The Perils of Cooking in a New Apartment

After months of travelling and cooking and eating and imposing on the hospitality (and couches, air mattresses and guest rooms) of family, friends and acquaintances, I have found a little place to make my own--at least for a little while.

I should say the place found me. While indulging my culinary wanderlust, I found myself returning to one city in particular with a frequency that perplexed me. I figured I should probably stay put for a while and see what happened next. Just a few days after I made up my mind to look into finding a place, this one literally plopped itself in my lap: a furnished, one bedroom apartment with a semi-private garden and a month-to-month lease in walking distance of some of the best restaurants in the city.

Three weeks later, I moved in.

It has been a while since I've lived alone, and in general I don't care for it. Living alone just seems to me to be a collossal waste of resources: space, utilities, companionship. But worst of all is having no one to cook for, and a regularly scheduled dinner table for one. It never bothers me to dine out alone; but at home, one should never be required to eat alone.

On moving day I planned a very simple dinner. After the requisite meeting with the landlord, signing of papers, walking through the apartment, and unpacking my suitcase, it was late and I was hungry. I had a bag of groceries from Trader Joe's, and a plan.

The kitchen is sufficent with a gas range and poorly thought but abundant cabinet space. There was a set of cast iron skillets, cutlery, utensils, a toaster oven and coffee maker. Luckily, I'd brought with me a stock pot (yes, I travel with certain kitchen items) and set to work making a lentil soup.

I started by sauteing some onions in olive oil.

Less than a minute passed before the smoke detector went off.

Perterbed, I hastily found a chair to stand on and removed the smoke detector from the wall, then removed its battery. I opened a cabinet, placed both on the shelf, closed the cabinet and returned to my onions (slightly more brown than I had wanted them, so I quickly deglazed with some beef broth). While I appreciate that the law requires a landlord to provide a working smoke alarm, I do wonder why one is placed three feet from a stove. In the kitchen. Especially when another one is twelve feet away in the living room. I'm contemplating a smoke detector relocation program, perhaps to the bedroom.

I finished cooking the soup and ate it with a nice crusty bread.

Hours later I was still awake. I was not yet accustomed to the sounds of this new place, and my mind was full of all the possibilities of things to eat in the coming days and weeks. And, as E.B. White put it so well, "when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's hard to fall asleep."

At two o'clock in the morning, I acquiesced. It was time for toast.

I hadn't tried the toaster oven yet, and it occurred to me only when the unit started smoking that two o'clock in the morning might not be the best time.

I quickly unplugged the toaster oven and rushed it out the back door into the semi-private garden, leaving a plume of smoke behind me.

It was then that I realized the fan in the kitchen vent didn't work. And that the smoke remaining in the apartment could very easily reach the smoke detector in the living room. I grabbed a dish towel and started fanning furiously. It also occurred to me that the smoke alarm in the living room appeared to be attached to a central alarm system. I was suddenly very awake, and not at all hungry.

After twenty minutes of jumping around the apartment doing my anti-fire dance, I found myself wide awake and not at all hungry (although I did end up eating the toast with a generous slathing of good butter and some strawberry jam). The air had cleared and the alarm had not sounded. I tucked myself back into bed and decided it would be better to meet the neighbors under more auspicious circumstances than a false fire alarm in the middle of the night. Perhaps I could bake a cake. Or make another pot of soup.

Moving Day Lentil Soup
Ingredients (all from Trader Joe's)

1 large yellow onion, sliced
3 tbsp Olive Oil
3-4 sprigs fresh thyme
3 links italian sausage (fully cooked, in deli section), sliced
1 pkg steamed french lentils (in produce section)
4 cups organic beef broth
1"x2" rind of hard cheese such as parmesan
salt and pepper to taste

1. Remove battery from smoke alarm.
2. Saute onions in olive oil over medium high heat until onions begin to brown, 2-3 minutes.
3. Deglaze with about 3 tablespoons of beef broth.
4. Add thyme and sausage, then cover reduce heat to medium. Cook until thyme becomes aromatic (3-5 minutes).
5. Add lentils and beef broth and bring to a boil.
6. Reduce heat to simmer and add cheese rind. Cover and continue to simmer about 20 minutes.
7. Correct seasoning, and remove thyme stems and cheese rind. Serve hot with crusty bread.


