. Or maybe its best if we all (myself included) gave up trying?

***
You can find the Recipe for Anchovy-Onion Tart here. I made the topping as directed, dumped it onto a pre-made pizza crust that had been rolled to 1/4 inch thickness, and baked it in a hot (400 degree) oven for about 20 minutes.

Secret Breakfast: Everyday Oatmeal

2011-11-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago at a party a woman pulled me into a corner.

"What I really want to know," she said, "is what you eat for breakfast."

She said it like I had to have some secret menu up my sleeve. I don't. My breakfast is usually healthy and often ordinary. Occasionally I eat eggs, but mostly I prefer something lighter and a little on the sweet side. I'd eat toast and jam every morning if I could, but usually find that my energy sputters out mid-morning. So toast and jam, just like scones and muffins, are a weekend thing.

So what do I eat? Lately its been oatmeal, lots and lots of oatmeal. But even oatmeal can be kind of a pain. Instant oatmeal is unacceptable, microwaved oats are too. But who has time to cook stove top oats every morning? Not even this work-from-home writer can commit to that.

Some people swear by baked oatmeal or slow-cooker oatmeal. I have a different trick. At the beginning of the week I make a batch of Ina Garten's Sunday Oats. Then, I reconstitute it every morning on the stove-top with extra milk. I know -- reheated oatmeal sounds a little bit like a bad morning at the cafeteria. But I swear this trick works. Adding extra milk and using stove-top heat makes the oatmeal milky and soft, not gummy or rubbery.

My favorite way to eat it is with dried cherries, but this week I added raisins and dried apricots. Bananas are a must, as is a big spoonful of almond butter.

Secret breakfast? Not anymore.

Everyday Oatmeal (aka Ina Garten's Sunday Morning Oatmeal)
Adapted very slightly from The Barefoot Contessa at Home

1.5 cups milk -- for every day eating I use skim or 1%. Ina likes whole.
1.5 cups quick-cooking oatmeal
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 banana, sliced*
1/2-1 cup dried fruit: cherries, raisins, apricots, apples...
Pure maple syrup and almond butter for serving

Heat the milk plus two cups water in a medium saucepan until it starts to simmer. Add the oatmeal, salt, and cinnamon and stir vigorously. Bring mix to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until thickened. Off the heat, stir in the banana (if using) and dried fruit. Place the lid on the pot and allow it to sit for 2 minutes. Serve hot, drizzled with maple syrup and almond butter.

*The banana is option. Truth be told, if the oatmeal sits in the fridge for a few days the bananas turn brown and a bit unsightly. I don't mind this. I actually kind of liked the cooked banana bread flavor it brings to breakfast. You might prefer to top your oatmeal with fresh sliced banana or omit it completely. You choose.
** To reconstitute the oatmeal: Place cold cooked oatmeal in small sauce pan with 1/4-1/2 cup milk. Heat over low heat till cooked through, stirring occasionally to encourage cooked oats to warm and soak extra milk.

Inspiration

2011-10-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

Where do you find yours?

This week I've found inspiration in the changing seasons, new neighborhoods, coffee fueled conversations with friends, afternoons spent drinking rose, long lunches in Marin, the sound of literature being read aloud, and these photos -- taken during an Open Studio visit a few weeks ago.

To me, they're a useful reminder that even though the creative process is important, breaking away from routine can lead to beautiful things.

Peasant Beets

2011-10-13T15:46:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I was canning some of the fifty-two pounds of tomatoes sitting in my kitchen, I heard the scream of an airplane so close it seemed like it could be right outside our second story window.

"The Blue Angels," I thought to myself as I stuffed slippery cold tomatoes into glass jars. And then it occurred to me: the first time I saw the Blue Angles whizzing over the San Francisco Bay was from the upper deck of the Bay Bridge, as I cruised into town with my jam packed Honda and a U-Haul full of stuff. Apparently, I've now lived in San Francisco for three years.

This got me thinking about this fall, and last fall, and the fall before that, and that very first fall in the city, which was a nice, ponderous thing to do with my hands swimming around in tomatoey juice and pulp. I watched the sun set and thought some more. I pulled on a sweater, poured myself a glass of wine, and wandered into the kitchen.

All the canning had delayed dinner. Sean was sick and I was feeling a tad uninspired. For once, I wished that dealing with food was the equivalent of eating it. Couldn't those tomatoes just feed me by osmosis?

But no. I wanted more. Tired of tomatoes, I turned to the Food52 Cookbook and our diminishing CSA vegetables. The recipe I picked -- peasant beets -- was chosen entirely out of necessity. We had beets. We had chard. We had shallots and butter. That was all.

Soon I found myself peeling beets and slicing them into jeweled discs. While the beets caramelized in butter and shallot and salt and pepper, I chopped the beet greens and chard, then tossed them in the pan and doused the whole thing with a bit of white wine. Within a few minutes, the greens had reduced to a tangle. The beets, now an even deeper ruby color, shone.

We ate late, in the semi-dark. The beets, now piled with the greens on a plate, were accented by soft triangles cut from a round of goat cheese. I scattered a few homemade croutons -- big, olive-oily, crunchy ones -- on top and prepared to take a bite.

I could tell you that the beets were good, that I may never oven-roast beets again, that it was an excellent reminder that beet stems and greens are just as good as their colorful companions.

But it was more than that. I can't really explain it, other than to say the beets reminded me of the person I was when I moved to San Francisco. It was the kind of dish I might have made for myself when I lived alone: sophisticated, French. The simple technique and complex flavor was reminiscent of the style of someone who used to cook for me a lot.

Some people describe fall as mournful. And I can see how it can be. Our social calendar slows down, the trees spill their leaves, the days grow shorter and the temperature drops.

But this meal embraced the sweet and bittersweet of the season. The beets reminded me of me: The old me and the new me.

It was a beautiful and necessary thing.

Peasant Beets
Adapted slightly from the new Food52 Cookbook (I got an advance copy; it's coming out on 10/25)
3-4 large beets with greens
1 bunch Swiss chard, rinsed and dried
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 shallot, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons white wine
1/2 pound Boucheron or other fine goat cheese, at room temperature, cut into 4 wedges
Crusty peasant-style bread, toasted

Scrub and peel beets. Remove the greens, wash and dry them, and chop coarsely. Set the greens aside in a large prep bowl. Slice the beets into 1/4 inch slices.
Remove the ribs from the Swiss chard and coarsely chop the ribs. Toss the leaves and the ribs into the bowl with the beet greens.
In a large saute pan, melt the butter and saute the shallot over medium heat until softened. Add the beet rounds to the shallot-butter mixture. Toss in a pinch of salt and crack some pepper over the beets. Reduce heat and saute, turning to ensure even cooking, until the beets are beginning to glaze and become tender, about 15 minutes.
Add the beet greens, chard, and chard ribs and saute for about five minutes, then add the wine and cover. Cook until the greens are wilted, adding two tablespoons of water if necessary. Allow the liquid to be mostly absorbed into the greens. Taste and season, if necessary.
Scoop the greens and beets into a shallow bowl. Serve with a generous wedge of goat cheese and crusty, toasted bread.
Serves 2 people as an entree, 4 as a side dish.

Food to Go: Farro with Porcini and Arugula

2011-10-05T11:25:00.000-07:00

What do you eat when things get busy?

Me, I like hefty salads like lentil, farro, or quinoa. I cook the legumes or grains, and toss them with vegetables, cheese, and a light dressing.

If a crazy week approaches, I make big batches on the weekend and pick at them all week. I add meat, fried egg, more vegetables, or nuts. I warm them up or eat them cold. They are easy to transport, but pretty and substantial enough that if you end up eating a bowl on the couch with a big glass of red wine and the New York Times Magazine, you don't feel deprived.

Lately I've been relying on meals like this to carry me. I'm teaching at Stanford one evening a week, which means I eat an early dinner on a bench, or tucked away in a hidden corner of the library before rushing off to class. It's very collegiate and my packed dinner (tuperware of leftovers, a piece of fruit or lara bar, a Halloween sized Snickers bar) remind me of the days when I was always on the go.

As busy as its been, there's something fun about the newness of the moment. It's autumn; it's back to school time. Last night I spent an hour in the library writing (with a pen! on a yellow pad!) and looking out the window. I saw a handsome guy with a leather portfolio case meet a girl in colored tights and a pea coat by a fountain. I watched them casually start to hold hands, and I watched him turn away ever so slightly as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

While strolling to class in the dark people whizzed by me on bikes, hurrying to the dining hall, or home for an extra layer of clothes. The wind tugged at my scarf and a few scattered leaves blew across the path.

I notice that my recent busyness is not only taking me new places, it's leading me to unexpected moments of joy and calm. I'm remembering how much I like teaching. I'm getting big urges to be creative: to observe, write, dig into old books, and look for new stories.

I need reliable food to help fuel these ventures, and this salad does it. I know that many have moved past the season of corn -- in California there's still ears to be found for 25 cents each. Use it fresh or canned if you want or sub in something else: baby tomatoes, roasted eggplant, even shaved brussel sprouts might be good.

The point is, this salad is a winner: easy to make, easy to double, easy to make substitutions, and very easy to munch at for days while life moves around you and your brain works to stretch big thoughts even bigger. Enjoy.

Farro Salad with Porcini and Arugula
From Good Food to Share by Sara-Kate Gillingham-Ryan
The original recipe calls for Israeli couscous, but Sara-Kate suggested substituting farro to make the salad even more wholesome. It's a great evolution from, though I'm sure the couscous would be good too.

1/2 cup dried porcini mushrooms
3 Tablespoons olive oil
1 cup farro
2 and 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock, warmed
2 ears corn, husks and silks removed
2 handfuls baby arugula, tough stems removed
1/4 pound smoked mozzarella cheese, cut into 1/4 inch dice
1 Tablespoon champagne vinaigrette
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Put the porcini mushrooms in a small heat proof bowl. In a kettle or saucepan, bring 1/2 cup water to a boil over high heat. Pour the boiling water over the mushrooms. Set aside and let steep until the mushrooms are soft and plump, about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat. Add the farro and toast, stirring constantly, until lightly toasted and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Pour in the stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, cover, and cook until done -- about 30 minutes for chewy farro or a little longer if you like it softer. Drain excess liquid, if any remains, and transfer farro to a large serving bowl.

Cut the kernels off the ears of the corn and add to the bowl with the farro. Drain the mushrooms and chop into bite-sized pieces before adding to the salad. Add the arugula and cheese.

In a small bowl whisk together the remaining ingredients: 2 tablespoons olive oil and champagne vinegar. Pour over the salad and toss until ingredients are well distributed and coated with the dressing. Season generously with salt and pepper and toss again gently. Serve right away.

Serves 4-6, easily doubled for a crowd.

Mini Black Bottom Cupcakes & A Winner!

2011-09-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

{First, an announcement: wegarden is the winner of Small Sweet Treats! Email me at writtenbyaz@gmail.com with your name and address and I'll send you the book!}

I can remember making these tiny black-bottom cupcakes as a child to wrap up and distribute to teachers and neighbors at Christmastime. Our yield was pretty carefully allocated, but if I was lucky, I got a cupcake or two to eat and use as a snack for a tiny doll tea party. I especially liked biting the top half of the cupcake off. This perfect bite, stuffed with mini chocolate chips and creamy cake, was exceptionally decadent.

Decades later, not much has changed. This time it was my kitchen and my cooking project. I was baking late at night and packing up the just-cooled cakes into a pretty package. And just like before, I was biting the top off the cupcakes. This time it was a wacky attempt at portion control {you see, I'm only eating the part I want} and sending the rest to work with Sean.

That's what I love about cooking: the way it bridges the old and the new. The way that it allows you to both remember and experience at the same time.

Black Bottom Cupcakes
From: More from Magnolia by Allysa Torey
cream cheese filling:
3/4 pound (one-and-a-half 8 oz. package) cream cheese -- not softened
1/2 cup sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature
1/3 cup mini semi-sweet chocolate chips or chunks

cupcakes:
1 and 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup unsweetened dutch process cocoa
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup sugar
1 cup buttermilk
2 teaspoons vanilla

Preheat oven to 350. Line mini-muffin tins with small cupcake papers.
Make cream cheese filling: In a medium sized bowl beat cream cheese until smooth. Add the egg and beat well. Stir in the chocolate chips. Set aside.
Make cupcakes: In a small bowl combine flour, cocoa, baking soda, salt. Set aside. In a large bowl, on the medium speed of an electric mixer, beat together the oil and sugar. Add the dry ingredients in two parts, alternating with the buttermilk and the vanilla, making sure all ingredients are well blended.
Carefully spoon cupcake batter into liners, filling about 2/3 full. Drop a small scoop of the cream cheese filling on top of each cupcake. Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted in the center of the cupcake comes out clean. Cool in the tins for a few minutes before removing to cooling racks.
Yield: 3 dozen mini-cupcakes

Cinnamon-Sugar Scone Recipe & Small Sweet Treats Giveaway!

2011-09-16T09:38:00.000-07:00

[I'm giving away a copy of Small, Sweet Treats by Marguerite Marceau Henderson. To enter to win, leave a comment on this post or follow @poeticappetite on twitter and then re-tweet information about this give-away. A winner will be chosen at noon on September 23rd.]

Memory is a funny thing. Last weekend I went to the wedding of an old friend. We didn't meet in childhood, but I can't remember exactly when we did meet. Was it college? The fateful summer between high school and college? I can't recall. All I remember is that we were working at Cucina.

In those days, Cucina, an upscale Italian delicatessen in the Avenues District of Salt Lake City, was run by my friend Sarah's mother, Marguerite Marceau Henderson. For a couple of summers I worked at Cucina taking orders, serving salads, wiping down tables and clearing dishes. On rare days I ran the cash register or made a sandwich or two.

At Cucina I tried leeks and pesto for the first time (imagine!) and learned that on a bad day a big meatloaf sandwich can be immensely satisfying. Eventually I moved on and Marguerite did too. But she's continued to instruct me in the hows and whys of cooking and entertaining through her books. There are several of them now: Savor the Memories, Small Plates: Appetizers as Meals, Small Parties, and the newest, Small Sweet Treats.

Marguerite is amazing (think Ina meets Martha) and her recipes are my go-to. She's constantly coaching me through weeknight meal making and dinner parties. In her newest book she's become my guide to all things sweet with dozens of recipes for cookies, pastries, cakes, pies and other desserts that are ideal for the holidays, entertaining, or just because. As I write this, there's a chocolate-orange bundt cake with chocolate ganache (page 146 in the book) staring me down. I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to resist cutting into it.

The summers that I worked for Marguerite, I often took the morning shift. I arrived while it was cool and quiet, and though there was coffee brewing, I never needed it. Occasionally someone would take a broken or day-old sweet and cut it into chunks for us to eat while we did our side work. I never got more than a bite or two of Marguerite's epic cinnamon-sugar scones, just enough to make me hope that at the end of the shift there'd be one leftover for me to take home. This hardly ever happened.

For years my mother has tried to replicate the cinnamon sugar scones, best eaten warm with a bitter cup of coffee, but they've never come out quite right. The morning after the wedding I padded into the kitchen to find my mother baking from her new copy of Small Sweet Treats. Finally, she told me, Marguerite had shared the recipe for cinnamon-sugar scones. Hurrah!

The scones, packed with cinnamon-sugar ribbons and plump golden raisins, tasted exactly as they should. Just as my mom said, a dark cup of coffee helped to cut the sweetness and kept us happily munching. Best of all, they brought back vivid adolescent memories of giggling, gossiping, and trying not to sever my hand with the meat slicer.

This, my friends, is what good food should do: create and revive memories while feeding you physically and spiritually.

I'm excited to share this recipe (and Marguerite's newest book!) with you.

My Chicken Monterey

2011-09-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm in love with cooking from real cookbooks. I like having to bend the spine a bit to get it to lie flat on the counter, and I like getting the pages a little messy with my fingerprints. Most of all, I like being able to write a little note in the margin.

Even if I never make this dish again, I'll love looking through my cookbook and seeing this: "Made for Mom & Dad, Labor Day Weekend 2011. SF made pasta and fresh pesto to start. We drank Champagne and Vermentino. Blackberry-apricot cobbler for dessert."

My Chicken Monterey
Adapted from The Silver Palate Cookbook
I made some liberal changes to this iconic recipe: cilantro instead of parsley, wine instead of stock, and fresh tomatoes instead of canned. It was a beautiful way to use up a ton of that red-yellow-orange summer produce we got last week in our CSA. I wasn't sure about the orange juice and zest, but I had an orange on-hand, so in it went. It did add something beguiling. Sean said it was a pernod flavor. To me it was more undefinable but equally evocative. It tasted like long late summer days: fresh, vibrant, but with true, deep flavors.

5 Tablespoons olive oil
1 chicken 2 ½ to 3 lbs, quartered
salt and black pepper to taste
1 cup finely chopped yellow onion
4 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 cup white wine
½ cup fresh orange juice
½ cup chopped tomatoes with juices
1 T dried rosemary
1 medium red bell pepper, cut julienne
½ zucchini and ½ yellow squash, sliced diagonally
1/3 cup cilantro
grated zest of 1 orange

1. Heat 3 Tablespoons oil in large skillet. Rinse and pat chicken pieces dry; season with salt and pepper, and cook in oil 5 minutes. Turn chicken, season; cook another 5 minutes. Do not brown; it should be pale gold. Remove chicken and reserve.
2. Add onions and garlic to oil and cook, covered, over low heat until veggies are tender, about 15 minutes.
3. Uncover skillet and add wine, tomatoes, and rosemary. Season with salt and pepper to taste and simmer mixture uncovered, 15 minutes.
4. Return chicken pieces to pan and simmer 20-25 minutes or until chicken is nearly done. Baste pieces with sauce and turn once at 15 minutes. You can refrigerate chicken in sauce and reheat gently before serving in you want to complete recipe here.
5. Heat remaining 2 Tablespoons olive oil in another skillet and sauté pepper 5 minutes. Add sliced zucchini and yellow squash and season with salt and pepper. Raise heat and toss vegetables until tender, but still firm, about 5 minutes more. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Serves 6-8

Dinner Parties and Lentils

2011-09-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

Oh, M.F.K. Fisher. How right you were when you wrote that "sharing food with another human being is an intimate act, which should not be indulged in lightly."

Eating is intimate -- very intimate. But so often we make it public. We sit at communal tables or against large windows where the people outside can walk by and wonder exactly what's on our plate, and if it tastes as good as it looks.

Occasionally at a restaurant you're seated so close to strangers that you can't help but eavesdrop. Only rarely is the conversation very exciting, but it is thrilling to hear what strangers have to say about their new shoes, the fights they have with their mother, or how they never really learned to like beets.

Then there's the dinner party. The true intimate act; the one that should not be indulged in lightly. The other day I heard someone say that the dinner party has gone out of fashion -- that thanks to the fervor over food, it's widely believed that you simply can't have a "special" dining experience in someone's home.

I shake my head with wild disagreement. I believe there's nothing more intimate, nothing friendlier, sexier, or more loving than inviting people into your home and cooking for them. Sure, there's an element of trouble (must clean bathroom, pick clothes up off floor, vacuum) and expense (flowers for the table, a lovely bottle of wine, and oh my -- how much was that bundle of herbs?) but lingering over a dinner at home with friends old or new is one of life's great pleasures.

When a dinner party is good, it's good. And by good I mean clean plates, multiple wine glasses, empty bottles of wine, laughter, music, droopy eyes, missed bedtimes, and forgotten worries.

I'm talking about the kind of evenings where you want to linger, where no one wants to say goodbye, where you wish -- if only for a moment -- that your dinner party could turn into a sleep-over just so you could wake up and do it again over coffee and eggs and piles of toast. Those are the kind of parties I want to have all the time.

I had one the other night, and it was good, so good. There was champagne, and deep red dahlias, and these funny little olives that managed to be dried and wrinkly and beautiful and delicious all at the same time. There was whole-wheat walnut bread from Acme Bakery which, just like the olives, seemed to be both the most ordinary and revelatory thing.