P.S. The next morning I thoroughly cleaned the toaster oven. It works just fine.

Thanksgiving--The Basics

I've never met an American over the age of eight who didn't have a specific Thanksgiving Dinner food memory.

Thanksgiving may be the ultimate "comfort food meal." Certain dishes are iconic--roasted Turkey (yes, with a capital "T"), cranberry sauce, stuffing, pumpkin pie. And while variations and "twists" on the classics abound, the classics remain classics for a reason--they are time tested, taste tested, and well loved.

This year, many friends and family members are on tight budgets, pairing down extravagances, and returning to the simple, classic Thanksgiving Dinner. There is an extra dose of comfort in what is most familiar. For those of you who have asked, I offer you these recipes straight out of my own childhood (minus the candied yam casserole topped with marshmallows--a dish I hope will be permanently retired from the menu). Just the basics.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy your holiday.

Roasted Turkey

The turkey is the star of Thanksgiving Dinner. Keep it simple with a whole roasted bird. Use a fresh bird if you can, or make sure a frozen bird is thawed completely by cooking time. Prepare the bird by rinsing it and patting it dry. Lift the skin of the breast and smear with softened butter. Salt the bird inside and out. As for how to cook the bird, roast according to your regularly scheduled method, follow the directions on the package, or from your butcher, or call the Butterball hotline.

Gravy

I'm not a big fan of gravy, but I do enjoy making it. Grandma made the gravy last, with the pan drippings while the turkey was resting after cooking. She would pour off about 2 cups of the liquid and let it separate in a large glass measuring cup.

Ingredients:

Pan drippings (the oily parts)

Pan juices (the liquidy parts without the oil)

8 oz sliced mushrooms

1/2 diced yellow onion

2 tbsp flour

water or stock, if desired

Method:

1. In a medium saucepan, saute mushrooms and onions in turkey pan drippings until soft.

2. Sprinkle with flour. Stir and continue cooking for one minute.

3. Whisk in pan juices (1-2 cups as desired) and raise heat. Bring to a boil, then simmer until thickened. Thin with water or stock if desired. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Stuffing

I prefer my bird unstuffed, and make the stuffing on the side like my grandma did (which is technically called "dressing"). Grandma also grew her own sage, which she used liberally in this dish.

Ingredients:

2 loaves sliced bread (white or wheat, whichever you prefer), dried in oven

3 tbsp bacon drippings (or olive oil)

2 yellow onions, chopped

4-6 ribs celery, chopped

1/2 cup chopped fresh sage leaves

2-3 sprigs fresh thyme leaves

3-4 cups chicken stock

1/2 cup butter, melted

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1 cup raisins, plumped
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional, but I always opt)
salt and pepper, as needed

Method
1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease a 9" x 13" casserole dish.
2. Break or slice bread into small pieces. Set aside in a large mixing bowl or stock pot.
3. In a large pan, saute onions and celery in bacon drippings or olive oil until soft. Add sage and thyme and saute another minute until aromatic.
4. Add melted butter and 1 cup stock. Cook another minute, then remove the thyme stems, plucking any hanging leaves and returning them to the pan.
5. Pour onion mixture over bread mixture and toss to combine.
6. Add egg, raisins and nuts and mix well. Add just enough more stock to moisten the bread, but not so much that it gets soggy or mushy. Toss well to mix.
7. Place into prepared casserole dish. Bake, uncovered, in preheated oven for 45-60 minutes until sides are nicely browned and crisp.

Brussel Sprouts with Sweet Onions

Brussel sprouts were my dad's favorite vegetable, and these have a dressing similar to hot german potato salad. I like to use rice wine vinegar, although I think plain white or apple cider vinegar is more traditional. These are prepared on the stovetop, so they don't have to compete with the turkey and stuffing for oven time.

Ingredients:

1 pound small brussel sprouts

3 tbsp bacon drippings (or butter or olive oil)

1 sweet onion (red or white), chipped

1 tbsp sugar

3 tbsp vinegar (white, apple cider, or rice wine)

Method:

1. Clean brussel sprouts and slice in half through the base, leaving the base intact so the sprouts don't fall apart.
2. Steam brussels in a large steamer basket until tender but still crisp, about 7-8 minutes (longer for bigger sprouts). Remove from steamer.
3. In a large saute pan, cook onions in bacon drippings (or butter or oil) over medium high heat until translucent (about 3-5 minutes).
4. Add sugar and cook until onions begin to caramelize.
5. Deglaze with vinegar. Add brussel sprouts to pan and toss to coat. Serve hot.

Cranberry Orange Relish

This uncooked cranberry orange relish is best made a day ahead. It is delicious on turkey sandwiches, too. You will need a food processor or blender for this recipe.

Ingredients:

1 bag (12 oz) fresh cranberries

1 whole navel orange (with peel), cut into 8 slices

1 cup white sugar

Method:

1. Place all ingredients in a food processor.

2. Pulse/blend until evenly chopped, which may take several minutes.

3. Taste, and add a little more sugar if too tart, or a squeeze of lemon juice if too sweet.

4. Store in refrigerator. Serve chilled.

Pumpkin Pie

One secret to good pumpkin pie is getting good pumpkin. Use canned organic pumpkin if you can find it.

The other secret is the crust. My grandma taught me how to make wonderful rolled pie crusts with butter and flour, but it is impossible to pass along the method without showing it to you in person. So much of working with dough is how it feels. And a miserable pie crust simply ruins a pie, especially if it is a simple but special pie such as this one. A gingersnap crust is delicious with this pie, and practically fool proof. Pie can be made the day before serving, and should come out of the oven at least four hours before serving.

Crust:

2 cups crushed gingersnaps

1/4 cup melted butter

Combine and press into a 9" deep dish pie pan, or a 9" spring form pan. Set aside.

Pie filling:

4 oz softened cream cheese

3 tbsp butter, softened

1 cup sugar

1 can (15 oz) canned pumpkin

1 egg

1/2 cup half and half

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp fresh grated ginger (optional, but I like to opt)

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.

2. Beat together cream cheese, butter and sugar until well combined.

3. Add pumpkin and beat well to combine. Add remaining ingredients, beating well to combine.

4. Pour filling into crust-prepared pan.

5. Bake for 50-60 minutes until center is set.

6. Cool completely to room temperature. Serve with copious amounts of whipped cream.

Oh Food Trucks, Where Art Thou?

I remember a time when Momofuku was just a hole in the wall--in its early days, when one could walk in and take a seat at the counter, enjoy a plate of savory pork buns and linger over a bowl of brothy noodles before returing, full and happy, to the cacophany of First Avenue. It was conveniently located (literally) around the corner from my apartment. I ate there almost daily for a few of months.

I also remember the day I walked in the door and saw Mario Batali and company seated prominently by the front window with what looked like every item on the menu splayed out before him. He was showy and boisterous and enjoying the audience that could not keep their attention away from the spectacle in bright orange Crocs. The fairy tale that was my perfect neighborhood restaurant had come to an end.

And indeed, the very next week I had to wait for a seat. I was glad for David Chang's success, but so sad that my experience of this "good thing" had come to an end.

It occured to me then that perhaps if it had been harder to find, or if it had taken more effort for the "outsiders" to enjoy the wonders of Momofuku, that my little Eden would not have been so fleeting.

Enter the Food Truck. My father called one a "Roach Coach" when I was a child, so I eschewed them into my early adulthood.

That was before I worked in the industry. Before the Vendy Awards. Before Twitter.

Consider this article from the New York Times Dining Section this past week. There is some work involved on the part of the eater to actually locate these vendors. And once you find the food, you must be willing to eat it standing up, or squatting on a sidewalk, or possibly leaning against a building. You may need to wait in the rain. Or the sweltering heat. This is not food you eat to "be seen," (yes, Mario, I'm referring to you), but food to eat because it is GOOD. The food itself is (literally) fleeting. One must pursue it.