There was pork dressed in fresh herbs and red wine from the Jura, and fresh peach-strawberry crisp with a healthy plop of vanilla ice cream.

Oh, and there was lentil salad, the recipe found in The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters. In classic Chez Panisse fashion, there was nothing revolutionary about these lentils, but man-oh-man were they good.

Dinner parties and lentils. Who'd have thought they'd have similar alchemy but they do. Both begin with a very simple equation, but depending on ingredients, flavors, and how everything adds up, they can become magical.

Lentil Salad a la Chez Panisse
Sort and rinse 1 cup lentils (French green or beluga are best)
Cover with water by three inches and bring to a boil. Turn down to a simmer and cook until tender all the way through (adding more water if needed), about 30 minutes. Drain and reserve 1/2 cup of the cooking lentils. Toss the lentils with:
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar [essential! and pleas do this while the lentils are warm]
Salt & fresh ground pepper
Let sit for 5 minutes. Taste and add more salt and vinegar if needed. Add:
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons finely diced shallots or 1/4 cup finely chopped red onion
3 tablespoons chopped parsley
Stir to combine. If the lentils seem dry and are hard to stir, moisten them with a bit of the reserved cooking liquid.

Add to the salad as you like from here. I toss in a cup of baby tomatoes sliced into halves, a zucchini that I sliced thin and pan fried just a bit to soften it up, and handfuls of crumbled goat cheese. Cucumber would be nice, so would yellow or red pepper.

Capturing Late Summer: Ratatouille

2011-08-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

In late August I always start to panic a bit. Even though I don't have to go back to school, there's a feeling of change and anticipation. I inevitably start thinking about new pencils and folders, about organizing and making goals for what's left of the year.

One Saturday I made nectarine preserves from a bag of $5 fruit purchased from the sale bin at the farmer's market. The round salesman claimed the fruit was there because it was bruised. But when I came home and started cutting out the battered parts there were few, and it cooked up into a gorgeous pink-hued jam.

A week later I was back in the kitchen, using my grandmother's copper pots to make peach preserves. Now, these orange and pink jars line my shelves and I'm almost excited to crack them open on a chilly January day. Next will come petite jars of apple jelly made from a brown paper bag full of Sonoma Gravenstein apples.

Around this period of furious preserving, we received our bi-weekly CSA delivery: greens, tomatoes (big and small), peaches, plums, squash, an eggplant and watermelon. Nearly all of it was fragrant, soft to the touch, ripe and ready to go.

I was torn between two urges: Use it up! All of it! At once! and Save these flavors, preserve them for later, enjoy.

We did a little of both.

Ripe plums were cut, muddled, and shaken with brandy, chartreuse, and lemon juice to make a cocktail called the Sweet Louise. Tomatoes, eggplant, patty pan, baby squash and cilantro were layered into a stoneware baking dish and cooked into a bright and juicy ratatouille.

The recipe was my take on an old favorite. The original recipe called for parsley instead of cilantro, and peppers of various colors. I decided to work with what I had, and found that I actually preferred the cilantro to parsley, and liked the the more delicate flavors and textures of the eggplant, squash and tomatoes.

I served it both warm and at room temperature, with big hunks of toasted Acme walnut bread spread think with goat cheese, and a little wine. Oh la la.

But do what you will. For me, the end of summer is all about preserving: preserving fruits and vegetables, preserving the feeling of long sunny days, preserving the feeling of me -- legs bared, hair wet, light in my eyes, peach juice on my fingers and the pages of my journal -- to keep me warm and satisfied as we move into autumn.

It's a balance, a balance, between Eat it up! All of it! At once, at once! and save, preserve, enjoy.

End of Summer Ratatouille, adapted from Marguerite Marceau Henderson's cookbook Savor the Memories

DressingL
1 bunch cilantro, coarsely chopped
1 red onion, thinly sliced
4 cloves garlic, slivered
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 cup olive oil

Vegetable Layer
1/4 cup olive oil
1 medium eggplant, diced into 1-inch cubes
2 pattypan squash, thinly sliced
2 yellow squash, thinly sliced into round coins
3 large ripe tomatoes coarsely chopped or 1 pint baby tomatoes, cut in half

Topping: fresh chopped cilantro

In a small bowl combine cilantro, red onion, garlic, kosher salt, pepper, and olive oil.

In a medium skillet, heat oil. Saute eggplant until soft, about 2 minutes, stirring often. Transfer eggplant and oil from pan to decorative 4-quart baking dish. Layer vegetables in the order given, spreading a bit of the dressing mix in between each layer. Finish with tomatoes on top. Cover with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Before serving, scatter with fresh cilantro. Serves 8.

My San Francisco Kitchen Tour

2011-08-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

In late Spring, The Kitchn came over to check out my kitchen. We toured the dishes, the pots and pans, even the dark little cupboard corners.

The result was a peek into my Real World. Unless I'm writing, the kitchen is where I hang out most of the time, and I consider it a surprisingly intimate space. So today I feel a little bit like the whole world just got a look at the lingerie drawer in my bedroom. Funny, huh?

You can see and read more here.

P.S. I'm reminded today of this blog post by the amazing Bon Appetempt about the subtle pain of art and exposure (and chicken with hot-sauce butter). If you're in the business of creativity, make some time for this, too.

Creative Inspiration and Chicken Marbella

2011-08-18T12:05:00.000-07:00

I bought the book Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen, because I heard him reading from it on the radio. As he introduced me to Patty and Walter Berglund -- the stars of this sweeping novel -- he supplied a list of the habits and possessions that helped to make them who they are. Of Patty, he said:

"Behind her you could see the baby-encumbered preparations for a morning of baby-encumbered errands; ahead of her, an afternoon of public radio, The Silver Palate Cookbook, cloth diapers, drywall compound, and latex paint; and then Goodnight Moon, then zinfandel. She was already fully the thing that was just starting to happen to the rest of the street."

In just a few lines Franzen captured so much of my 1980s childhood: the colorful picture books, the toddling baby brother in droopy cloth diapers, the drone of NPR while mom cooked and I waited for Dad to arrive home from work.

The Silver Palate Cookbook was on our kitchen shelf, but I'm not sure I cracked the cover until I was an adult. That's when my boss, Maria, arrived at work one day with a slightly-battered copy she'd found at a garage sale.

"Do you have this?" she asked.

When I told her I didn't, she reached for a pen and began skimming the pages. She made notes and starred what she considered to be the best recipes. "Kate's favorite" she put by the chocolate-peanut butter balls. "The best!" next to a tiered lemon cake. And alongside a recipe for Chicken Marbella, "Delicious and perfect for a crowd."

I love my notated version of The Silver Palate but I've only made a few things. Most recipes are more suitable for grand entertaining than everyday eating. There's a chocolate layer cake with crushed hazelnut and ganache, and mousses of every color and flavor.

But Chicken Marbella is just what Maria promised -- a recipe that's perfect for entertaining and ideal for eating at home.

I made it on a Saturday afternoon and took it later that night to dinner with friends who just had a baby. The next evening I served it to an out-of-town guest. I intended to stick the rest of the leftovers in the freezer but instead they became another dinner and a lunch... or two.

It's sophisticated. It's homey. It's delicious. I'm going to make it again and again. And it has me thinking about cookbooks and recipes. Instead of searching the web and printing something new, I'm vowing to dig into the cookbooks I own.

We're encouraged to be so of-the-moment, so aware of trends and news. But it's worth it to look back a little bit. Those favored cookbooks on my shelf? They are there because they are time-tested and dependable. I reach for them when I am busy and tired. I curl up with them on the weekend while I dream about what to make for dinner.

They are there, they are beautiful, and they are filled with good ideas and meals to make. It's yet another reminder that creative inspiration is always within reach.

Chicken Marbella -- From The Silver Palate Cookbook

4 chickens, 2 1/2 pounds each, quartered (I used the equivalent weight in thighs)
1 head of garlic, peeled and finely pureed
1/4 cup dried oregano
coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup pitted prunes
1/2 cup pitted Spanish green olives
1/2 cup capers with a bit of juice
6 bay leaves
1/2 cup brown sugar (The original recipe calls for 1 cup -- too much sweetness for me)
1 cup white wine
1/4 cup Italian parsley or fresh coriander (cilantro), finely chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large bowl combine chicken quarters, garlic, oregano, pepper and coarse salt to taste, vinegar, olive oil, prunes, olives, capers and juice, and bay leaves. Cover and let marinate, refrigerated, overnight. [Note: I had no time for marinating and essentially prepped this recipe and put it straight into the oven. It turned out fine.]

Arrange chicken in a single layer in one or two large, shallow baking pans and spoon marinade over it evenly. Sprinkle chicken pieces with brown sugar and pour white wine around them.

Bake for 50 minutes to 1 hour, basting frequently with pan juices. Chicken is done when thigh pieces, pricked with a fork at their thickest, yield clear yellow (rather than pink) juice.

With a slotted spoon transfer chicken, prunes, olives and capers to a serving platter. Moisten with a few spoonfuls of pan juices and sprinkle generously with parsley or cilantro. Pass remaining pan juices in a sauceboat.

To serve Chicken Marbella cold, cool to room temperature in cooking juices before transferring to a serving platter. If chicken has been covered and refrigerated, allow it to return to room temperature before serving. Spoon some of the reserved juices over chicken.

Serves 10-12

My Habits, My Banana Bread

2011-08-11T15:52:00.000-07:00

I am a creature of habit. I wake up at the same time almost every day and regularly eat the same breakfast for mornings in a row. My lack of variation becomes even worse at lunchtime. Nearly every day at noon I eat this: toasted Acme walnut bread spread thick with avocado. Sometimes there is hummus, occasionally soft egg on top or green salad on the side. But I never manage to get too far from the original. It's simple and satisfying. It works.

It's this habit to be habitual that led me last week to banana bread. Banana bread, you say? But it's August. Shouldn't you be making something with berries or peaches?

The simple answer is yes. The more complicated answer involves the late hour and the understocked pantry. We were out of bread and the only things I had on hand that would help make something satisfying and toastable for the morning were baking basics and a lone banana. So I did what I always did in a similar predicament. I made banana bread.

As I was working, melting and sifting, I heard a strange noise and looked up to see a dog in the kitchen. Bowie, the upstairs pet, had poked his grey and white head through our apartment's unused pet door and decided to climb on through. We stared at each other tentatively.

Bowie spends much of the day barking at the mailman, the fedex guy, and me. I wasn't sure quite what would happen when he realized he wasn't in the right kitchen. In my surprise, I dumped the melted butter into the dry ingredients and began stirring madly, forgetting the egg and the greek yogurt and everything else that was wet. I laughed while Bowie watched and sniffed at my feet.

The resulting banana bread (put into bake after luring Bowie outside) was just fine, even though I'd entirely messed with the method. The bread itself is not very sweet, which we liked, and is ok because it has a crumb topping.

Normally, I'd stray away from a crumb top. I like my bread simple and nutty not crunchy and sweet. But since I've been thinking a lot about my habits, and trying to shake them up a bit, I tried something new. I know, I know... since when is a different banana bread trying something new? But it's a process, right?

The point is, I think, that you can have old habits and new habits at the same time. Your go-to banana bread becomes something new thanks to the crumb topping and the greek yogurt in the batter. Your regular world gets shaken up a bit by the presence of a shaggy dog with bright blue eyes.

Be they little movements or big ones, it's all motion.

Banana Bread with Crumb Topping
1/2 cup white flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
4 tbsp. (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/3 plain greek yogurt (non-fat ok!)
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 ripe banana, mashed
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Crumb Topping
1 tbsp. flour
1 tbsp. butter at room temperature
1 tbsp. brown sugar
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
Pinch of nutmeg
Pinch of salt
1. Preheat oven to 300°.
2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
3. Stir in the melted butter and the greek yogurt Add egg and stir until well combined. Add banana. Stir until well combined. Spread the batter into pan.
4. Make the crumb topping by mashing together butter, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. Distribute topping evenly over batter. Bake for 40-45 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean. Cool in pan for 10 min, then allow to finish cooling on rack.

Recipe adapted from Mag Hungry

Oh, August: Pasta with Corn, Zucchini and Tomates

2011-08-04T14:23:00.000-07:00

When I decided to get married four months after announcing my engagement, I did it with some trepidation. It wasn't because I was nervous about the wedding planning or the small, but oh-so-important details. It wasn't because I was anxious about marrying my mate. It was because I was worried about August.

August: when the days get long and hot. August: the month when peaches plump and basil bursts; when the French go on long vacations and we Americans become frantic, trying to squeeze everything in before Labor Day.

But in August, in San Francisco, the days are long and cool -- and often grey. And for me, a newly minted married woman, sans major project, loafing around looking for a book proposal, a project, a job, August would be treacherous.

Oh, August. I wish I could say you surprised me. But you haven't. Admittedly, I'm a little fickle. There's been sunshine, I'm sure of it. But right now what I see outside my window is dismal and grey. And I've got projects -- the little book I'm editing is nearly finished!-- but I want more projects, bigger ones.

It might be the worst part of my personality, this tendency to never be satisfied. But it might also be the best. It's what keeps me pushing ahead, whether it be writing and networking, or granola baking, floor scouring, and thank-you note writing.

And so, these long slow days of summer demand deeper introspection. Perhaps I've been too quick to plow ahead (I've been accused of this); maybe I'm a bit dramatic?

For there are some August surprises: the CSA box bursting with peaches, tomatoes, and corn also arrived with an array of purple treats that remind me that autumn will come. There are sweet purple grapes and large pungent onions. When have I ever had the time to consider what to do with two pounds of purple onions?

But wait, there's more. Even though I've an abundance of time these days, perfect for elaborate meal planning and execution, there's a new cook in the kitchen. He used to appear sporadically, but this month he's been in the kitchen twice. I even caught him pawing through a Marcella Hazan cookbook after dinner.

The other night he took stock of the vegetable drawer. Next, he found a recipe -- Mark Bittman's Pasta with Corn, Zucchini, and Tomatoes -- and gently pushed me out of the kitchen while he got to work. The end result: barely cooked red and yellow vegetables tossed with tangled ropes of fresh pasta and sprinkled with tarragon.

He says he's cooking again tonight. Oh, August. How you surprise me.

Pasta with Corn, Zucchini and Tomatoes -- recipe by Mark Bittman
Ingredients:
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 cup corn kernels ( cut from 2 or 3 ears)
1 cup diced zucchini or summer squash (from 2 or 3 small vegetables -- we used pattypan)
1 medium onion or 3 or 4 shallots, diced
1/4 teaspoon minced garlic
1 sprigs tarragon or a tablespoon dry
4 plum or 2 large tomatoes, diced
1 pound cut pasta, like penne (imperative so that bits and juices can become lodged in the tubes!)

Set a large pot of water to boil and salt it. Put 2 tablespoons oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat and add corn. Cook, stirring occasionally, until corn begins to brown. Add zucchini and some salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until zucchini begins to brown.

Add onion and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onion softens, about 5 minutes. Add tarragon and cook for 30 seconds, then tomatoes. Put pasta in boiling water and cook until tender but not mushy, 10 to 15 minutes.

While pasta cooks continue to cook sauce, reducing heat when tomatoes begin to break down. If sauce dries out (with plum tomatoes, this is likely), add some pasta cooking water, about 1/2 cup at a time. When pasta is done, drain it, toss with sauce and serve immediately.

Back To Normal: Vegetable Tacos

2011-07-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

Well the honeymoon had to end sometime, right? After nearly two weeks away we're getting back in the groove. We're working, exercising more, eating lighter. Somehow, we seem to be having just as much fun.

When I first began cooking "real food" for myself in graduate school, I relied religiously on the tear-out menus from Martha Stewart Living. I'd head to the grocery store over the weekend, then spend Sundays cooking a meal from start to finish: appetizer, main, salad/side, dessert. Next I'd sit down to eat it all by myself, saving the leftovers to lug to evening class with me for the rest of the week.

These days I cook more by feel and sight than ever before. Still, it's always nice to have Martha around, especially when you've just returned from a big trip, and everything in the kitchen feels a little unfamiliar.

There's something endlessly reassuring about the recipes in the "What's For Dinner" series: their pull apart, perforated edges, beautiful photos, and quick recipes -- easy enough to fit on the back of that small card. And this particular collection from the May 2011 issue was a hit. It's a vegetable heavy homage to summer. There's nary a meat in sight, but there's lots of greens and layers of fresh flavor that turned out to be surprisingly satisfying.

Beans and Greens Tacos with Feta (based on Martha's recipe, adapted for our tastes!):

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large red onion, sliced into 1/4-inch-thick rounds
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 pound Rainbow chard, stems and ribs removed, leaves washed well and coarsely chopped
1 cup canned cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 cup vegetable or chicken stock (I used a mix of water and white wine)
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
8 whole wheat tortillas
1/3 cup crumbled feta
8 cilantro sprigs

1. Heat oil in a large high-sided skillet over medium heat. Cook onions until soft, about 6 minutes. Add garlic, and cook for 1 minute. Stir in chard, beans, and stock. Cook until greens are wilted and beans are warmed through, about 4 minutes. Season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and some pepper.

2. Warm tortillas. Spoon filling onto tortillas, top with cheese and cilantro and serve with fresh-from-the mercado salsa, or try Martha's tomatillo and chipotle salsa.

I served this meal with a big green salad with spiced pepitas, avocado, and a simple vinaigrette made from chopped shallots, olive oil and verjus from Venturi-Schultze winery in British Columbia (a honeymoon souvenir!).

Unlike my graduate school days, I didn't make the whole meal -- the recipe cards for salsa and horchata were saved for another day. But the feeling I got from whipping together a tasty and good looking meal in minutes was the same: I felt utterly capable in the kitchen; on top of my game in cooking and in life.

And that's not a bad way to start a week or a marriage.

Paper Love

2011-07-19T15:42:00.000-07:00

This beauty is one of my favorite souvenirs of the big day. Designed by Andrea LaRue with help from Studio Olivine and Betsy Dunlap, these lovely letterpressed invitations were truly a work of art.

I never thought I'd be the kind of girl who had a framed copy of her wedding invitation, but I do love the way it looks perched on my bedside table. Thoughts?

Ta-Dah!

2011-07-18T14:25:00.000-07:00

I kind of love that this photo isn't quite in focus. It looks exactly how the day felt: like a blurry dream.

P.S. Our news made the papers! Oh to be married to Sean Finney and in the NYT Style section in the same weekend. Check us out here and here.

Love in a Dish

2011-06-30T08:41:00.000-07:00

Find it here, or ( much more preferably) order it from your favorite local bookstore. xoxo

P.S. I'm getting married in the morning.

Sumer Solstice

2011-06-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it's you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn't say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper's bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

By Stacie Cassarino, from the book Zero at the Bone. Thanks also to The Writer's Almanac

Basil Watermelon Salad

2011-06-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Make it up as you go:
1/2 a small watermelon, cut into chunks (~6 cups)
Lots of basil (1/2 cup), thinly sliced
Hunk of ricotta salata, cut into chunks (1/2-3/4 cup, depending on your taste.) You could also substitute feta.
Juice of one lime
Splash of champagne vinaigrette
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Open up those windows or head outside to eat. Summer is here!

Garden of Love

2011-06-06T19:14:00.000-07:00

Aren't these the most perfect love stamps ever? Designed by Jose Ortega, and just been released by the Postal Service, these stamps add a festive and amorous touch to every letter sent. They even brighten up the bills!

All thirty-five of my wedding invitations were sent with the King and Queen of Hearts love stamps, which are pretty oh-so-pretty too:

Kind of makes you want to send a letter, doesn't it?

Orchestrating a Dinner of Spring Pea Risotto

2011-06-01T15:15:00.000-07:00

My mom was in town over the holiday weekend. For three days we dashed back and forth across the city like crazy women. She was on a mission to help me get wedding details finalized: we picked up the dress, scouted ribbon and other fineries, bought lipsticks and lingerie and honeymoon clothes and met with florists, bakers, and event managers.

At the end of each day we were very, very tired, craving food that felt like home.

On the first night, I made her dinner. Eating out in San Francisco is thrilling, but there's something immensely satisfying about cooking a full meal in my own house for the woman who, over my lifetime, has fixed me thousands of dinners. That doesn't mean I didn't put her to work -- I did. She peeled and chopped garlic for the roasted garlic and walnut vinaigrette. She peeled and chopped the golden beets for the salad. She set the table with my grandmother's china.

Meanwhile Sean stirred and stirred the risotto. Inspired by the green pea risotto at a M.F.K. Fisher event in Sonoma a few weeks ago, I'd found the recipe in a recent Food & Wine Magazine.

And what was I doing while all this kitchen madness unfolded? I can't really remember. I opened the wine, yes, but that came as we were serving plates. I watched the setting sun push its light all the way into the back corner of the kitchen. I stared at the flowers in their vase on the dining room table -- the antique glassware I bought to use as our wedding lunch centerpieces.

I didn't really cook dinner. I orchestrated it, watching as a simple springtime meal made its way to the table with the help of three tired and hungry cooks, and much anticipation of more good meals to come.

San Francisco Weekend

2011-05-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

I was all alone this weekend. Sean went to Vegas for his bachelor party. I stayed home and indulged.

I ate eggs in bed and watched gossip tv shows, Grey's Anatomy, and Private Practice.

I went to the DeYoung Museum and stared at the fabulous Balenciaga clothing. Maybe it was my mood, but my favorite was an austere black gown from the 1940s. I got a pedicure; my toenails are now a delightful peony pink. I met Megan for a glass of raspberry pink bubbles at Tartine. We sat outside till the freezing wind pushed us on our way.

My Saturday morning yoga class was in a bright studio with exposed brick walls and views of the city. I had coffee in my neighborhood shop and wrote in my journal. I hosted a dinner party to celebrate my friend Vanessa's graduation from film school. The menu was simple: roasted salmon, spinach and pasta salad, assorted nibbles, and for dessert, a strawberry and whipped cream layer cake.

I cleaned the house: mopped the floors and the mud room (which had been living up to it's name!) and did laundry. I went to the farmer's market to visit Marge Bakery and Megan. The small market was sunny and hopping. I bought veggies, some good hummus, and also came home with Marge's famous granola and a slice of Shaker Lemon Pie. I think I probably should have bought the strawberry-rhubarb too. Next time.

Finally, at the end of Sunday, I went on a hike through my own neighborhood. The flowers are blooming on Portrero Hill, and there are secret wandering paths through my hilly neighborhood. At the top there's a view of the city that reminds me how big San Francisco really is.

Soft Cooked Eggs

2011-05-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

I'm about to admit something rather shocking: each morning I make breakfast for Sean. This isn't because he demands it, or is incapable of feeding himself. It's because I wake up earlier than he does and work and write for a quiet hour or two. I brew the coffee and cook myself something to eat. And instead of making breakfast for one, I make it for two.

But Sean doesn't really like eggs. And he especially doesn't like "separate eggs." This means there's no no fried eggs, no soft eggs on toast slathered with butter and a strip of jam. I get my egg fix at lunchtime, regularly cooking up scrambled or fried eggs to eat with toast and greens, or for a mid-afternoon snack in the form of hard-boiled, protein packed perfection.

But a few weeks ago in Portland, I ate eggs almost every morning. I have one friend with a herd of chickens, another that demands a savory meal almost as soon as her head rises from the pillow. This friend is the hyper-efficient type, too. So while I lolled in bed watching the sunrise, she puttered around the apartment, showering, putting water on to boil, setting the table, toasting the bread.

Selfishly, I liked the role reversal. Though I felt a little bit guilty that I wasn't up making breakfast before her big commute, I loved rolling from the bed to the table to find coffee freshly brewed, piping hot toast, and a perfect soft boiled egg.

Who needs expensive bed and breakfasts when you have friends like this?

It's a good reminder that it is the little things that show love: the hand-ground coffee beans that smell like caramel and butter, the last of the loaf sliced perfectly so we both have equal bites, the jar of jam opened just for me since I like my savory breakfast balanced with a little sweet.

Since returning to San Francisco, I've been craving soft cooked eggs. Not too soft, mind you -- but enough that there's a bright runny yolk that splits and drips and demands being sopped up with good bread.

But my attempts at making them have failed -- I've yet to end up with a runny white, but usually my yolks are well on their way to being hard, defined rounds. I've given up for the moment. Maybe soft cooked eggs will be what I eat in the Pacific NW on lazy mornings with good friends.

This is how it should be -- and this is how it is. A phone call doesn't make up for a face to face chat. A really great email, or -- dare I say it, letter? -- can't replace a long dinner with too much wine. And a sub-par egg can't make up for a perfect one.

But if I decide to try again -- all in the name of a simple meal bringing your heart closer to home -- this is the recipe I'll use:

Place eggs in a saucepan large enough to accommodate them in a single layer. Fill the pan with cold water, covering eggs by an inch. Set over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil. Turn off heat, cover, and let stand 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Remove eggs from water. Serve immediately in egg cups -- perfect for cracking and scooping the egg right from the shell. Season with salt and pepper.

Lummi Island Weekend

2011-05-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

And yes, we did dine at The Willows.

Pacific or Not

2011-05-01T15:43:00.000-07:00

Pacific or not, the skies of my heart are coloured by
   the sea. Colour of doves, they bunch like fleece.
They call to their reaches muslin and linen.
They rain.
Blackened, they go, some mornings, all the hues to blue.

The landscape of my heart breathes trees, and under them,
     mosses, creeks, trillium.
Basalt uplifts and snow make a year of advances
     and of retreats.
Thus the waters of the landscape of my heart
ice the hands that cup them. and for the love of trout
     fed caddis and mayflies,
and offer for maniacal salmon gravel, cascades and
     pools: leaves drift, wet pebbles shine.
Breeze through shade is balm.

The air of my heart is fog, is dew and clear, wood smoke,
     salt and wet. Its notes fill my ears.
It colors fire, blooms roses and apples,
and warms the slumped naps of summer afternoons.

Muddy roiling, a river arriving, a river going away,
bridges make the cities of my heart.
Walking over, we pause, some of us: we lean on our arms
     and look.

And as for the people of my heart, of only a few
     do I know their names
and they know who they are.

By Lex Runciman, from Starting From Anywhere

She Returns Brand New

2011-04-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

I was talking with my friend Megan the other day about change. How life can quickly shift from what you thought you knew to an entirely new way of thinking and being, and how sometimes (at least for me) it takes awhile to catch up, to feel grounded again.

I've experienced two such shifts this spring. One came with the publication of An Extravagant Hunger. Suddenly I was a published author. There was a physical book to hold and to read. I found it propped up in bookstores where I'd never been. I signed copies for strangers and friends. I was on the radio and in the paper.

For a girl who spends most days in yoga clothes and rarely leaves the house before 4PM, it was a little overwhelming and I wilted with anxiety. One night, Sean cut into a chicken breast and found it translucently pink. Another night the salmon morphed, mid-bite, from oven roasted to tartare. I served a meal so spectacularly confused, I heard myself utter the following: "I forgot the cheese would melt."

But meanwhile, despite all the mania, as the days passed I felt myself growing -- dare I say blooming-- and I loved it.

The other game-changer came just before the book was released. Valentine's Day night, as chronicled here, was special for all the stereotypes it embraced: romantic love, the power of good food and drink, the giddiness that can come from devoting time to your love.

I've always been fond of Valentine's Day: the pink and the red, the festooned hearts, the flowers. Now it will be special for another reason, too. On Valentine's Day, Sean asked me to be his bride. And even though I apparently didn't say yes out loud, I said yes.

So maybe that explains why it has been so quiet around here. Things have been busy, and different, and I'm struggling a bit to keep up.

In the past I have gravitated to this space to share both my thoughts and the food I love. I don't write recipes, but I do cook and bake a lot. I like to think that Poetic Appetite as a place to share what I've made and loved -- much like I'd tell a good friend about an amazing dinner made from pantry basics, or share a easy and delicious dessert.

So I'm beginning again here, and I'm excited to see what happens. It may be exactly the same or entirely different. I can't tell you what might happen next, but I imagine it will be good.

AN EXTRAVAGANT HUNGER IS OFFICIALLY OUT!

2011-02-28T08:46:00.000-08:00

There's really nothing quite like seeing a stack of your books piled high on the front table of one of your favorite bookstores. The only thing better? When they put it in the window.

I'm so proud to say that my book, AN EXTRAVAGANT HUNGER: The Passionate Years of M.F.K. Fisher is available in bookstores now.

Read the reviews. Invite me to your book clubs. Come see me on my book tour -- I'm headed all over the Bay Area and to Salt Lake City, New York, Portland and Seattle.

Learn more about the legendary M.F.K Fisher and how her iconic writing forever changed the genre of food writing by reading the book. Or, read the Cliff Notes version here.

Curious about me? I write my own biography here and tell you the story behind the story here.

Questions, comments, interview requests? Contact me here.

Lost and Found

2011-02-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

Have you ever lost something you are fairly sure is hiding somewhere in plain sight? You can picture it, perched on a bookshelf, or tucked away in the corner of your purse. You've spotted it a million times when you've been looking for something else: your keys, the packing tape, the lid to your medium sized pot. But now that you need it, want it? Gone gone gone.

So it is with my camera and more seriously, my morale. The camera I know is somewhere, sure to be found when I'm not looking for it. But my morale? It's a bit more MIA. Turns out it's a lot of hard work to publish and promote a book. Writing, in comparison, is easy: coffee and toast, lots of immersion in words and pretty things. But selling and promoting this little piece of me is hard.

I haven't felt like myself all week -- ok all year. I've been indulging in lots of sugary treats, now I am trying to eat healthy, meditate, and go to yoga. It's all in an effort to feel more like myself while schlepping through the world and selling my Extravagant Hunger. It isn't really working.

But I keep trying to hold steady. Do things like make dinner, celebrate, relax. Which is what I was doing on Monday -- Valentine's Day -- when Sean took this picture of me in total M.F.K. Fisher mode. An apron covers up my little black dress, there's a 1950s O'Keefe & Merrit stove in the background, and a glass of vermouth by my side as I slice ricotta salata into big chunks.

I look at this photo and think "there she is!" and "I can do this!" Maybe my morale isn't gone forever. And I just might find it in the place I least expect.

What was I making on Valentine's Day, you ask? I had grand plans for an entirely pink and red themed meal using salmon and red cabbage. The thing is, red cabbage is really purple, and becomes even more vibrant when cooked. My red and pink meal turned into a rainbow dinner of salmon pink, royal purple, and accents of green. It was good, but the cabbage and barley salad would have been far better matched with something meaty and wintery: sausage, roast chicken, even a nice cut of red meat.

No matter. I was most excited about the cabbage and it didn't disappoint. We've been eating it all week: over greens for lunch, with takeout sausage from Rosamunde's for dinner. I think you'll like it too.

Warm Grains with Red Cabbage and Ricotta Salata
From Food + Wine Magazine
1 cup walnuts
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium red onion, finely diced
1 pound red cabbage, cut into 1 inch pieces
2 Tbl red wine vinegar
salt and pepper
1 and 1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
1/2 cup water
2 cups pre cooked barley
4 ounces ricotta salata cheese, cut into chunks

First you'll want to cook the barley according to directions on the package. You'll need 2 cups cooked -- this step can be done earlier in the day, or even the night before.
Preheat oven to 350. Spread walnuts on a pan and toast until golden, about 10 minutes. Let cool then chop into coarse bits.
In your largest skillet, melt the butter and oil. Add the onion and cook over high heat until softened. Add the cabbage and the vinegar and season with salt and pepper. Cook until the cabbage is wilted -- 6 minutes. Add thyme and water, cover, and cook over low heat until cabbage is tender and water has evaporated. This will take about 20 minutes. Stir in barley, and after it is warmed through (if pre-cooked) add ricotta salata and walnuts.
Serves 6 -- great as a side or served over greens as a meal.

Daily Soup: Curried Lentil

2011-02-10T15:41:00.000-08:00

I've had a huge craving for vegetarian food lately. Maybe those out of control sugar cravings I spoke of last week are finally relenting, balanced by a return to humble and healthful meals, chock full of greens and grains.

The urge is so deep, that last week I went out at 5PM just for a carrot and a can of chickpeas so that I could make this soup. First spotted in Molly Wizenberg's column in Bon Appetite, I next saw it remade on Megan's blog. After that, I could not get this soup out of my head (kind of like a cute boy or a catchy Justin Bieber song) and by the time the dinner hour rolled around, there was no mistaking it: I was not making the pork chops with sauteed apples and onions that were on the menu. I was making soup.

I won't re-post the recipe -- it was just in a recent issue of Bon Appetite, and in honoring that, I'll let the printed word win, at least for today. Plus, the recipe I made incorporated Megan's small, yet perfect tweaks. I can't imagine doing my own riff just yet, because this soup was perfect: spicy, comforting, soul warming.

We ate it with naan and a big green salad, and again the next day for lunch, and then again and again. It's that kind of soup. I'm even hiding some from Sean, tucked away in an inconspicuous yogurt container I'm sure he'll never open. It's been a great one bowl lunch for quite a few days.

Sometimes, when you're feeling reliably anxious about things entirely out of your control (like reviews of your book), your food should ground you. This soup did that. And for that, it'll be on my favorites list for a long time.

P.S. Want to know more about how I met my book agent? See a photo of me before the big meeting, and read about it here!

Drinking Chocolate

2011-02-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

I think this drinking chocolate would be perfect for an anniversary or Valentine's Day. It might even be perfect for an ordinary Friday night -- the kind of Friday night that hits you after a long, hard week. The kind of Friday night where you want to eat pasta dripping in olive oil, with fat chunks of roasted squash and fried sage. The kind of Friday night where you watch mindless tv because it feels so decadent, and make drinking chocolate, and pull shortbread cookies from the freezer only because the meal you had just wasn't enough (even though it should have been).

I find myself craving sugar and caffeine all the time right now. I'm completely restless with stress and excitement over the book (I got my first review!) and I'm working very intensely on three big projects. I'm trying to cut it out, to quit thinking about new things to bake and my mounting cake craving. Sometimes it works, other times it doesn't. But I'll tell you what, when there's a mid-afternoon chocolate beast that must be filled, this drinking chocolate -- served hot or cold -- sure hits the spot.

It's called drinking chocolate, because it makes regular old hot chocolate seem like a silly gateway drink. This stuff is a mix of heavy cream, milk, melted chocolate, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. The day after I made it, when I was scooping it, spoonful by spoonful, from the fridge I though it tasted just like melty chocolate ice cream. Then I realized it is, essentially, melted chocolate ice cream that just missed the freezing step.

Next time I might add cinnamon, or not. I'm really trying to focus on what I've got, and remember that no matter what happens next, this is more than good enough.

1/2 cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 cups whole milk
1 cup whipping cream
6 ounces semisweet chocolate chips
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1. Combine sugar and salt in the top of a double boiler. Slowly whisk in the milk, scraping the bottom and sides with a heatproof spatula to incorporate. Place over gently simmering water and stir occasionally. After about 10 minutes, when the milk is warm, but not boiling, add the chocolate. Continue stirring for about 2 to 4 minutes, or until the chocolate is melted and smooth and the drinking chocolate is warm but not scalding. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla.
2. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer (or skip this part and serve straight into individual cups.)

P.S. Are you interested in a book giveaway? Or perhaps a gift that comes with proof of pre-order? Say yes, please in the comments and I'll get to work.

Greek Chicken + An Anniversary

2011-01-28T17:07:00.000-08:00

It was Monday. It was the one year anniversary of the day Sean and I met. It was also the day of conference calls, deadlines, and furniture delivery. There was no time to make something special -- so I had to make something out of nothing.

Enter greek chicken. It's a good everyday recipe. There's only a few things to cut. Prep it all early in the day, or even the day before. It has a warm, lemon and tomato infused scent that floats through the air. On the night I made it, the sent was so alive, it made it down the stairs, and into the garage where we furiously tore through cardboard and styrofoam, chipping away till we'd uncovered a new-to-us couch, four antique chairs, all my grandmother's china, and the writing desk she left to me in her will.

We summoned our strength and got everything up the stairs. By 7:30 we were drinking Champagne, eating saucy greek chicken, and lustily sliding chunks of baguette through red pools of sauce.

Stevie Wonder was on the stereo. Life was good.

Greek Chicken

1 lb. boneless skinless chicken breast

10 small red potatoes, sliced into wedges

1 purple onion, cut into eighths

8 oz Kalamata olives, pitted and drained

4 sprigs fresh oregano, chopped

4 cloves garlic, minced
1, 14.5 ounce can of diced tomatoes -- I bought the Muir Organic fire roasted brand, which worked great
3 lemons

1 (6 oz.) container feta cheese

Crusty bread (necessary for dipping)

Cut chicken breasts into quarters and spread chicken on bottom of 9x13 pan.

Spread potatoes, onions, and olives over the chicken.

Sprinkle garlic and oregano over chicken mixture, and top with the diced tomatoes

Slice lemons into quarters. Squeeze juice all over the chicken mixture then drop used rind on top.

Cover with tin foil and bake at 350 degrees for an hour (or until chicken and potatoes are cooked).

Top with feta cheese and serve warm.

This meal can be assembled the day before -- let it hang out in the fridge and pop it in the oven at dinner time.

Southern Butterscotch Pie

2011-01-21T14:20:00.000-08:00

After M.F.K. Fisher became a mother, she occasionally had to turn down writing gigs because juggling two girls and writing was too much. Other times she made it work, writing outside the lines in typically grand Fisher fashion.

For instance -- she was once asked to write a piece about dining in San Francisco, but she hadn't been to San Francisco recently, and a trip wasn't in the cards. Instead she wrote a piece about all the places she would eat in San Francisco if she were there: dumplings in Chinatown, crab on the wharf, an Italian restaurant tucked away in North Beach.

Smart woman, M.F.K. Fisher. And I happily steal from her playbook.

Things have been kind of crazy here and it feels like we've been eating out a lot. In just the past week I've had meals at Bar Tartine, Bar Agricole, and Local (brunch and dinner). And then there was last night.... We had dinner at a neighborhood restaurant that shall remain nameless, but wins the award for the worst meal I have ever had in San Francisco. Ever.

I feel it in my bones, it's time for some home cooking: a relaxed weekend culminating in a lazy Sunday supper, eaten a little on the early side, so as to have time for a stroll around the neighborhood and a big old slice of pie.

Here is the recipe I would make. I found it on The Kitchn, but the recipe is originally from a book by Nancy McDermott called Southern Pies. I made this pie in December and it won second place in Sean's work party/holiday bake-off. It is the quintessential southern dessert: sweet, and a little boozy from the addition of whiskey to the whipped cream (my tweak).

The mere thought of it makes me feel like unpacking my grandmother's fancy china, finding a white lacy tablecloth, and summoning everyone to the table.

Join me?

Southern Butterscotch Pie
For the pie crust: I used a Joy of Cooking recipe for an oil based pie crust. It was quick, simple, and is perfect for custard based pies or pies that don't spend too long in the oven (cooking the oil for too long can impart an "off" taste).
Preheat oven to 425 degrees
Combine:
1 and 1/3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
Mix in a cup until creamy:
1/3 cup plus 1 Tablespoon vegetable oil
1/4 cup cold milk
Pour the oil mixture over the dry ingredients and stir with a fork until blended. Combine dough into a ball. Roll the dough between two pieces of waxed paper then flip the dough into a 9 inch pie pan, using fingers to crimp the edges. Prick the sides and bottom with a fork. Bake until the crust is golden brown, about 12 to 18 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool.