And just because you find it once does not guarantee that it will return to the place where you left it.

Does the chase make the food taste better? Perhaps to some. But for me, good food is worth the effort, especially if it keeps the party crashers at bay.


P.S. If you happen to be in New York this weekend, the 2009 Vendy Awards are this Saturday, September 26 at Queens Museum of Art.

Do You Have Any Carrots?

A few weeks ago I was spending some time with a good friend and her family. She was revving up to return to her job as a high school teacher after a year off for maternity leave. I offered to do the menu planning, grocery shopping and cooking for the week.

While throwing together a pasta salad, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to buy a few things. So I asked my friend, "do you have any carrots?"

We rifled through the produce drawer to no avail.

"I wish I'd bought a bell pepper," I muttered under my breath.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I have those in my garden!"

Earlier in the summer, she had planted a little vegetable garden, but had neglected for several weeks as she geared up for the new school year.

Without another word we slipped out the kitchen door and into her backyard.

Although the weeds had crept in and a few of the plants had gone to seed, she did indeed have a gorgeous yellow bell pepper that was picked immediately. A few sprigs of curly parsley were plucked, too.

And there were carrots, waiting politely in a row, their bushy green locks waving at us gently as if to say, "I'm still here! Pick me! Pick me!"

The one we picked gave a fight, clinging firmly to the ground. It took more than a minute of wiggling and coaxing to free it from the soil. But when it yielded, we saw why--it as split into three roots no more than two inches below its head. It looked vaguely like a molar, extracted whole. We laughed at how silly it looked, then paused for a moment, almost in wonder, at how things grow.

Returning to the kitchen, I decided not to add it to the pasta salad. A freshly picked carrot is so much sweeter than one you would buy at a grocery store. We sliced the carrot and nibbled on it.

"This is the best carrot I've ever tasted," she commented. I agreed.

Just a Little Chocolate

Some days, you just need a little chocolate.

When I have those days, what I crave is chocolate cake. Good, dense, chocolate cake.

The problem is, I usually don't want a huge slice of cake, just a few mouthfuls. Enough to satisfy my craving.

To further complicate the issue, I don't want frosting. I don't want spongy cake. I don't want a cake from a box mix. I don't want a cookie.

What I want are these dense chocolate mini-cakes. They are small enough to fit into your mouth, but taking them in two bites extends the chocolately goodness.

The ingredients are simple, and if you keep your kitchen stocked to be ready to bake, you probably have everything you need to make these in the house right now.

This recipes makes enough to share (if you are so inclined). The batter freezes nicely, in case you want to bake a fresh batch now and another one later. They are perfect to take to a potluck, or to wrap as a hostess gift, or to offer to guests with tea or coffee.

Two Bite Chocolate Mini-Cakes



Ingredients:

100 grams (about 3/4 cup) All Purpose Flour

1 cup cocoa powder (not dutch processed)

1/2 tsp salt (non-iodized)

12 oz (3 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled

3 large eggs

1 cup sugar

6 oz semi-sweet mini chocolate chips



Method:



1) Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Grease and flour a non-stick mini-muffin pan.



2) Sift together flour, cocoa powder and salt. Set aside.



3) In a large bowl, beat eggs on medium speed. Slowly stream in sugar and continue to beat until mixture thickens and is pale in color.



4) Add about half of the dry mixture and half of the melted butter. Mix on low speed to combine. Add remaining dry mix ture and melted butter and continue mixing on low to combine. Stir in mini-chocolate chips.



5) Spoon batter into mini-muffin pans. (Batter will not expand much, so fill almost to the top).



6) Bake in pre-heated 325 degree F oven for 15-20 minutes until top of cakes is just set. (The toothpick test will not work because the mini-chocolate chips will be melted.)



7) Remove from oven and let cool 5-10 minutes. Remove cakes from pan and let cool on a rack.



Makes 36 mini cakes.