For the filling
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar, packed (make sure it is dark brown, it will give the filling that deep brown color you want)
1/4 cup cornstarch
3 tablespoons flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 (12 ounce) can evaporated milk
1/2 cup milk (I used 2%)
4 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon bourbon whiskey

For the whipped cream
1 cup heavy whipping cream
3 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
1 tablespoon whiskey (or to taste)

To make the filling
In a medium saucepan, melt butter over medium heat. Cook until lightly browned, stirring occasionally, approximately 10 minutes. Add brown sugar to butter and cook until sugar is melted and a paste is formed.
Combine evaporated milk and regular milk and pour into the butter/brown sugar mixture. Bring to a simmer and stir until it is smooth and the sugar is completely dissolved.
In a separate bowl, combine cornstarch, flour, and salt. Pour 1/ 2 cup of the milk/butter/sugar mixture into the cornstarch mixture and whisk until smooth. Pour the smooth cornstarch mixture back into saucepan, stirring constantly. Cook for approximately one minute, until just thickened (cooking the cornstarch much longer can actually cause it to lose its thickening ability).
Stream 1/2 cup hot milk/butter/sugar mixture into the egg yolks, stirring constantly. Pour this mix back into the saucepan. Cook for approximately 30 seconds to one minute, and then remove from heat. Stir in whiskey. Allow to cool until warm, about 10 to 15 minutes. Strain filling through a fine mesh sieve and then pour into cooked pie crust.
Press a piece of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pudding in order to prevent a skin from forming. Chill overnight, or until firm.

To make the whipped cream
In a medium-sized bowl, whip the heavy cream with an electric mixer until foamy and starting to thicken. Add confectioners’ sugar and bourbon whiskey and continue to beat until soft peaks are just formed.
Top with whip cream, slice and enjoy.

Coconut Cilantro Rice

2011-01-10T17:03:00.000-08:00

Coconut cilantro rice + soy and brown sugar glazed salmon

Ok, I lied. I have all sorts of resolutions. But, as I mentioned the other day, they have less to do with the new year, and more to do with getting (and staying) on top of this wildly out of control creative machine that is my life right now.

Here are a few things on my list:

Take more photos & better ones. Don't believe that moment when it seems like my phone will take a better photo than my camera. It won't. [See above.... and below for examples of this faulty thinking.]

* Write more: blog posts, freelance pitches, essays. Get started on ideas for another book proposal.

* Walk/ ride more: Writing keeps this rear firmly attached to a chair most days. Instead of driving to the grocery store, I'm going to walk -- even if it adds time.

* Make more interesting meals: Less roasted chicken with a green salad, and more.... Well, I am not quite sure what I'll make more of, but whatever it is, it will feed an army.

We're ten days into 2011 and I've failed miserably at this list.

Except --- I did walk to the Bart and take public transportation to the library. On the way back, I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall market for a dusty can of coconut milk. And then I made this: coconut cilantro rice, a recipe deemed so good that we took a one day breather and then made it again later in the week.

Sticky, savory coconut cilantro rice

It's quick, it's easy, it is really really tasty. It makes you feel healthy and on top of things, like your resolutions and to-do list can be accomplished in one fail swoop. In other words, it's just the kind of recipe you want in your arsenal for the new year.

Coconut Cilantro Rice, adapted a bit from the Williams-Sonoma Food Made Fast Series. This recipe is from the "Weeknight" Cookbook.

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup long grain white rice
1 can unsweetened coconut milk Note: I have made this recipe several times and am here to tell you that while using light coconut milk is good, using the full fat coconut milk is sublime. I highly recommend it. It is richer, and you will be satisfied with less.
1/2 cup minced fresh cilantro (or less if you prefer)

In a saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the rice and cook, stirring constantly until the rice is well coated with butter -- about one minute. Stir in can of coconut milk, and a cup of water (you want 2.5 cups of liquid, total. The coconut milk in a can I buy is 1.5 cups, so I add another cup of water to get a total of 2.5 cups liquid -- the ideal ratio.)
Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to low, cover, and cook until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender, about 20 minutes.
Remove from heat, fluff the rice, and stir in the cilantro.

I served the rice with salmon that I doused in a couple of tablespoons of soy sauce, then sprinkled with brown sugar and crushed garlic and baked in a hot (400 degree) oven for 20 minutes. I could eat this meal once a week. It is that good.

2011: Thousands of Futures

2011-01-05T09:29:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of buzz right now about the new year: resolutions, house cleaning, and getting fit. For me, it's cacophony. I've been scrambling to get on top (and stay on top) of my world since 2009. It hasn't happened yet. There have been massive to-do lists, endless sorting piles, cleaning frenzies, resolutions and promises. And I still end each day with an overflow pile that leaves me wishing I needed much less sleep.

And then, I woke up and things felt different. Today the sun is shining, the coffee in the tin is ground. I showered before 9 a.m., which for a work from home writer, is a feat. The piles and boxes in every room of our new house seem to be diminishing. With each trip to the recycling bin comes a small sense of order that is endlessly satisfying.

Perhaps it's the 90 minute yoga class I attended last night, but I am feeling good. This doesn't mean that I won't spiral back down quickly -- just last Saturday --January 1!-- I was despondent over the book. Would it sell? How to pay the rent?

But today, the world seems bright. And it reminds me of something I posted on January 3, 2010, a passage I love that will continue to carry me (and you?) into another new year:

"Sometimes the days burst open like seedpods and we see thousands of futures, and it's so much that our throats swell and we can't do anything but turn away and forget that gleaming, all that possibility. Who could live into such brightness? Sometimes the days beat their wings slowly so we can take their measure, so we know how lucky we are that we are being given just one moment more."
From The Slippery Year: A Meditation on Happily Ever After, by Melanie Gideon

I was in a very different spot last year: broken heart, life full of disorder. Now things are different. I fell in love again, and finished writing my book. But I still adore Melanie's words, and thought about them a lot as 2010 was spinning into 2011.

This wasn't supposed to be a mushy, reflective musing. It was supposed to be a bit about the kick-ass coconut cilantro rice I've cooked two times in 2011. But I guess that's the point -- isn't it? Sometimes plans go awry, and when they do, it's best to pick yourself up and keep going. We've got a thousand different futures, after all, each of them gleaming and full of good fortune.

Happy New Year.

P.S. If you want to take some concrete steps to a better 2011, check here. If you want to be more mindful and look a little more carefully at your environment, check here. And if you want to simply focus on the good, try this. xo

Last Minute Gift: Remedy Quarterly

2010-12-23T09:13:00.000-08:00

My favorite gift that I am giving this year also happens to be the one I wish I was GETTING: A subscription to the independent food magazine Remedy Quarterly.

Let this be a lesson to me: usually if I purchase a great gift for someone else, I get one for me. Some people call this selfish. But it's how I have acquired half of my coolest things.

This is the Holiday Volume I Gift Subscription to RQ. You get the first three volumes of the magazine, plus the fourth volume, which is coming soon in 2011, and includes one of my essays.

Kelly, of Eat Make Read, helped start Remedy Quarterly. She sent the gift to me all tied up with bakers twine and with an adorable gift tag. I love love love it, but really don't want to give it away.

I'm planning on stealing this from Mom on Christmas afternoon and reading through every issue, piece by lovely piece. Is that selfish?

What to Feed a Hungry Man?

2010-12-19T23:15:00.000-08:00

Here's the scoop. It's five days before Christmas. We still have no couch, but we have two beds, five uncomfortable dining room type chairs, and two living room chairs. One cost $40. The other just arrived from a moderately expensive Italian design emporium, and Sean has spent all weekend agonizing over the choice to let it into our lives.

We're tired, were dehydrated, we're perhaps even a bit hungover.

And we're hungry.

Just the other day, Sean let it slip that in spite of my "expert home economy" I didn't feed him enough. Ah yes, this is why each dinner is followed by a cheese plate, dessert, and occasionally even a bowl of cereal or midnight snack of peanut butter toast.

As if I hadn't noticed. His hunger is like nothing I've ever seen. I just assumed he had admirable metabolism and a hollow leg.

But still... A guy has to eat.

And so, I interrupt the parade of red and green sprinkled cookies, homemade eggnog recipes, and a play by play of the perfect crown roast to ask: What do you eat every day? I want tips for the dinner meals you eat with your family, the hearty ones with leftovers to spare. Ideally they're easy, quick, and healthy, too.

Yes, I could look it up. But straight recipes and bound cookbooks feel somewhat less helpful right now. So, if you can, leave me something in the comments that tells me how you do it: Do you serve meat and potatoes? Casseroles? Is it all in the sides, or should he snack more before dinner?

I don't want him to starve, but really. It's five days before Christmas. There's laundry to do, presents to wrap, and work to be done. There's just not that much time for dinner.

Fudgey Brownies for when Baby has the Blues

2010-12-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

Book writing is a challenging, isolating job to have. I spend hours alone, usually in my pjs or yoga clothes. Inevitably, just when I think I'm done with a task, another email arrives telling me to tweak this, or that, or toss it all and begin again.

I love it, though, and most days I can't believe my luck. I am thirty-three years old, about to publish my first book, and doing exactly what I dreamed of as a little girl. Still, there are bad days. And on those days, there's nothing I want more than Mom: her dinners are healthy and delicious, there's always milk in the fridge and a pantry stocked with snacks, and in a pinch, she knows that chocolate cures everything.

Just the other night she made me a pan of brownies at 10PM. It had been a day filled with BS (Book Stuff) that left me exhausted and, for the first time, wondering why I'd ever believed being an author was a fun idea.

A brownie topped with vanilla ice cream didn't fix it, but it did make me feel better, which, I think is the point of both mothers and rich, fudgey, just-a-little-salty, brownies.

This isn't my mom's recipe, but it is my favorite brownie for a bad day or (hypothetically) the week where you just can't find your camera charger or a clean set of sheets. In fact, these dark things are aptly called "Baby's Got the Blues Fudge Brownies," in one of my all-time favorite cookbooks: With A Measure of Grace: The Story and Recipes of a Small Town Restaurant.

With a lot of chocolate and a kick of salt, these little things will cure anything. Just like mom.

Baby's Got the Blues Fudge Brownies
Adapted slightly from With A Measure of Grace: The Story and Recipes of a Small Town Restaurant

4 ounces (4 squares) semi-sweet chocolate
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt -- use fleur de sel if you can, or fine sea salt
1/2 cup flour
Preheat oen to 350 degrees. Grease and flour an 8x8 pan (grease and flour it very well, brownies tend to stick)
Melt chocolate and butter in a heavy bottomed saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly until mix is smooth.
Remove pan from heat and set aside to cool.
Add vanilla, sugar, eggs, and salt to the chocolate mix and beat until combined. Next add flour and stir till mixed.
Scrape batter into prepared pan. Bake for about 40 minutes, until top is dry and a tooth pick inserted into the middle comes out clean. Do not over bake these brownies -- !
Let cool, then cut into squares.
Makes enough for one very bad day.

Spiced Pecans

2010-12-02T22:14:00.000-08:00

I've been working from my mom's house all week, camping out at her kitchen table and watching the snow fall. I've had my coffee, my NPR, and my neat little piles: a tiny red notebook to jot down ideas, a small address book (I'm always meaning to write more letters), a copy of the book catalog, a bound galley, and lists. Lots and lots of lists.

Yesterday I decided to abandon the lists. Baking sounded indulgent; relaxing; vacation-like. I made my neat little piles of spices, and prepared to roast some nuts.

Spiced nuts scream southern hospitality. They are perfect to wrap up for little hostess gifts or have on hand in case people stop by unexpectedly. I like them best with a glass of bubbly, but I like anything best with a glass of bubbly.

This recipe is nothing fancy, or hard, but it made me feel productive, like I was doing something worthy of a big fat mark of accomplishment. Shortly after I pulled the fragrant nuts from the oven, all hell broke loose. I spent hours on the telephone with my agent. The knots in my neck tied themselves into ever deeper coils. I thought about throwing something across the room.

Instead when my stomach screamed, I grabbed a handful of nuts and poured myself a very large glass of wine. These kicky, spicy, savory, bits totally hit the spot, even if I did feel like a 1950s angst filled writer, noshing away on salty nuts and pink wine before 5PM.

Later, my mom baked me brownies and served them warm with melty vanilla ice cream. But that's a whole other story.

Spiced Pecans
2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 1/2 tablespoons light brown sugar
5 cups pecan halves
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 350°. In a small bowl, combine the salt, black pepper, cayenne, cinnamon and brown sugar. Toss pecans with melted butter and spices till nuts are well coated. Spread the pecans on a large, rimmed baking sheet and toast for 10 minutes, until fragrant. Stir, than toast 5 to 7 minutes more.

Pear Pie with Crumble Topping

2010-11-18T10:33:00.000-08:00

I know what you're thinking. Do I only eat pears? Not really, though I did just finish a bowl of oatmeal topped with pear compote. Man, was it good.

I am in a bit of a pear phase, however. Part of it has to do with the surplus of pears still hanging around after I finished house sitting. Part of it was realizing that home cooked pears are nothing like the pale, vaguely sweet canned pears my mother used to serve me on a bed of lettuce, topped with a scoop of cottage cheese. I liked those pears just fine as a child, but they did nothing to endear me to the fruit.

The real reason for this pear frenzy, however, was that I'm moving. Moving requires a pantry and fridge deep clean, which means I've eaten pears on top of cereal every morning for.... weeks. And I used the last seven pears, the ones that were a tad mottled and scraped, to make a pear pie.

Who makes pie while packing and moving, you ask? Apparently I do. In a fit of reverse nesting, I made pie, apple sauce from foraged apples, and served a week's worth of insane meals built from leftovers stashed in the freezer: tomato artichoke soup; pork chops and roasted butternut squash; shrimp, peas, and sauteed zucchini with lemon and paprika; pasta with creamy tomato sauce.

And I used the frozen pie crust purchased at Healdsburg's Downtown Bakery and Creamery so many months ago, when in a fit of nesting and wooing, I thought about making a pie in the tiny, cold kitchen of a Dry Creek Valley love shack.

That pie never happened, but this one did. Caramelized pears with lots of cinnamon, nutmeg, and a little heat from the allspice. A crunchy, buttery crust that compels one to sneak nutty nibbles while waiting for the boyfriend to come home one evening.

A pie so good that I almost want to make it again for Thanksgiving next week, but I won't. Because packing and cleaning and nesting and moving is all about the new in life. Meaning, I'm on the hunt for another pie.

Pear Pie with Crumble Topping
Adapted from Caprial's Desserts.
FYI: I used a pre-made pie crust, and it worked great, but was totally dependent on the excellent, quality of the crust from the Healdsburg Bakery and Creamery. If you choose to not make your own crust, just prepare filling and topping, and bake according to directions.

7 firm pears, peeled, cored, and cut into 1/4 inch thick slices
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/4 cup flour
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp allspice
Pâte Brisée (recipe follows)
3 tbsp unsalted butter, diced
Streusel Topping (recipe follows)

In a large bowl, toss the pears with the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice; let sit for about 15 minutes to give the pears time to get juicy.

Preheat the oven to 350F.

On a well-floured board, roll the dough out into a 10 inch circle. Fit the dough into a 9 inch pie plate, fold the edges under, and flute. Pile the pears onto the crust, dot with the butter, and top with the streusel. Bake until golden brown and bubbly, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let cool for about 20 minutes before serving.

Pâte Brisée

Makes enough for a single-crust pie or a 9 to 10 inch tart.

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp sugar
3 tbsp (39 g) shortening
1/2 cup (4 oz) cold unsalted butter, diced
1/4 cup ice water

Place the flour, salt and sugar in the bowl of a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix on low speed to combine. With the mixer on low speed, add the shortening and better and mix just until the mixture resembles a coarse meal. Add the ice water and mix just until the dough starts to come together. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured board and form it into a disk with your hands.

Streusel Topping

Makes about 2 cups

1/3 cup brown sugar
2 tbsp granulated sugar
1 cup old fashioned oats
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 cup flour
pinch of salt
1 Tbl. pure maple syrup
1/2 cup (4 oz) unsalted butter, diced

Combine the sugars, oats, cinnamon, flour, salt, and butter in a bowl, and use a fork to mash ingredients together into chunky, granola like consistency. Dribble maple syrup over strudel, and use fork to incorporate maple syrup. It will be crumbly, but that's the point! The streusel will keep refrigerated, for up to 1 week.

Zucchini Pear Tea Cake

2010-11-08T18:10:00.000-08:00

There are times I think I should blog more or not at all. Other days I think I should have a baking blog. Then I remember everything I own related to baking (muffin pans, loaf pans, cookie sheets, spatulas) is still stuck in storage. And then I get really riled up.

At least I wrote a book.

And I have friends, good friends, who loan me their apartments with sweeping views of the city, pear trees, and all the baking supplies a girl could ever need.

All this was important a few weeks ago for reasons I'm having trouble articulating. It was Friday. It was raining. My lunch date was postponed. I wanted to stay at home and make something so badly (you know the feeling, yes?) but there were things I had to do.

Still, I decided to make some quick bread, knowing I'd never have time to bake the bread, hoping I'd get around to it fairly soon.

I grated some zucchini. I tossed it with eggs, oil, sugar and some of the pear sauce lurking in the fridge. I dumped in the dry ingredients. I covered it, put it in the fridge, and walked away.

Here's what happened next: I was in a dark bar with my boyfriend, and ran right into someone I used to be very, very in love with. It made my heart hurt a little, and my stomach and my head hurt even more. New love was introduced to old love and we awkwardly bantered. It seemed particularly cold, and rainy, when we finally exited the bar.

Not even record shopping helped. We drove home, quietly, in the rain. When we walked in the door, the first think I did was turn on the oven. I haphazardly cut parchment and hurtled the batter into the pan. I drank another glass of wine, and I drank it quickly.

An hour later, after checking the oven way too many times, it emerged. Brown, sweet, redolent with cinnamon.

We ate it hot, big hunks of cake topped with butter pecan ice cream. It really did make everything better. But more than that, the meal reminded me that home is where you make it.

And I am making it here. And now.

Zucchini Pear Tea Cake
Adapted from Tartine Bakery's recipe for Zucchini orange marmalade tea cake, which is amazing.

Line a 9x5 inch loaf pan with parchment and set aside. Preheat the oven to 350.

1-3/4 cups + 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt

2 and 1/2 cups grated zucchini (about 3 small ones)

1/2 cup chunky pear sauce

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 large eggs

1 cup walnuts, lightly toasted and coarsely chopped (optional)

Combine dry ingredients in a small bowl and set aside. Next mix wet ingredients in a separate bowl, mixing gently.

Sift the dry ingredients into the wet and stir until just combined. Add the walnuts, if using. Pour into the prepared loaf pan. Sprinkle the top with demera sugar, if desired.

Bake for 60-70 minutes or until a toothpick in the center comes out clean.

Chunky Pear Sauce

2010-10-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling a bit frantic lately. There's a lot of little things to do, a few big things to do (book proofs, anyone?) and a few things that I want to do, but don't know if I can do. The combination keeps me scurrying from desk to couch to coffee shop, and the coffee keeps me up at night. It's a dreadful combination, really.

Thank goodness, again, and again, for the forced slowness of cooking. Because much like the summer plums, this last week of October, I've had pears staring me in the face.

These pears were from a friend, a friend who had to go dashing off to Paris (the nerve!) and leave bushels -- and I don't think bushels are an exaggeration here -- of pears behind. She suggested making compote, which seemed like a fine idea, except for I never got around to finding the perfect compote recipe.

This is ironic, because not only is a good pear compote recipe not that hard to find, I was also house sitting for the pear giving friend, who has an amazing, covetable cookbook collection. But as I mentioned before, I was lost in manuscript proofs.

So instead this is what I did: Washed the pears, some green, some ripe to the point of rotting, and cored them and cut them into chunks, nearly slicing off my finger as my brain pondered sentences to rework, and book ideas, and love.

Next I put all the pear chunks into a huge pot. I added a little water, a little cinnamon, a little nutmeg, and some vanilla. Then I turned up the heat and walked away, back to desk and computer and to-do list. Soon the spicy smells started to penetrate the house. I tasted, added a bit more nutmeg, and a small amount of sugar.

Under heat, the pears were starting to soften and turn a lovely golden brown. Their flavor intensified, and they became buttery and caramel like. I cooked them some more, and then even a little longer, till I had a chunky sauce.

This chunky sauce was stirred into oatmeal, put on top of milk and cold cereal, served alongside after dinner cheeses, and warm gingerbread cake. This morning I fried a couple of sliced of seed bread, spread them with peanut butter, and topped them with pears. An unbeatable start to the day.

I've never been a fan of applesauce, but man, this stuff was good, inspiring twice a day servings, and the occasional swiped spoonfuls from the jar. I pureed one batch, but I wouldn't do that again.

There's something about the imperfection of the chunks I love. It's rustic, fallish, perfect in its imperfection. Kind of like life right now.

Pattypan Squash and Fennel Soup

2010-10-22T11:13:00.000-07:00

This week has been a small lesson in failure. Sure, I have a book coming out, but there are so many things I'm not doing. Blogging regularly. Investing the time to take better photos. Befriending bloggers and editors. Pitching freelance stories. Tweeting. Facebooking. Tweeting some more.

Just writing the list makes me tired.

What's unfortunate about our sped-up, plugged in world, is that increasingly, the simple little things seems to be valued less and less. Where's the time to read a book if I'm always on the computer? And new writing projects are rarely, if ever, born from a revelatory blog post.

No. The things that make me want to write, and cook, and write some more, come from real life: the fog covering Twin Peaks. A rain slicked street. Being up early, with only my coffee, and my oatmeal mixed with pear compote to keep me company.

Still, I vow to do better, because that's what we Type-A-Personality-Industrious-Catholic-Girls do. I tell myself I will write more, blog more, and take more photos while I am doing it. All this will be balanced by long walks up big hills, and time spend reading The New Yorker and the best collections of food writing.

And then I fail, fail, fail.

So I cook, because cooking is good, and simple, and no matter what, we gotta eat. I open the fridge. I pull out the veggies that have nearly turned the corner. I find a recipe. I adapt it, roasting the veggies with a little paprika.

The smell of them fills up the house, reminding me again, that what's good in this world isn't always founds through an i-product.

The simple whir of the roasted vegetables mixing with broth and a hint of cream make a velvety soup. It's the color of coffee with lots of milk, but finished with another dot of cream and a spoonful of red wine vinegar, it is complex and warming. We eat in the soft light of Sunday supper, with jazz on and a big glass of wine.

This is real. It's the good stuff, and what I'll try to share more.

Pattypan Squash and Fennel Soup

4 or 5 medium Patty pan squash or zucchini

1/2 big red onion

1 medium fennel bulb

Olive oil

Paprika
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 to 4 cups chicken stock, homemade or store bought
1/4 cup heavy or sour cream (optional) plus more for serving.
Drizzle of red wine vinegar (also optional).

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Cut the zucchinis, fennel and onions into chunks, place in a roasting pan and drizzle with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and paprika. Bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until all the vegetables are tender, turning once.
Remove from oven and using a stand-up or immersion blender, coarsely puree the roasted vegetables. Add three cups stock, and more if needed, until the soup reaches desired consistency. Add cream if you like, and also red wine vinegar to round out the sweetness of the vegetables. Serve with a dollop of cream or yogurt.
Feeds 2.

Cannelle on The Kitchn (Again!)

2010-10-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

I was coasting around on the internet this morning in search of recipes, new fall boots, and writing inspiration, and was pleased to discover that my photo and blog post about baking cannelle was featured in a Kitchn round up about French recipes you should be cooking this weekend.

Can I tell you how long it took to get the perfect cannelle shot? And how hot it was in my kitchen as I baked cannelle at 400+ degrees during a random summer heat wave in San Francisco? It's a badge of honor I proudly flaunt.

Speaking of the oven, I've been away from it for a bit. There were two trips to Southern California (Los Angeles and San Diego), one late September heat rush in San Francisco (one week were we ate only salads and I got several mosquito bites), and edits, edits, edits. For more news about the book, please check out my new author website. I'll be updating it more and more as my manuscript inches closer to publication.

Meanwhile, it's lunchtime. There's a loaf of Acme walnut bread, a ripe avocado, and a super crisp, tart apple. Apparently it's fall. Am I the only one who thinks 2010 has gone way too quickly?

P.S. If you're in need of cooking inspiration, here's a few things on my list: lentils with caramelized onions, chunky apple sauce, and sweet potato and black bean burritos. It looks like I'm craving autumn.

Chocolate Dump-It Cake

2010-09-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

This cake is the reason my skinny jeans are now feeling a little more like hipster tight denim. This cake, plus the homemade ravioli, the shrimp burrito, the chocolate croissants, and the six (seven?) course pasta tasting menu at Mozza in L.A.

It was a carbohydrate fueled train into a new decade for my now-forty-year-old mate, and I happily climbed aboard.

Let's rewind a bit, though. I stressed over this cake long and hard. At moments the dessert, which had to serve at least two dozen people and be transported, by foot, to the party site, was imagined as mini chocolate mousses, cupcakes, lemon bars, and -- at one bad moment-- rubbery flan with a single candle on top purchased from the Mexican join that was housing the party.

There were so many considerations. 95% of my belongings, and 100% of my cooking things are still in storage from my impromptu move last year. Thus, I had no cake pans, no cupcake pans, no hand-held mixer. Dessert had to be made with a mixing bowl, IKEA spatula, and set of mixing bowls and spoons. If I purchased new cookware it had to be just that: new! An addition to my existing collection, not a replacement.

I thought about making my mother's famous Texas Sheet Cake, but wasn't sure if it would do well in a layered version -- the batter is thin and the frosting poured on hot. I could just picture it all sliding off onto the dirty Mission sidewalk.

Next, I scoured the internet for two hours and, after asking the birthday boy what kind of cake he wanted, finally decided. I would bake Amanda Hesser's Chocolate Dump-It Cake from her book, Cooking for Mr. Latte.

I own this book, but it's in storage (sniff), so I was sure the recipe would be good. The cake and frosting were both very simple, nothing special required. Megan had baked the cake too, which looked towering and chocolate riddled, two requirements for the cake.

I made two versions of it last week-- one layer, one sheet -- and in the seven days since, have gotten several emails gently querying for the recipe. So, here it is, with a few minor tweaks and one warning: find your stretchy jeans.

Chocolate Dump-It Cake
Adapted from Amanda Hesser
A note: The sifting here is important. Don't forget to sift!

2 cups sugar
4 ounces unsweetened chocolate
1/4 pound unsalted butter (1 stick), plus more for greasing the pan
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting the pan
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon semi-coarse sea salt or kosher salt
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon cider vinegar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups Nestle semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 1/2 cups sour cream, at room temperature
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Directions
1.    Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, and place a baking sheet on the lowest rack, to catch any drips when the cake bakes. Put the sugar, unsweetened chocolate, butter and 1 cup of water in a saucepan. Place over medium heat and stir occasionally until all of the ingredients are melted and blended. Remove from the heat and let cool slightly, 15 to 20 minutes.

2.    Meanwhile, sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. In a small bowl, stir together the milk and vinegar. Grease and flour a 9-inch tube pan. (If you prefer, you can grease it, line it with parchment and then grease and flour it. This is not necessary, but parchment does make getting the cake out easier.)

3.    When the chocolate in the pan has cooled a bit, whisk in the milk mixture and eggs. In several additions and without overmixing, whisk in the dry ingredients. When the mixture is smooth, add the vanilla and whisk once or twice, to blend. "Dump" the batter into the tube pan and bake on the middle rack until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, about 30 minutes. I baked this cake in two 9 inch rounds with great results. The cake was done in about 25 minutes. I also baked it in a 9x13 pan, and it was marvelous -- done in about 40.
If you bake it in the tube, let the cake cool for 10 minutes, then remove from the pan and cool on a rack. (This can be tricky, so if someone is around, enlist them to help. Place a ring of wax paper on top of the cake so you have something to grab onto when turning it out.) Let cool completely.

4.    Meanwhile, melt the chocolate chips in a double boiler, then let cool to room temperature. It is very important that the chocolate and sour cream be the same temperature, otherwise the icing will be lumpy or grainy. (Test it by stirring a little of the sour cream and chocolate together in a bowl; if it mixes smoothly, it's ready.) Stir in the sour cream, 1/ 4 cup at a time, until the mixture is smooth. Taste some! It's good. If you prefer a stiffer frosting, add 1/2 cup powdered sugar till you have the chocolate peaks you desire. If you want to add a whisper of cinnamon, now is a good time.

5.    When the cake is cool, you may frost it as is or cut it in half so that you have two layers (when I do this, I use 2 cups chocolate chips and 2 cups sour cream). My mother uses any leftover icing to make flowers on top. She dabs small rosettes, or buttons, on top, then uses toasted almond slices as the petals, pushing them in around the base of the rosette.

Makes 10 servings. (My mother kept it in the fridge, and it is sublime even when cold.)

Late Summer Peach Jam

2010-09-11T19:16:00.000-07:00

It is nearly the middle of September, but it seems that summer has finally decided to come to San Francisco. After months (months!) of grey and gloom, the sun is out. Today for lunch, I ate very thin crust pizza, watermelon salad, and arugula with white beans and fresh corn tossed in a cumin vinaigrette. There was a crisp white wine to drink. There were tank tops and summer skirts and sunglasses involved. It's about time.

Somehow, it seems just like San Francisco to pull this fashionably-late-to-the summer-season move. I would be annoyed, but it feels so good to finally have the sun on my arms, my toes in the Yerba Buena fountain, and Blue Bottle iced coffee to thirst for, that I really don't care.

The weather also explains the peaches. While everyone else is thinking about sweaters, and boots, and crisp apples, I've got peaches on the brain. I was given seven pounds of over-ripe, organic, saffron colored beauties the other night by a farmer with a bumper crop. "Take 'em," he told me. "And use 'em tonight."

So I went home, and amazingly had just enough jars, and sugar, and lemons around to make jam, which was what I wanted far more than a crisp or a pie. I set to work, cutting around brown spots and rotting cores.

The work reminded me of how sometimes, life is about taking time to enjoy the pleasures of living, and sometimes, it's about getting things done. I'm in the midst of my final book edits right now, which means everything that is not writing (eating, cooking, exercise, fun) is done as quickly and effortlessly as possible.

I was shocked at how quickly the jam came together, and even more amazed at how pretty it looked sitting in the kitchen the next morning. It's exactly what I hope will happen with the book. Rewriting is mind bogglingly hard and complicated at times, but I have this odd feeling that if I just work, sentence by sentence, it will all be beautiful at the end.

In the meantime, I've got peach jam for my toast, (did you know I eat toast every single day, sometimes more than once?) and am far less vitamin d deprived than I was a few weeks ago. I'm too tired to think about what to fix for dinner most nights, but I still have the sense that it is going to be ok.

*There's no recipe here. If you find yourself with a bushel of peaches, you'll figure it out. I did.

Daily Cake: Berry Buttermilk

2010-08-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who could happily eat cake every single day, and those who save it for special occasions. I am of the eat cake today! variety, though I aspire to be a bit more measured in my approach to slabs of the soft, dense, sweet stuff.

(Of course I also hope to have enough family, children, friends, and hangers-on around that I could make magnificent cakes with piles of frosting weekly, and they would all disappear with me only having eaten the perfect bite or two. But that's a big fantasy....)

Perhaps it is the seasons starting to change, but my hunger for cake has been pronounced. It has taken all forms: birthday cake, chocolate cake, muffins, tea cakes, pillowy scones. And most days, I've given in. It's been a bit of a carbohydrate fueled dream around here, though I've tried to slice a peach on top and call it shortcake, or douse a slice with ice cream just for good, summery measure.

Here is the cake that started it all: a Berry Buttermilk Cake borrowed from 101 Cookbooks. I made it for a friend's birthday picnic, and was purposefully restrained in my approach to this celebratory number. We were moving from picnic and wine tasting to dinner, and I knew there'd be a gussied up, candle flecked chocolate number to steal the show at the end of the night.

I wanted something vaguely sweet, that could sit alongside bread and cheese, and not mar the final sips of wine. Oh, and it had to travel well, because no one likes a cake that shows up slumped and tired looking.

This cake fit the bill -- and almost fit it too well. It is a decidedly every day cake. It begs for a dressing of some sort: I dreamed of whole milk yogurt, ice cream, or whipped cream would do too. Far from showy, it is a stable cake, more like a large, stoic scone than a dense, moist buttermilk shortcake.

I carried home half the cake at the end of the night, and the next day is where I discovered the glory of it all: crumbled on top of my morning yogurt, a slender slice mid afternoon, even a bite or two before dinner.

An every day cake! Eat cake every day? Yes!

Berry Buttermilk Cake, Adapted slightly from 101 Cookbooks.

2 1/2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 cup fine-grain natural cane sugar (or brown sugar)
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
1/4 cup butter, melted and cooled a bit
zest of 2 lemons
1 cup + berries (mixed or strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, alone. The berries add some needed moisture, so don't go too over the top, but be liberal. You'll be glad.)
3 tablespoons large grain raw sugar

Preheat oven to 400F degrees, racks in the middle. Grease and flour (or line bottom with parchment paper) one 11-inch tart/quiche/pie pan.
Combine the flour, baking powder, and sugar and salt in a large bowl. In a separate smaller bowl whisk together the eggs and the buttermilk, whisk in the melted butter, and the lemon zest. Pour the buttermilk mixture over the flour mixture and stir until just combined - try not to over mix.
Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, pushing out toward the edges. Now drop the berries across top. Sprinkle with the large grain sugar. Bake for about 20-25 minutes or until cake is set (or a toothpick in the center comes out clean), and a touch golden on top.
Heidi estimates it serves 12, in my opinion that was ambitious, unless your heaping on ice cream or dealing with light sweet eaters.

Plum Jam

2010-08-17T10:35:00.000-07:00

It was a huge luxury to be able to ignore nearly everything in my life in favor of finishing the manuscript of my first book. But now I’m discovering the dark side of such irresponsibility: I’m disorganized in a way I’ve never been. I’ve missed phone calls, birthdays, anniversaries, and gotten numerous parking tickets.

And then there’s the plums.

Every summer for several years I’ve made jam. Usually it is berry based: strawberry, golden raspberry, ollallieberry. But early summer and berry season blew by, and all of a sudden it was late summer and the season of stone fruit.

I bought several pounds of Santa Rosa plums at the farmer’s market, and set them in a bowl to ripen. A couple of days passed; then a few more. Soon it had been over one week since I’d purchased the plums. If I didn’t do something with them soon, it would be twenty dollars of produce wasted.

It was no longer about wanting to make jam. I had to make jam. I trudged to the hardware store in the San Francisco cold for canning supplies, cursing my industrious nature.

But then I got home. I sliced the plums, sprinkled them with sugar, and set them aside to macerate. I gathered the necessary tools, prepared my jars, then placed the plums on the stove to cook. I’d forgotten how easy it was to make jam. And if you’re dealing with small amounts of fruit, it’s quick, too.

Yet in a busy world, jam making is also pleasantly slow. As I waited for the fruit to turn into jam, I stared out the window in my sun room and read part of a book. I realized my list was just that -- a list. There would always be more to do. No matter how quickly I crossed something off, there would always be something to replace it. And being overwhelmed? It’s just a function of being a grownup. I have so many things to do and so many things I care about, I simply can’t find time for it all.

But that jam: purple and sweet, but with plenty of natural tart, was delicious. And that day of making it was one of the best of the entire summer. My few jars are an important reminder of my summer: its harried days, unfinished lists, and, at the end of the season, the importance of doing a few things just for me.

Plum Jam
2 pounds small plums, pitted and cut into 1/2-inch wedges
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 lemon, seeded

In a large, nonreactive saucepan, toss the plums with the sugar and let stand, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is mostly dissolved, about 1 hour.

Squeeze the lemon over the plums, add it to the saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Cook over moderate heat, stirring, until the liquid runs off the side of a spoon in thick, heavy drops, 20 to 25 minutes. Skim off any scum that rises to the surface of the jam.

Discard the lemon and spoon the plum jam into three 1/2-pint jars, leaving about 1/4 inch of space at the top. Close the jars and let the jam cool to room temperature. Store the jam in the refrigerator for up to 3 months. Alternately, you can cook the jam till it is set, ladle into clean, well- prepared jars, and process in a water bath. Then the jam will keep in the cupboard for about a year.

Makes three, 12 ounce jars, plus a little more for tasting.

August Panzanella: cooking without a map

2010-08-09T14:52:00.000-07:00

The other day I heard someone say that they started every meal by walking into the kitchen and asking themselves "what do I have?" This is an idea I love. This is also, I realize, how I cook.

It didn't used to be. I used to plan everything. Each meal required multiple recipes, and if I needed a teaspoon of fresh chopped thyme, I'd get it, or save the recipe for another time.

Now I'm on a shoestring budget. Often it doesn't matter what I'm in the mood for. I need to use what I've already invested in, stretching the contents of the fridge and pantry into something that will satisfy. Sometimes I can make something out of nothing. The other week it was a light dinner of sauteed patty pan squash, torn basil leaves, and goat cheese.

This cooking without a map is a coveted skill, and one I am proud to hone. And what gives me the most delight are the meals I cook up that are even better than what I could make if I had all the money in the world.

Really good panzanella is made with chunks of good bread that has been fried lightly in olive oil and then tossed immediately with tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, and greens. The other times I've made panzanella its been underwhelming, in part because I haven't been willing to douse my pan with shimmering pools of olive oil.

Panzanella does not usually call for bacon. But I had good bacon and was feeding a fellow with a bottomless pit stomach. The addition of bacon to my panzanella made me think that I could fry my bread in the bacon grease. It was a decadent and daring idea. It was also something that made me slightly squeamish: all that fat! All that grease!

I did it anyway, deciding I only lived once and that summer would be over soon, taking with it any hope of frying bread in bacon grease again. I tossed everything together at just the right moment, dressing it quickly and serving it in its hot meets cold, salty meets sweet, crunchy meets creamy, perfection. I couldn't have planned it any better.

There isn't really a recipe -- do you really need a recipe to make a salad? -- but here's what I used:
2 large heirloom tomatoes; I like big juicy bites
a handful of fresh basil leaves, torn
2 medium sized mozzarella balls, cut into chunks
2 cupfuls of arugula
5 slices bacon
1/2 of a five day old baguette, hacked into crouton sized hunks
leftover sweet onion vinaigrette from the epic savory peach salad
salt and pepper

Sweet onion vinaigrette:
1/2 small sweet onion
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar (the best you've got, it's worth it)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1/4 lemon
Slice the onion in quarters and cut into very delicate rings. Place in a small bowl. Add vinegars, olive oil, and lemon juice to the onion bowl, stir and let sit while you prepare the salad, stirring occasionally. I like to make this a few hours in advance, if time allows. The flavors mellow.

Combine tomato chunks, basil, mozzarella, and arugula in a large bowl. Set aside.
Fry bacon in skillet till it is nice and crispy. Remove to plate lined with paper towel and allow to drain.
Fry croutons in all that bacon grease. If your bacon isn't very greasy, you might add some olive oil.
When bread is hot and crispy, add to salad and toss, seasoning with salt, pepper, and vinaigrette.
Panzanella is one of summer's greatest pleasures. Enjoy.

Peaches + Pleasure

2010-08-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about pleasure lately, and how it is connected to food. Sure, we eat because we have to. But we also eat because it tastes good. This is especially true in summertime, when the produce is popping and the colors at the market stun with their rainbow hues.

But a cold summer in San Francisco has taught me a lot about how food pleasure is intimately tied to our other senses. It's been cold here. My sweaters and jeans are lined up on my closet shelf, and there's always a scarf in my handbag. Last week I found myself eating tomato soup and grilled cheese on a Monday in July. I've never been a fan of exceedingly hot temperatures, but the injustice of a wintery meal on what should be a warm summer night was too much.

The next day I visited the farmer's market stand and bought pounds of peaches, white corn, a huge bunch of basil and a bag of arugula. I would bring summer to San Francisco with a meal that screamed hot days and equally warm nights. We would eat salad for dinner, even if we had to freeze doing it.

I felt a little guilty as I sliced peaches and tore basil leaves on a cold, gray night. It was almost as if I had paid to have extravagant treats shipped from warm corners of the world, not purchased produce from just a few miles away.

But as it all came together: peaches, corn, basil, arugula, bacon, feta, onions and rich balsamic and olive oil, I got more and more excited. The peaches were juicy, and the corn slipped off the cob. It was summer, somewhere, and we were going to feast.

I don't know how to describe the sound that left my date's mouth when he took a bite of the salad. Let's just say it was indecent -- the sort that got M.F.K. Fisher sent away from the table as a very young girl.

It reminded me that sometimes we should eat what we want to eat -- tomato soup and grilled cheddar cheese -- and sometimes we should eat something delicious and extravagant no matter what the cost and inconvenience.

Eating peaches, basil, and corn hardly seems revolutionary, but on that night, it was. It was cold outside, wintery gray with a brisk breeze. The food brought indescribable, decadent and summery pleasure.

This is what food and cooking (and being human) is all about, I think. And it's how I want to eat and live every day: like I deserve to really enjoy the food I put in my body.

I found the recipe for this savory peach salad at Pithy and Cleaver, one of my favorite sites. I only made a few decadent tweaks:

1/2 small sweet onion
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar (the best you've got, it's worth it)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1/4 lemon
3 ears of corn, shucked
3 peaches (large)
small bunch arugula
1/2 cup torn basil leaves
4 strips of bacon
3/4 cup cubed feta
salt and pepper
Slice the onion in quarters and cut into very delicate rings. Place in a small bowl. Add vinegars, olive oil, and lemon juice to the onion bowl, stir and let sit while you prepare the salad, stirring occasionally. Cut corn kernels off the cob into a large salad bowl. Cut peaches in one-inch squares and add to salad bowl. Wash arugula well and add, along with basil leaves. Cook bacon until crisp and crumble or dice. Add bacon and feta to the salad, then the onions and their liquid. Toss well. Add salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.
Perfect for 2-3 as a main dish, or more as a side.

Notes: Use the best ingredients possible: farmer's market produce and great balsamic. It makes a difference.
I didn't use all the dressing and found it kept in the fridge nicely and was perfect for a salad redux the next night.
I upped the bacon and cheese. Decadent, I know, but that was the point.

Arugula and Lentil Salad with Goat Cheese

2010-07-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

Like Maggie, my meals in recent weeks have been composed of salad and take-out. I make the salad; he orders the take-out. This loose system has helped me to get through another stretch of book editing well-fed yet nourished by the fresh produce that taunts me when I walk through the market.

It's a shame, really, to be working so hard during the summertime. My dreams of berry cobblers and jams have passed along with the months of June and July. And thanks to the cold and glum weather in San Francisco, we ate tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches last night, not homemade tomato sauce over ribbons of fresh pasta from Luca's. At least it's good weather for staying in with a cup of tea and a pile of papers.

But then there are the days where it all comes together: I wake up early and get a lot done before noon. I have time to think about dinner, get to the store, and I remember my list so I (amazingly!) get everything on it. Then I cook and cook and cook.

This salad was a particular bright spot during a time where I have constantly felt tardy and under prepared. So French, so Southern French with its lentils, and goat cheese, and dots of colorful tomatoes. Thanks to the legumes it's hearty. All you need to make it a meal is a bottle of rose, a crusty baguette, perhaps a hard sausage to slice into chunks and gnaw.

Good eats. No takeout required.

Arugula and Lentil Salad with Goat Cheese, from the May 2010 of MS Living.
I love lentils so I actually doubled the lentils. This allowed me to stretch dinner into a lunch or two -- a beautiful thing.
1/2 cup dried French green lentils, rinsed, drained, and picked over
1 small red onion, halved
3 tablespoons red-wine vinegar
3/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
4 ounces baby arugula (6 cups loosely packed)
12 ounces cherry tomatoes, halved if large
3 ounces goat cheese, crumbled

Place lentils and 1 onion half in a medium saucepan; cover with cold water by 2 inches. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer, partially covered, stirring occasionally, until lentils are tender, about 20 minutes. Drain; discard onion half. Transfer lentils to a medium bowl.

Chop remaining onion. Combine vinegar and mustard. Pour in oil in a slow, steady stream, whisking constantly until emulsified. Add chopped onion. Season with salt and pepper. Toss lentils with half the vinaigrette; let cool.

Arrange half the arugula on a platter. Spoon half the lentils on top. Top with half the tomatoes and half the goat cheese. Repeat with remaining ingredients to form another layer; drizzle with remaining vinaigrette.
Serves 8 or so.

Strawberries in July for M.F.K. Fisher

2010-07-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

July 3rd was M.F.K. Fisher's birthday. This year she would have been 102.

I celebrate the day every year, or at least I have for the past five years, ever since my interest in her and her life turned from passing fancy to full-blown obsession.

The first year I made vanilla ice cream. It was a hot summer day in Portland, and we topped the melty vanilla mounds with fresh blueberries, oohed and ahhed with every bite, and then went to a baseball game.

The next year I made a caprese salad mixed with fresh pasta. It was a simplistic ode, because I'd spent all day getting lost in M.F.K. Fisher land. We drove through the yellowed hills of Sonoma, scooting along old highways until I spotted the outline of her house, her "last house" in the distance. The sign outside read: Trespassers Will Be Violated. I stood on the side of the road with goosebumps that had somehow cropped up in the hot July sun.

In subsequent years I wrapped white fish in thin strips of zucchini and made a rhubarb lavender crisp. There were bowls of freshly shelled peas, gently steamed, and dressed in lots of butter and salt. There was plenty of wine, all French.

Each celebration has been good, and each passing year has seemed to mark the evolution of what was, once, a small interest in M.F.K. Fisher, and is now a book. An Extravagant Hunger: The Passionate Years of M.F.K. Fisher will be published by Counterpoint Press in February 2011.

This year I made dinner for friends. Compared to previous years it was a haphazard party, with last minute guests, and an entire menu developed mid-afternoon while watching a World Cup game.

But the evening was perfect. It was a magically warm San Francisco day. The chicken roasted in the oven, there were green and bean salads, bread, cheese, and tiny French olives. There was champagne, then pinot noir, and then finally another bottle -- what was it?

It was good. But the part everyone raved over was dessert: strawberries with vanilla syrup.

Make this soon, before strawberry season is over. It was so easy, and so divine. It was pretty amazing for breakfast, too, which is when this photo was taken.

Strawberries with Vanilla Syrup, adapted from the June 2010 Martha Stewart Living Magazine
1 pound strawberries (halved if large), stems left intact (optional)
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3 strips (each 2 inches long) lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon whole black peppercorns, lightly crushed
Combine strawberries, water, sugar, vanilla, lemon zest, and peppercorns in a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a simmer, and cook for 1 minute. Let stand until cool, about 15 minutes; refrigerate till ready to spoon over whole milk plain yogurt.

The Best Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Around

2010-07-06T22:36:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, I am finding that I am not very good at this locating recipes, gathering ingredients, making and then taking photos before eating, thing. I like to eat too much to stop to take a photo just when things are getting good. But it's also, perhaps, that my style of cooking has changed in the past year.

Last July I don't think I was cooking much at all, and if I was, I was cooking to impress. It didn't work; I had lots of pretty photos of food, but I was almost always hungry. Now I am full, so full.

Dinnertime comes and I dash around the kitchen and somehow, I make something out of nothing. Last week it was pan roasted chicken thighs from the freezer with a sauce made from dried mushrooms soaked in warm water and wine. I added the mushrooms to the frying pan along with chopped shallots, butter, olive oil, and at the very end, a handful of peas.

It was pretty and tasty, but there was no recipe. I made it up, and it was good. We ate it with a big salad, and large chunks of bread to soak up the soupy bits and we drank a white wine from the Jura region of France called Arbois. I think the meal ended with a bite or two of cheese. It was perfect. It was a Wednesday night.

I have always dreamed of cooking like this. My mother used to tell me: "cook enough and you'll just know what to do." But I never did, and for years I was easily intimidated by the idea of standing in the kitchen with and serving dinner to someone who had worked in a professional kitchen. Someone who knew (or it seemed like he knew) everything at all.

Now my days are much more free form. I'm laughing more, writing better, and most days I don't care that 90% of my belongings have been in storage for almost an entire year. Turns out I don't need them.

Except for those cookbooks. Because today I wanted to make my Dad cookies for his birthday. But my cookbooks are still packed. So I googled "best chocolate chip oatmeal cookie" and I randomly found a recipe which looked ok, and I decided to make them.

And guess what? They were really good. The best part was that they were super soft, even with a little bit of wheat flour tossed into the mix. Their softness made them seem pretty damn near perfect to me -- I am not so fond of the overly crisped oatmeal cookie.

Along the way I took some photos. Not fancy photos where I clean the countertops and adjust the light and wish I had better dishes. Just photos of me and the mixing bowl making birthday cookies for Dad.

I'm beginning to think that if I kept cooking the way I have been for the past few months I'd be very content. It turns out cooking (and living) without a recipe is easier, and much more fun, than I ever imagined it could be.

The Best Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Around:

1 cup butter, room temperature

1 cup sugar

1 cup brown sugar

2 large eggs

2 tbsp half and half

2 tsp vanilla extract

1 cup wheat flour and 1 cup white flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

2 1/2 cups oats (rolled or quick, not instant)

2 cups chocolate chips (about 12-oz.)

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a large bowl, cream together the butter and the sugars until mixture is light in color. Beat in the eggs one at a time, followed by the half and half and the vanilla extract.
In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Either by hand or with the mixer on low speed, gradually beat the flour in to the sugar mixture until just incorporated.
Stir in the oats and chocolate chips by hand.
Drop 1-inch balls of dough onto the cookie sheet, placing about 1 1/2 inches apart so they have room to spread.
Bake at 350F for 10-15 minutes, until golden brown at the edges and light golden at the center.
Cool on baking sheet for at least 1-2 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.
Makes 4 dozen.

Cannelle and Iced Coffee

2010-06-28T11:59:00.000-07:00

A favorite Portland moment from my recent vacation: a warm Thursday afternoon, the communal table at Ken's Artisan Bakery, the New Yorker's Twenty under Forty, an iced coffee, and a cannelle.

I really wanted to eat two -- or more!-- but this was my first stop after the airport. In anticipation of many more great meals and never empty wine glasses over the next few days, I abstained. And really, one was enough. More would have just been.... More.

Remember last summer when I made cannelle? All of a sudden I've found myself with lots of free time. Should I do it again?

I Leave You With Lemon Curd

2010-06-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

Lemons. My roommate brought home a fresh bag full of them the other day. This was good, since we were down to our final two or three. I wasn't rationing them, more wondering what I'd do when they weren't around to grab.

In addition to lemon juice in fresh vinaigrette and lemon juice squeezed into mint tea and topped with lots of honey to ease an aching throat, I've been making (and eating) a lot of lemon curd.

Lemon curd wasn't something I made or thought much about. A few summers ago I made a batch to slide across round yellow cakes that were topped with blueberries and served at a friend's bridal shower. It was easy, and good, and I always thought I'd make it again.

But I didn't. Maybe because unlike the Brits, I don't love lemon curd on toast or scones. I think its pretty perfect eaten alone, spoonful by guilty spoonful, or in a pie, or tart, or cake, or something equally decadent. Perhaps spooned over a pile of berries, if I was feeling more pious? But I am hardly ever feeling that pious, so I hardly ever made lemon curd.

Until this spring. The availability of lemons and the ease of making it lead to an intoxicating combination. I could easily sneak into the kitchen, and a few minutes later have a jar of bright yellow curd cooling in the fridge. It never lasted more than a day or two, maybe three if I was distracted by something different.

I found David Lebovitz's recipe amazingly easy. There are all sorts of lemon curd recipes that call for double boilers and the like. David's doesn't. I love it for this simplicity, and because it works, producing tart-sweet, curstardy curd perfect for eating on sunny San Francisco afternoons, when getting outdoors just isn't an option.

Lemon curd, my perfect book writing escape.

What Finishing a Book Looks Like

2010-05-25T09:35:00.000-07:00

Stacks. Piles. Stacks and piles. Coffee mugs, crumby plates, discarded napkins. Yoga pants, comfy shirts, glasses and stretchy head bands all day long. It's a glamorous life, no?

And now it is almost over, at least this part. The manuscript will be sent off to its new home by the end of the week, and I'll have the entire long weekend to... Relax? Cook? Balance my checkbook? It will be a strange, strange thing.

Last night I left my desk for a few minutes to see Kim Boyce of Good to the Grain fame speak at Omnivore Books. Admittedly, I went mostly to escape the house. But once there I fell head over heels for her philosophy: whole grains, when used properly in baking, can enhance seasonal fruits and vegetables and produce delicious flavor profiles. We're talking rustic rhubarb tarts, olive oil rosemary chocolate chunk cake, and muffins galore. I cannot wait to dig into this book.

Her talk made me feel like baking. I know, I should have gone directly to the store for some spelt or buckwheat flour. But I don't have time for such things this week. So instead, I ran home and pulled out the usual pantry baking staples: butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and chocolate.

I almost never make brownies. I love rich, chocolate desserts but brownies seem so ordinary. When I was a little girl my mom regularly made a small pan after dinner. She somehow managed to put nuts in half, and leave them out of the other half, so that adults and children were happy. We'd eat them warm, ideally with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Perhaps if we were lucky there would also be a drizzle of Hershey's chocolate syrup involved.

Making brownies is so simple: one bowl, one pan, thirty minutes in the oven and you've got something gooey and delicious. I used the recipe on the back of the chocolate tin (Ghiradelli's mix of cocoa and ground chocolate) and didn't think much about it.

It wasn't about the recipe or the method. These brownies didn't have to be the best I'd ever eaten. They just had to be good: warm and comforting and there in my kitchen on the last Monday night before I turn in the manuscript of my first book.

This was about cooking and eating for pleasure. And as I stood in the kitchen, scraping clandestine dark ribbons of brownie batter from the bowl and licking them from the spatula, I was very, very satisfied.

Suppli al Telefono

2010-05-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

The other day I had a date. I've been having a lot of dates lately, but this one was particularly good because it included homemade risotto. Next to Acme walnut bread, risotto just might be my most favorite food. I love for all the seasons: heavy with butternut squash and pancetta in the fall, bright with asparagus and favas in the spring. I love it plain too, with lots and lots of parmesan cheese, a big green salad and a large glass of chewy, earthy red wine.

That's how we ate it the other night. It was a cold spring night in San Francisco which meant that a warm bowl of risotto and a glass (or two!) of wine seemed the perfect prescription to a long and stressful day. And the fact that I wasn't the one stirring and stirring over a hot stove? Well that made everything even better.

There was enough risotto left over that it could have been reheated for lunch or perhaps even a light supper. But then the urge to cook came back. "Arancini!" I proclaimed. "Suppli!" he said.

What exactly is the difference? Not much, it turns out. Both arancini and suppli are fried risotto balls stuffed with something very good in the middle. Arancini usually feature peas and mozzarella and occasionally meat, while suppli simply have cheese, often something gooey and good like mozzarella or fontina.

Suppli are more Roman, while arancini hail from Southern Italy and the feisty Sicilians. I was cooking for a man who had lived in Rome, so suppli we would eat.

But as committed as I was to the suppli (and the man!), I wasn't sure how I felt about frying. This recipe, for baked suppli, made risotto balls that were crispy on the outside, soft and cheesy on the inside. I did briefly pan fry the suppli before popping them in the oven to help encourage a crisp and crackling brown shell. It made them slightly more decadent, but without the mess of splattering oil and a smoke filled kitchen.

A dinner redux with suppli, simple greens dressed with olive oil, balsamic, and lemon, another big glass of wine, and hands held across the table? It felt like a roman holiday.

P.S. Apparently they are called suppli al telefono because when you bite into them the cheese stretches out long and thin like the best roman telephone wires. Romantic, no?

Baked Suppli
Prepared Risotto (made from a 1/2 cup of dried arborio) 
1 egg 
2 ounces mozzarella, torn or cut into pea-sized pieces  (you could also use fontina or gruyere)
1 cup dried bread crumbs
1/4 cup grated parmigano 
salt and pepper 
1 warm cup marinara (I made my own by sauteing one half a yellow onion and a minced clove of garlic till soft and then whirling it all in the blender with a can of fire roasted tomatoes)
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a shallow bowl, combine 3/4 cup of bread crumbs, the parmesan, salt and pepper. Set aside.
Combine the risotto, egg and the remaining bread crumbs in a large bowl. Using a small ice cream scoop or your hands (if using your hands, it helps to keep them wet), shape the risotto into roughly tablespoon-sized balls. Cradling a shaped ball in your palm (to keep the shape intact), use your thumb to tuck a piece of mozzarella into the center of the ball and reshape the ball around the cheese, so the cheese is fully enveloped. Place each formed and stuffed ball onto a plate. When all the risotto has been used, place the plate in the refrigerator for 15 to 30 minutes.
Once the balls have chilled and firmed up, roll each one in the bread crumb mixture and place them on the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, turning halfway, until the suppli are golden brown. Serve with marinara for dipping.

On Not Cooking

2010-05-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

Today I was thinking about all the effort I put into not cooking these days. I haven't succumbed to take-out or meals from the freezer or can, rather an endless stream of composed dishes that require very little effort. Salads with a poached egg. Roasted vegetables with toast and a poached egg or cheese. Slabs of good toasted bread with hot cheese, chunks of avocado, or a quickly fried egg. Hummus. Beans. Chocolate, lots of chocolate.

It is actually a nice, albeit simple, way to cook, because it shows me how far I've come. I used to be the kind of person who required a recipe. No recipe meant no dinner, or boring fare: a bowl of pasta with bland red sauce, a quesadilla with canned black beans and salsa from a jar.

I still love to cook from recipes, recipes give me most of my ideas. But I like realizing that I am slowly becoming the kind of person who can make something out of nothing. It makes me feel self-sufficient. The bad part? Nary a recipe in sight, which means there's little to share here.

But as I finish writing the book, this means of simple cooking is highly satisfying. I like shopping for fresh produce at my weekly farmer's market. Instead of planning meals I spend the rest of the week tiredly stumbling into the kitchen, throwing open the fridge, and figuring out something easy to make and eat.

Take lunch, for instance. The pickings were slim. But I did have some good bread -- I simply can't live without a loaf of Acme Walnut Bread -- and as it toasted I found a small bunch of radishes in the fridge. Out came the good butter and salt, and before long I was slathering the pink jewels with butter, dipping them in salt, and happily watching the sun stream in through the windows. I could almost believe I was in France. Almost.

For the moment, at least, I am finding just as much joy in not cooking as I usually do in picking recipes, shopping, and cooking up a storm. I’m sure soon I’ll want to return to the kitchen, but in the meantime, my radishes and I are happy as can be.

Leftover Rice Pudding

2010-04-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday it rained and rained. I stared into the fridge and the only thing I saw was a huge pot of white rice, leftover from a weekend dinner party. Longing to feel productive, I pulled the pot from the fridge to the stove and got to work, adding milk, an egg yolk, butter, a whisper of whiskey, and lots and lots of cinnamon. In minutes I had hot rice pudding.

Now here's the thing: I don't really like rice pudding. Rice, yes. Risotto, yes. Puddings and custards, oh yes. But rice pudding? It has never been my favorite. I made it simply because I wanted to feel accomplished: a glug of milk, a few shakes and stirs, and something warm and delicious was smelling up the house. I washed the dishes, stared at enough rice pudding to feed eight people, and felt very satisfied.

But then I had to try it. A bite to make sure it was laced with just enough cinnamon. And then another bite after I'd added a bit of salt to bump up all the other flavors. And before I knew what was happening, I had a steaming bowl of rice pudding topped with walnut pieces and segments of tangerine and was eating it for dinner. For dinner! I did it again last night.

Do I like rice pudding? I'm not really sure. But I am loving the decadence of eating it, bowl after bowl. Now, for the rest of my life, I will see rice pudding, pale and gloppy on deli shelves and think of it fondly: 'Oh yes, rice pudding,' my mind will say. 'It sustained me through one very tough week of book revising.'

And the memory will be warm, and comforting, and sweet.

The photo and the ratios for making rice pudding from leftover rice were found here. Not wanting to measure how much rice I had, I simply added several cups of milk along with a beaten egg yolk, whiskey, and cinnamon, and cooked it on medium heat for about 25 minutes. I tasted for flavor, added a bit more milk, and then finished it off with a couple tablespoons of butter, some salt, and even more cinnamon. I think it is supposed to be served cold, but I eat it warm, oatmeal style, with dried fruit and nuts. My roommate tops it with honey. It is perfect for a rainy April day.

Warm Eggplant and Chickpea Salad

2010-04-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

I was laying in bed last night trying to recall what I've been eating for dinner lately. Is it terrible to say I really couldn't remember? These days, everything is blending together into a manic mess of revisions and days spent at the computer, lunches are eaten quickly while trying not to get crumbs on the computer. Dinner is a haze of salads and toasted bread with cheese and a slice of avocado.

But after a bit more thinking, I remembered. Ah yes, it wasn't just a simple green salad I'd been eating all week. It was a very hearty, very good, very healthful salad adapted for spring from a recipe from Smitten Kitchen.

The first time I made this I used butternut squash and oh, it was delicious. But then butternut squash season passed. Yet there were still so many elements of this salad that made it enticing for the rest of the year: lemon, cilantro, tahini, and chickpeas. So when I spotted an eggplant at my Saturday market it seemed fated.

It was a simple, but excellent, change. And it reminded me of what I liked best about the original recipe: this is a hearty, fill 'er up salad that tastes really good. I get lots of protein, vegetables (I tend to pile a scoop on mixed greens) and don't feel hungry again for hours.

Now if it could just cure my after lunch craving for something buttery and sweet.

For salad:
1 medium eggplant cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 medium garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt
One 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed (1 1/2 cups)
1/4 of a medium red onion, finely chopped
1/4 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro
For tahini dressing:
1 medium garlic clove, finely minced with a pinch of salt
1/4 cup lemon juice
3 tablespoons well-stirred tahini
2 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more to taste
Preheat the oven to 450°F.
In a large bowl, combine eggplant, garlic, olive oil, and a few pinches of salt. Toss the eggplant pieces until evenly coated. Roast them on a baking sheet for 25 minutes, or until soft. Remove from the oven and cool.
Meanwhile, make the tahini dressing: In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic and lemon juice. Add the tahini, and whisk to blend. Add the water and olive oil, whisk well, and taste for seasoning. The sauce should have plenty of nutty tahini flavor, but also a little kick of lemon. You will probably need to add more water to thin it out.
To assemble the salad, combine the squash, chickpeas, onion, and cilantro or parsley in a mixing bowl. Either add the tahini dressing to taste, and toss carefully, or you could serve the salad with the dressing on the side. Serve immediately over mixed greens, brown rice, or all on its own. Just the extra dressing as you would any salad dressing: it is the perfect springboard for other Mediterranean meals.

Lemon Tea Cake Makes Me Happy

2010-04-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

The weekend is over. It was a mess of dinners, drinks, and late nights that morphed into sunny days, trips to the market, and spring cleaning. Now I am back to the drudgery of fussing over every sentence, every thought, every comma in my book manuscript. It isn't always fun work. Most of the time my eyes feel blurry, my heart feels fluttery, and my body feels like all its energy has been sucked away.

I am so glad I have these lemony muffins in my arsenal to remind me that the world is full of delicious things best enjoyed far from a computer screen.

They look a little plain, don't they? And maybe for some they are. You see they aren't packed with something juicy or topped with swirls of cream or lemon spiked frosting. They are a demure tea cake made with half-wheat flour which gave them a crumbly, almost polenta like texture. The glaze consists of a vanilla bean mingling with some sugar and lemon juice in a pot on the stove while I checked my email frantically. Is anyone else out there a multi-tasker?

My tasks were finished just in time to pull the small cakes out of the oven and sit with one in the dining room for a few quiet minutes that included nothing but the stripe of sunshine across the table.

Lemon Yogurt Tea Cakes (based on a Ina recipe, via Smitten Kitchen, with a few modifications of my own)
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (I used 1/2 whole wheat pastry flour and loved the crumb it created)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar
3 extra-large eggs
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest (approximately 2 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 vanilla bean, split
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and paper a 12 cup muffin tin.
Sift together 1 1/2 cups flour, baking powder, and salt into 1 bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the yogurt, 1 cup sugar, the eggs, lemon zest, vanilla and oil. Slowly whisk the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 30 (+) minutes -- Smitten Kitchen's recipe was for a loaf, but I wanted tea cakes and used a muffin tin. Thus, while baking I had to watch carefully. My baked in about 35 minutes.
Meanwhile, cook the 1/3 cup lemon juice, vanilla bean, and remaining 1 tablespoon sugar in a small pan until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is clear. Remove vanilla bean. Set aside.
When the tea cakes are done, allow them to cool in the pan for 10 minutes before flipping out onto a cooling rack. Carefully place on a baking rack over a sheet pan. While still warm, pour the lemon-sugar mixture over the cake and allow it to soak in (a pastry brush works great for this, as does using a toothpick to make tiny holes that draw the syrup in better). Cool.

Weekend, Again

2010-04-16T07:44:00.000-07:00

I was off in the woods for most of the week, revising my book manuscript. It's due in six-and-a-half weeks if you're counting (and I am). I ventured into the woods with a bag of groceries, but managed not to cook at all. At times this could be treacherous, but when I'm deep in the creative process I actually enjoy an edited diet centered mostly on toasted Acme walnut bread: toast with jam, hot coffee, and milk in the morning. Toast with cheese, sliced avocado, or egg at noon time. Wilted greens or salads with roasted chicken and a plank of toast for dinner, yum.

But a girl has to come back and eat! We have been spending Saturday mornings at a new neighborhood spot called Local: Mission Eatery. A couple of Saturdays we have even been the first people there, waiting expectantly for the doors to open.

First we crawl to the very back, where the Knead Patisserie girls pour strong cups of coffee and offers petite lemon loafs, airy brioche, scones with whipped cream, and several bite sized Frenchie pastries: one stuffed with rum spiked custard, another dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

After coffee, the paper, and sweets we move (slowly) into brunch. For the past two weeks it has been bowls full of grits topped with sausage, ricotta, and smoked greens.

Can you tell I'd be just as happy to forgo Friday and head straight into tomorrow morning? If only I could.

P.S. This photo was taken last Saturday at Local: Mission Eatery. I love how it is slightly messy. We were already well into our breakfast routine, the paper and numerous cookbooks spread out around us, pastries nearly finished. I love routines.

Lemon Poppy Seed Cake

2010-04-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

When life hands you lemons, you are supposed to make lemon-aid, right? But what if life hands you two dozen regular lemons and two dozen Meyer lemons, all hand picked from someone's backyard tree?

Then, my friends, you must make lemon-aid, and lemon infused vodka, and lemon vinaigrette, and lemon cake. Lemon cake with poppy seeds and lemon glaze and very thin slices of Meyer lemon that become deliciously candied after sitting under the glaze over night, to be more exact.

Sweet and tart and delicious, this was the perfect accompaniment to Easter Brunch (radicchio mushroom quiche, sausage, greens, mimosas, coffee, and the Sunday Times -- oh my!) and added some definite sun to what was, in San Francisco, a very gray and blustery day.

Lemon Poppy Seed Cake
2 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter, room temperature
2 cups granulated sugar
3 egggs
grated zest of one large lemon (feeling zesty, I used two lemons)
1 cup sour cream
1 tablespoon poppy seeds

I created the glaze for this cake on the fly, juicing and zesting one lemon, adding about 2 cups of powdered sugar (sweeten to taste), and a little bit of water to thin. Easy.

Preheat oven to 325. Generously butter and flour a 10 inch bundt pan, or if you can't find yours, use a 9 by 13 pan.
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt into bowl, set aside.
Cream butter and sugar until mixture is very light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Blend in lemon zest. Add flour mixture in three batches, then blend in sour cream. Mix in poppy seeds. Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 55 to 65 minutes or until cake springs back when touched in the center. When the cake has cooled for about 10 minutes, drizzle with glaze. If you have access to a lovely Meyer lemon, consider slicing it thinly and arranging it on the top of the cake before brushing or drizzling with glaze. This adds a delicious (and not too sour) bite to the bite.

Care Package: Cereal and Milk

2010-04-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

These are the granola bars that were packed into a brown paper package and mailed from San Francisco to Salt Lake City to fortify my brother in his final week of studying for the MCAT.

Nigella Lawson calls them the bar equivalent of a bowlful of cereal and milk. She isn't far off, especially if you like your cereal sweet. These were a bit too sugar laden for me to eat for breakfast. I found them to be more like a jacked up oatmeal cookie than a healthy way to start the day. But by mid-morning or afternoon I think they would be the perfect pick-me-up, especially alongside a steaming cup of black coffee. And after midnight I imagine they would be decadently perfect.

Rumor has it that the combination of oats, raisins, seeds, and nuts does amazing things for a slightly sleep deprived, stress laden brain. Eat up, little brother, eat up.

Cereal & Milk Bars
1 14-fl-oz can condensed milk
2 1/2 cups rolled oats (not instant)
1 cup shredded coconut
1 cup dried cranberries or raisins
1 cup mixed seeds (pumpkin, sunflower, sesame) -- I added flax
1 cup natural unsalted peanuts
1. Preheat the oven to 250 degrees and oil a 9- x 13-inch baking pan or just use a disposable aluminum foil one.
2. Warm the condensed milk in a large pan.
3. Meanwhile, mix all the other ingredients together and add the warmed condensed milk, using a rubber spatula to fold and distribute.
4. Spread the mixture into the oiled or foil pan and press down with a spatula or, better still, your hands to make the surface even. (This pressing part is important! I failed to press enough and ended up with bars that wanted to crumble.)
5. Bake for 1 hour, remove, and after about 15 minutes, cut into four across and four down, to make 16 chunky bars. Let cool completely.
Makes 16

Orange Marmalade

2010-03-29T18:09:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I spent two days in sight of an organic orange tree. The fruit was small, perfectly round, delicate in color, but perfectly juicy and floral once peeled and gently pulled apart.

The fruit was in danger of going to waste; if I didn't pick it and do something with it, it would ripen, fall to the ground, and be lost in a mess of long grasses. I had to make marmalade.

I picked a giant bag of fruit, and a few days later, transformed a jumble of juice and pith into a delightfully sunny preserve. This morning I ate some plopped on top of my yogurt. It is tart and a little bitter, with big chunks of peel. It isn't the best marmalade for spreading, though I do plan to try to slather it on a slice of toasted walnut bread very soon. But if I made it again I think I'd put extra effort into cutting the strips of fruit slender and small. It might make for a more traditional marmalade.

As it is, it is more like an orange preserve. And really, preserving is such an apt word for this project. Not only did I save the fruit for future days, but I saved the memory of a little cabin tucked into Dry Creek Valley: spring sun and warmth, dusty vines, long walks and longer talks, too many glasses of wine.

Sunny Orange Marmalade
7 tangerines or oranges (do not peel), preferably organic, washed well, quartered, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
2 lemons (do not peel), preferably organic, washed well, quartered, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
4 cups water
Granulated sugar
Bring tangerines, lemons, and water to a simmer in a large saucepan over medium heat. Cook for 5 minutes. Let cool slightly. Press parchment directly on surface of marmalade, and refrigerate overnight.
Remove parchment; return saucepan to medium heat. Bring to a simmer, and cook until citrus rinds are very tender, about 30 minutes. Measure mixture, and return to saucepan over medium-high heat. For each cup of mixture, add 3/4 cup sugar. Simmer until a candy thermometer registers 220, about 30 minutes. (Tangerine and lemon flesh should be broken down, and rinds should be translucent.) Plate-test marmalade to make sure it is set. Divide among 4 pint-size sterilized glass jars, leaving 1/4-inch headspace at tops. Can in water bath for 15 minutes.
Makes about 4 pint sized jars.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

2010-03-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

This photo is a tad fuzzy; I justify this by saying it was on the early side when I spotted this little winged creature crawling out of the salad I was making to take for lunch.

The bag of greens came straight from a farm in Healdsburg, California and was so good, so green, so fresh that if I could, I would drive there every week to stock up.

I didn't mind the little bug; I like knowing that my food came from the ground and is veritably breathing with life. But when I shared my store over lunch, I was surprised at the shocked looks I endured.

It made me realize not everyone likes to know where their food came from. Sad really, don't you think?

Road Trip Granola

2010-03-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

This morning I had the most lovely breakfast. I was up early, watching the morning sunlight stream into the kitchen and thinking about the day ahead: breakfast, coffee, revisions, revisions; coffee, lunch, revisions, revisions; yoga, dinner, revisions, revisions. Yes, crunch time has begun.

The granola in my bowl this morning was another batch made from a recipe I first tried a couple of months ago. I christened it Road Trip Granola after packaging up a bag to send along with friends Ursula and Chris as they drove slowly but surely from San Francisco to New York.

I am pretty sure the granola kept them alive while they maneuvered snow and ice, RV villages, truck stops, and Wal-Marts all across America. Now it sustains me through sunny San Francisco days; maybe it will sustain you too?

P.S. This granola is so good (spicy, sweet, even a tad salty) that it is perfect not only for breakfast but as a mid-afternoon snack, or, even dessert while reading or movie viewing. Just watch out for little oaty crumbs; they will stick to your fingers and the front of your shirt.

Road Trip Granola aka Maple Granola from MS Living February 2010. Makes 7 cups.
3 cups rolled oats
1 cup dried unsweetened coconut chips
1 cup pecans or walnuts, quartered
1/2 cup pure maple syrup
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil (I used a scant 1/4 cup and it turned out fine)
1/2 cup packed light-brown sugar (I used 1/4 cup because I didn't want it too sweet. It was perfect!)
1/4 cup sesame seeds
1 teaspoon coarse salt
3/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 cup golden raisins
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Mix together oats, coconut, nuts, syrup, oil, sugar, sesame seeds, salt, and nutmeg. Spread granola in an even layer on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake, stirring every 10 minutes, for 40 minutes. Add raisins, and bake until granola is toasted, about 10 minutes more. Let cool completely.

Beets & Greens

2010-03-18T07:58:00.000-07:00

Book writing and the change in seasons has inspired eating on the fly. This means I am cooking less from official recipes and instead am composing meals based on what is in the kitchen. Usually this involves toast of some kind, stacked with cheese and veggies. Occasionally there is an egg involved, or if I am feeling completely virtuous, a salad.

I have been trying to feel more virtuous lately, but it has been hard. Longer days inspire evenings filled with cold beers, colorful cocktails, and springy green wines, not springy green leaves that have prudently coated with a slick of olive oil, vinegar, and fresh squeezed lemon.

But sometimes the local abundance helps me maintain the balance I'm searching for right now. Over the weekend I roasted a mess of beets, deep red gems that have found their way into many meals over the past few days.

And instead of tossing the stems and the leaves I washed them, chopped them, and then proceeded to cook them down into a hot red and green mess. I started with a splash of olive oil; when hot I added one finely chopped clove of garlic. Next I threw in all my greens and clamped down a tight lid. The steaming did not take too long, but I did check it occasionally, stirring and adding a bit more water. I finished my beet greens with salt, pepper, and a glug of apple cider vinegar to help add needed bite.

This tangle of greens was so beautiful, so simple, so healthy! For dinner I toasted a big slice of nutty, wheaty bread that I piled with the greens and topped with a poached egg, a drizzle of olive, oil, salt, and pepper.

When I realized how light it still was outside, and thought about how very virtuous I'd been -- for a few minutes anyway -- I decided to drink a negroni.

Ginger Cookies for a Weekend Away

2010-03-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

Friday was a cold and blustry day in San Francisco. It rained a Portland rain: long, gray, and consistent. It made me think of long weekends in my little red kitchen, baking and watching the endless rain fall on dark pine trees.

I decided that instead of writing and revising it would be a baking day.

I needed a hostess gift for a weekend away, but wanted something slightly more austere than bursting chocolate chip cookies or thick brownies. Then I remembered a ginger cookie recipe from the blog Eat Make Read.

When I started the cookie making process, I had plenty of time (I thought) to bake, shower, and pack. But then all of a sudden the clock was ticking and the cookies weren't done. I took them almost directly from cookie sheet to an aluminum foil packet that burned my hands as I walked to the car and made the car -- noisily pelted with more of that delicious gray rain -- smell heavenly as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and headed north.

For recipes and photos of the finished cookie go here. These ginger cookies were very good. They were chewy and full of molasses and chunks of crystalized ginger and so bite-able, they were almost gone by the time we reached our little cabin.

Springtime in The City

2010-03-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

I went to the east coast two weeks ago with a long black puffy coat, layers of cashmere sweaters, hats, gloves, and boots. While I was there it snowed twenty-one inches in New York City, and rained buckets in Boston.

But by the time I left, the temperatures had risen. I bought a new, lightweight coat to wear as I maneuvered the city. In the greenmarket there were few spring vegetable offerings, but the tulips -- oh the tulips!

In my dream life I could fill my arms with bouquets of tulips, carry them home, and put them in vases in every room of my house.

Today's Shopping List

2010-03-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

I find travel slightly exhausting, and getting back from travel is always such a pile of laundry and bills and lists of things to do. Thankfully, while I was gone spring bloomed. I am inspired by hot sun seeping through the windows and a cloudless blue sky.

And I am so excited to see what's at the market. When I visited the Union Square Greenmarket in New York City last week you could tell that winter's bite still plagued the northeast. The stalls were still a little spare -- unless you needed apples, winter greens, onions, or potatoes.

Drab vegetables were punctuated by the blooms of spring: pussy willows and tulips, irises, and tiny green starters to nudge into life in a small window box.

After a trip to the grocery store with a list that included greens and good bread, citrus, and fresh yogurt, I am easing back into every day health. The roast chicken with foie gras and brioche croutons is but a memory. So is the compost cookie.

Today's lunch was simple greens topped with an egg and a vinaigrette made from lemon juice, olive oil, and a little drizzle of balsamic alongside a hefty piece of toast. I spread the last bits of bread with honey and made myself a big cup of tea before returning to the desk.

Travel is good, but it's nice to be back in my city.

Where I've Been

2010-03-09T11:46:00.000-08:00

For the past two weeks I have been buried in a deep literary hole, surrounded by love letters, secret journals, and old books. Oh the things I have discovered. I'll return with more news soon.
In the meantime, I think spring might be here. I'm so excited. And you?

Where I am

2010-02-22T18:39:00.000-08:00

I'm in a cozy Boston hotel room with the remnants of room service scattered around me. It's the first night of a two week east coast adventure. I'm doing my final M.F.K. Fisher book research at the Schlesinger Library and working like mad.

Updates soon. For now, all I can report is dinner in bed is a delight.

Salty Oat & Chocolate Chip Cookies

2010-02-14T08:10:00.001-08:00

Valentine's Day cookies for your sweet (and sometimes salty?) ones. These crispy cookies, adapted from a Smitten Kitchen recipe, are crispy, salty, and studded with teeny tiny chocolate chips. I can't wait to dip a one in a cup of strong hot coffee or tea after a day on the ski slopes.

xoxoxo

Salty Oat and Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon good quality salt
14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) unsalted butter, slightly softened
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

6 ounces dark mini-chocolate chips

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line baking sheet with parchment paper or Silpat. Whisk flour, baking powder, baking soda, and table salt in a medium bowl.

2. Beat butter and sugars until light and fluffy. Scrape down bowl with rubber spatula, then add egg and vanilla and beat until incorporated. Scrape down bowl again. Add flour mixture gradually and mix until just incorporated and smooth. Gradually add oats and mini chocolate chips and mix until well incorporated.

3. Divide dough into about 24 equal portions, each about 2 tablespoons. Bake until cookies are deep golden brown, about 13 to 16 minutes, rotating baking sheet halfway through. Transfer baking sheet to wire rack to cool.

M.F.K. Fisher: What to Read

2010-02-09T07:54:00.000-08:00

It has been a big few days in book writing land: I finished the first draft of the book and started working on plans for a big research trip to the East Coast at the end of the month.

All this excitement has been fueled by a steady diet of congratulatory food and drink: cocktails and champagne coupes, pizza with bacon and blue cheese and a tumbler of beer, cashew spiked Chinese chicken, and coconut cake. I feel very good, indeed.

In this midst of all this, someone asked me about a good, introductory book of M.F.K. Fisher's writings. My top pick is The Gastronomical Me. It is a memoir, with short tales of strawberry jam, peach pie, hoarded chocolate bars, and never ending French feasts.

For something more comprehensive, might I suggest The Art of Eating? This is a large tome, five of M.F.K. Fisher's books bound together into one, and perfect for dipping in and out of at whim.

If you were the sort of person who liked reading food writing after dinner with a glass of wine and a nice fire going, this could make a perfect and romantic Valentine's Day gift.

And if after reading, you find yourself taken with the work of M.F.K. Fisher (as I did), please write and tell me what you loved.

Happy reading, happy eating.

Baked Polenta

2010-02-05T08:20:00.000-08:00

I have been in a book writing frenzy for the past couple of weeks. This means I have been eating breakfast and lunch at my desk. By mid to late afternoon it is not only time for a break but time to clean up the meal remnants that surround me: empty bowls that were once filled with oatmeal or yogurt and granola, coffee and tea mugs, plates with toast crumbs and orange peels.

When evening arrives, I am often too tired to think about dinner. But if I don't feed myself, no one will. This is why I pounced on a recipe for baked polenta in the book Jam Today by Tod Davies.

In case you're curious, I read Jam Today on my way to Chicago. It was a library book and I still couldn't help myself from dog-earing a recipe or two. If you are a fan of M.F.K. Fisher and truly great food writing, you must buy this book. It is exquisite -- I can't wait to have a copy of my very own. It will be the kind of book that ends up with water marks, little stains on the pages, maybe even a broken spine.

But I digress. In the book there is a simple, free form recipe for polenta layered with cheese and vegetable goodness. It goes sort of like this:
Make the polenta by combining 1 cup polenta, a quart of water, and a teaspoon of salt in an oven proof baking dish. Put in a 350 oven for 50 minutes. Remove from oven and stir in one tablespoon butter.
Next remove about one half of the polenta. Level the polenta left in the baking dish and layer away -- I added sauteed mushrooms, garlic, zucchini, spinach, and cheese. Carefully spread the remainder of the polenta back over the middle layer and return to the oven for 10 to 15 minutes till it is warm and bubbling and cooked through.
I had great intentions of serving this with some hearty tomato sauce spooned over it. But as I said, it was a big writing week. After many hours in front of the computer my visions of tomato sauce left me and were replaced with a big spoonful of sour cream and a smattering of crunchy salt and pepper.
And you know what? It was still good.

Farmer's Market: Last Saturday in January

2010-02-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things to do in San Francisco is to get to the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market very early on a Saturday morning. I like it best when the stalls are still being set up, the produce being moved in, and the vendors chatting and warming their cold hands with hot cups of coffee.

I don't get to do this very often -- the lure of a warm bed is often too much to ignore -- but last Saturday I was there, bright and early. There was no line at Blue Bottle Coffee and the aisles were clear enough to really wander.

I love California because the temperate weather makes for a colorful market. Buckets of tulips signaled spring was on the way, and the piles of persimmons and citrus glowing in the early morning sun? Beautiful.

I should have bought more produce -- I regretted it this afternoon as I dashed into the grocery store. But sometimes the market is so pretty I just like to look. I left with a small bag of the most delicious, candy sweet mandarins, and a belly stuffed with a huge blueberry scone. This was enough.

Chicken Piccata for Family

2010-01-28T05:32:00.000-08:00

For all of my adult life, friends have been my extended family. We meet for drinks and share birthdays and the occasional non-essential holidays. We share Sunday dinners and weeknight meals too. I call when I've made more soup than I can possibly eat. They call when their garden is overflowing.

It works.

But there's still nothing like family. And a loud and long Sunday family dinner? A small dose of perfection.

There was snow and cold and the occasional holiday light still twinkling in January. There was cheap, good French red wine drunk before five. Gooey warm artichoke dip. A petite caprese salad: small slices of tomato topped with a sliver of cheese and a small strip of basil. Big kids and little kids laughing together.

We set the big oval table with cloth napkins and colorful plates and squeezed in together. Ate crisp ceasar, and chicken piccata dripping with bright lemon sauce. Feeling gluttonous, I mopped the sauce with bread again and again. There was more wine poured and a tower of cupcakes for dessert.

It was one of those meals, and days, that seemed heartbreakingly short. This is how I will remember it:

Chicken Piccata
2 split (one whole) boneless, skinless chicken breasts
Salt and pepper
1/2 cup flour
1 large egg
1/2 tablespoon water
3/4 cup seasoned dry bread crumbs
good olive oil
3 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature, divided
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 2 lemons), lemon halves reserved
1/2 cup dry white wine
sliced lemon, and chopped fresh parsley leaves, for serving

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper.
Place each chicken breast between 2 sheets of parchment paper or plastic wrap and pound out to 1/4-inch thick. Sprinkle both sides with salt and pepper.
Mix the flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon of pepper in a shallow plate. In a second plate, beat the egg and 1/2 tablespoon of water together. Place the bread crumbs on a third plate. Dip each chicken breast first in the flour, shake off the excess, and then dip in the egg and bread crumb mixtures.
Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a large saute pan over medium to medium-low heat. Add the chicken breasts and cook for 2 minutes on each side, until browned. Place them on the sheet pan and allow them to bake for 5 to 10 minutes while you make the sauce.
For the sauce, wipe out the saute pan with a dry paper towel. Over medium heat, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter and then add the lemon juice, wine, the reserved lemon halves, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Boil over high heat until reduced in half, about 2 minutes. Off the heat, add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and swirl to combine. Discard the lemon halves and serve 1 chicken breast on each plate. Spoon on the sauce and serve with a slice of lemon and a sprinkling of fresh parsley.
Serves two, easily doubled (or more!)
Thank you, Ina

Farro with Broccoli, Walnuts & Golden Raisins

2010-01-24T18:47:00.000-08:00

I have been on a mad reading streak lately. Maybe it is because of the grey and rain and cold. Or perhaps it is the planes and the endless airport delays. Whatever the reason, I read like I am hungry, never getting enough. I finish a book, put it down, and pick up another. Each completed read brings a bizarre sense of accomplishment to this first quiet month of the new year.

Non- fiction is my favorite, and books about food and with recipes are particularly loved. There's just something about knowing what others eat to stay alive that makes life seem a little easier.

This recipe is a riff on one in I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti bu Guilia Mclucci. She made it with penne; I went for the slightly more virtuous farro. The nuttiness of the grain played well with the salty cheese and browned walnuts. I purposefully under cooked the broccoli so there was a healthy snap to pair with the sweet burst of the raisins, and the crackle of red pepper flakes and garlic meeting on the tongue.

It made for several nourishing meals, meals eaten perhaps too quickly. A fork in my right hand and my left fingers firmly pressing open the spine of a book; pages turning madly.

1 pound broccoli
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, chopped
pinch of hot red pepper flakes
1/2 cup raisins
salt
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1 cup farro
fresh parmesan

Wash broccoli and cut into florets. In a skillet large enough to old both cooked farro and broccoli, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add garlic and red pepper
When garlic is golden add broccoli, raisins, and salt. Saute for 15 to 20 minutes, adding some water if mix gets too dry. Meanwhile, toast walnuts in a small skillet for 5 to 6 minutes over medium heat.
Cook farro according to directions. Add cooked farrow to skillet with broccoli then add a splash of olive oil and walnuts.
To with large shreds of parmesan cheese.

Chi-Town

2010-01-20T07:50:00.000-08:00

Last night, while out with friends, I was asked about my weekend in Chicago. "Name your low, your high, and your high high," someone said.

My low was by far the combined eight hours I spent in SFO and O'Hare.
My high was seeing family and friends in an almost-new city -- I hadn't been to Chicago in almost ten years!
My high high? The hotel.

I am not the type of girl who cares very much about lodging. When I travel, I'm there to see what goes on outside the hotel front doors, so the interior doesn't matter much to me. I've stayed in many clean but spare quarters and done just fine.

But there is something to be said for modern, elegant, and completely over-the-top accommodations. And The Elysian was divine. We arrived in our room to find beds draped in white linens, a fireplace, and letter pressed memo cards for taking notes -- least you forget something.

The concierge -- how I loved the concierge-- had delivered a welcoming spread fit for a foodie queen: bubbly, a charcuterie plate, and five perfect macarrons. Pop! went the bubbles and the weekend began.

We ate that night at Balsan, the hotel bistro. It felt oh-so big city, even though our meals (salads, tarte flambe, and a burger) leaned more towards down home comfort food.

The next day we lounged in our room and ate hotel delivered breakfast before enjoying a noontime snack at the Signature Lounge on the 95th floor of the John Hancock tower. The view wasn't clear, but if you were brave enough to creep to the edge, you could see Lake Michigan, a crowd of buildings, and tiny yellow taxis darting back and forth.

That night I dinner hopped: I went with family to Gemini Bistro. The wine list was super and I was thrilled to find a bottle of 2007 Brooks Willamette Valley Pinot Noir for the table. I tried not to look at the menu because I was saving myself for my second meal, but the food that arrived looked great and the few duck fat fries I had were crispy, fatty, salty, and delicious. A perfect appetizer.

Next, I hopped in a cab and went to Nightwood. This little restaurant was bustling; it reminded me of bohemian Portland and the spots I used to haunt when I lived there. We had a lovely series of small plates paired with a Rhone red. First there was broccoli rabe with golden raisins, pine nuts and anchovies; next came beets and citrus with burrata, and raviolis stuffed with shredded pork. For dessert there was a crispy buttery sweet-tart rhubarb turnover with a cloud of whipped cream and a few floating strawberries.

Sunday brought simple breakfast, family dinner, and a nightcap at Bernard's Bar in the hotel. Would you hate me if I told you I ordered the 1989 armagnac and when they were out, they gave me a glass of the 1959? It was nutty and caramel laced and fragrant -- a completely heady way to end my last night.

I'm realizing I should have taken photos but sometimes the moments are too good to distract with cameras. I just wanted to dig in.

When the oven is broken, how do you cook?

2010-01-19T15:14:00.001-08:00

This little sign has been posted on the oven for almost two weeks now; the oven has been broken since before Christmas! A new one is coming soon, but after a wine soaked, fat filled weekend I am tired of eating, longing for roasted veggies, and seem to have completely lost the urge to cook.

So, what would you make if you didn't have an oven? The stove top is a-ok, and I've got a microwave and a toaster oven too. Seems the only thing I am missing is inspiration.

Send help soon, please.

Agrodolce: Sweet & Sour Chicken

2010-01-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

I am headed to Chicago tomorrow to visit aunts, uncles, and cousins -- oh my! And there's a dinner with a dear friend in there too. We'll dress up and taxi to a low lit restaurant and I might just have a sassy cocktail and a glass of wine too. Can a weekend get much better?

The anticipation makes me think about what I love most about gathering together with family and friends: long meals together, too much food and drink, laughter and conversation.

I was reminded of a meal my Mom and I made on one of the last nights of 2009. It was a recipe from Insalata's Mediterranean Table, the cookbook I'd given her for Christmas. The ingredient list is quite long, but the actually execution is easy, and the final result is divine. Is there really anything better than a chicken thigh, robed in sweet and tangy juice on top of a pool of polenta? I think not.

We ate this meal on the eve of New Year's Eve alongside a green salad and a crisp bottle of champagne. Then we popped in the car amidst a swirling snow storm and headed to the movies. When we exited the theater I remember looking up into the sky and watching the snowflakes fall slowly all around me. I felt like I was in my own private snow globe -- a magical place to be.

Cheers to long weekends, snow and cold, food and drink, and memory making. Enjoy!

Agrodolce
12 chicken thighs
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 and 1/2 cups minced yellow onion
1 and 1/2 cups minced celery
1 and 1/2 teaspoons minced garlic
1 and 1/2 cups dry white wine
4 teaspoons cider vinegar
4 teaspoons sherry vinegar
3 cups chicken stock
1/3 cup golden raisins
3 tablespoons honey
1 and 1/2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 and 1/2 tablespoons capers
2 to 3 tablespoons kosher salt
3/4 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1/8 teaspoon red chili flakes
3 bay leaves
3 sprigs thyme
1 and 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 and 1/2 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley
1 and 1/2 tablespoons chopped oregano
Polenta for serving

Generously sprinkle the chicken thighs with salt and pepper. In a large saute pan, heat the oils over medium-high heat. Working in batches, taking care not to over crowd the pan, brown the chicken on all sides. Remove the thighs from the pan and set aside. Drain off all but 3 tablespoons of the oil. Add onion, celery, and garlic; cook, stirring, until the onion is translucent, about 4 minutes. Add the white wine, cider, and sherry vinegars; cook, scraping up the darkened bits from the bottom of the pan, until the liquid is reduced by half. Stir in the stock, raisins, honey, tomato paste, capers, salt, pepper, red chile flakes, bay leaves, and thyme. Return chicken to the pan and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer until the chicken is cooked through, about 20 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Transfer the chicken to a platter; set aside. Whisk in the butter, chopped parsley, and oregano; pour over the chicken. Serve immediately over polenta.
From Insalata's Mediterranean Table Cookbook

Galette du Rois

2010-01-11T16:12:00.000-08:00

I went to the most fabulous party last night that ended, rather triumphantly, with me being crowned Queen for the day.

The fete was truly the last of the holiday season. Yes, the trees and lights are down, but according to the religious calendar there is still something left to celebrate: the arrival of the Three Kings. Epiphany is celebrated on the first Sunday after the first Saturday of the new year and honors the arrival of the three kings at baby Jesus' crib side.

The traditional French King's Cake is buttery golden, flaky and rich, and layered with almond paste. Embedded in one slice is a feve -- a tiny ceramic religious figurine. Whoever finds it is declared King (or Queen) for the day.

But there's more. Traditionally, the youngest child hides under the dining table while an adult cuts the cake. The child calls out who gets the next slice, and after all have a piece of cake, eating and feve finding commences.

But at this party the youngest (4.5 months) was unable to complete the task. So that left me -- me!-- the 32 year old baby of the group to crawl under the table and aid in the delivery of buttery galette slices.

Imagine my surprise when the feve was mine too. The only trouble was that the day was mostly done and this Queen didn't have much to dictate. Still, I'm hoping that the mere presence of my golden crown and my teeny tiny Virgin Mary feve signals hope and riches today and beyond.

Will Eat for Words

2010-01-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

This is not meant to be one of those dreamy breakfast shots, the likes of which are posted on one of my favorite morning blogs, Simply Breakfast. This is a down and dirty action shot: granola, milk, frozen blueberries. Black coffee. A post-it that proclaims Chapter 11. Highlighters and pencils and yellow legal pads. The writer's life.... The writer's breakfast.

After a very productive writing week, I got to the end of it woefully under prepared to face the weekend. The fridge boasts some once exciting, now soggy leftovers. There is nothing else in there worth mentioning. And to make matters worse -- there are no recipes that I lovingly hand culled during the week that are just waiting to be made over this two day stretch.

This morning I'll start not with breakfast, but with brunch. I'll flip through a small stack of glossy food magazines and make a list. I'll go to the store, and hopefully soon I'll have next week's leftover's brewing -- a prefect hearty concoction to keep me writing devotedly for the next few days.

My Brother's Paella: The Recipe

2010-01-06T11:19:00.000-08:00

Here it is -- my brother's recipe for paella. He notes that he is "comfortable calling this my paella recipe as long as people know that there is liberal interpretation necessary in the creation of good paella." He also notes that he lived in Spain for almost nine months. I think this makes him kind of an expert.

This paella is named after his host mother, Maria, and is based on the recipe she taught him in her small kitchen in Malaga, Spain.

Maria's Paella
6 chicken thighs (or one for each person - whichever you've got)
one pound uncooked chorizo sausage, sliced into 1/4" rounds
12-15 large prawns (raw)
12-15 mussels, clams or other mollusk
1/2 pound calamari (cones preferred)
one medium yellow onion
~ 2 cups frozen green peas
one whole roasted red pepper
one cup green olives (cocktail olives will do too)
3 cups arborio rice
41/2 cups chicken stock
1 cup fish stock or clam juice
one teaspoon saffron, crushed
3 cloves garlic
palmful of fresh thyme
pimentón (smoked paprika)
big palmful of fresh rosemary (fresh)
one bay leaf
one tablespoon Tabasco or other hot sauce (use less or more to taste)
copious amounts of Spanish olive oil
splash of wine - red or white is fine.

To make:
*a quick note on paella pans: deeper, dutch oven style pans make better paella. Many people think that the large flat pans that they see in photos and restaurants of Spain are necessary or best. Not true. Real Spanish cooks use deep dish.

1. Season the chicken by putting fresh rosemary, thyme, and olive oil underneath the skin and then top with salt and pepper. Set aside.
2. Brown the chorizo in a large pot (le creuset, dutch oven, or paella pan) so that its oils release. Remove and set aside.
3. Brown the chicken thighs in the oil from the chorizo. Remove and set aside.
4. Dice the onion and brown it in the oils from the chorizo and chicken, adding 2 cloves garlic after ~ 10 minutes (be sure not to burn the garlic!!). Add a splash of wine to onions and de-glaze the pan a bit. No more than 1/2 cup should be necessary.
5. Add the dry rice to this mixture and allow it to permeate into the rice - brown 5 minutes, taking care not to burn the rice
6. Cover the rice with the combination of fish and chicken stock
7. Add fresh rosemary, thyme, saffron, bay leaf, pimentón, salt, and pepper, and tabasco
8. Once boil is established, place the chorizo in the mix and give it a stir to distribute it in the rice. Do the same for the mostly cooked chicken thighs, instead placing them in a ring around the pot with at least 1 inch distance from the side of the pan. Make sure they are well immersed in the rice, and covered by the liquid.
9. Let cook undisturbed for about 1.5 hours. Cook on the stovetop and not in the oven. This will allow a wonderful crust to form at the bottom of the pan.
10. once the rice is cooked (be sure to take a little taste here and check for seasoning too), leave the pot on the heat source to let a crust form around the bottom of the pan (best part). Add the frozen peas, roasted peppers, olives, prawns, calamari rings, and mussels. For the prawns and red pepper, form a spiral or spoke design from the middle of the pan. Add the calamari in good distribution by sticking the rings about 1/2" into the rice. Place the mussels hinge side up with good distribution. Add a quick glaze of Spanish olive oil across the top of everything, cover the pot, and let the seafood steam 5-10 minutes. Take care to make sure all seafood is cooked or opened (but not rubbery). Also take care not to burn the rice here (crust is good, burned is bad). Reduce or remove heat if needed.
11. Dig in. Add olive oil on top if you like.

Yes, it is a long and time consuming recipe. But is there anything better to do than cook during one of the first weeks of January?