Scuppernog

Some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten have been in the American South.

Many regional culinary specialties come to mind when I think of Georgia--boiled peanuts, summer peaches, biscuits and gravy.

I never fail to marvel at the bounty of regional produce at the Farmers Markets there during the summertime. Tomatoes and watermelon and honey. Okra and cucumbers and fresh chicken eggs. The colors are so beautiful, the fragrances so luscious in the warm, humid air and soft morning light.

I love that people in the South are so polite. Last week, I spied some beautiful figs on the back table of one vendor. There were precious few baskets of them, and I had decided that one of them was to be mine. The farmer was attending to an elderly gentleman who was hard of hearing and selecting some tomatoes. They chatted cordially while he selected a dozen or so from the heirloom varieties. The vendor was comfortably unhurried, offering to package up the tomatoes in several smaller boxes to keep them from being crushed when the man carried them home.

Quite a small crowd had gathered around the farm stand during their transaction. The farmer had a choice selection of produce. My Yankee instincts threatened to kick in--to step forward, to start elbowing the newcomers, to throw around some money and threatening glances and challenge the crowd for the alpha stance.

Silly, silly Northerner.

No one rushed. No one pushed. No one tapped a foot or sighed impatiently.

And when the farmer was finished attending to the gentleman with the tomatoes, he helped him load the little boxes into his basket and bid him a good day.

When he looked up at the small crowd, I felt sheepish. I felt a bit like an outsider, like I stuck out, like I should let someone go ahead of me and observe the interaction for context clues.

After a few moments of speechless but courteous smiles were exchanged, I heard a voice beside me.

“I believe the young lady is next.”

I claimed my bag of figs, trying my best to savor the moment of chatting with the farmer and not to rush. I didn’t feel guilty for enjoying the lilting cadence of this interlude. This is what life in the South is supposed to be like. And when in Rome….

A line from an Indigo Girls song comes to mind: “When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasing.”

As I continued through the market, eating the figs out of hand, I stopped short at a vendor with baskets of peaches, cucumbers and some small, round things that I could not identify. They were about the size of cherry tomatoes, but had stubby, woody stems on them that made me think of cherries with closely trimmed stems. Their skins were tight, also like a cherry tomato, but they were greenish bronze and speckled with brown. After a few moments of contemplating them, I had to ask, “what are those?”

I had forgotten my manners. The farmer reminded me with his courteous greeting and answer.
“Good morning, ma’am. These here are scuppernogs. Those figs sure look delicious.”
I backtracked, wished him a good morning, and got back to the matter at hand.

“Scupperknob?” I asked.

“Scuppernog,” he corrected. “Sometimes called a muscadine. They are like big grapes.”

I had to have some.

With money in my hand, I was about to ask him for a basket, rushing the moment again. “Would you like to taste one?” he asked, unhurriedly, like he had all the time in the world. He held one out to me.

I held it close to my nose--it smelled like Fruit Loops. I gently squeezed the tight skin, and it yielded only gently, like a plump cabernet grape still on the vine. I put the whole thing in my mouth and held it between my left molars, cradling it with my tongue and my cheek as I gently bit down. The skin popped with a sweet juiciness, the thick, firm skin yielding to the softer flesh inside. For a brief moment it tasted like grape soda. I chewed gently; the tart, musky flavor of the skin balanced the sweetness of the fruit. Inside, a found a smaller slippery orb, more dense than the flesh closest to the skin--the source of the sweetness. At the very center was a small seed, like you would expect in a grape. I bit it gently and it crunched, still green. I found it bitter, but a surprising and unexpected finish.

I repeated the name to myself several times so I wouldn’t forget it. I wanted to look them up when I got home.

Scuppernog. Scuppernog. Scuppernog.

It sounded like a magical incantation.

But like many wonderful Southern foods, there isn't a lot of reliable information available on the internet for the Scuppernog, although a Google search led me to other names for the fruit including scuppernong, suscadine, and scuppydine.

And now that I've had a first hand experience with scuppernogs, I am finding reference to them everywhere--books like To Kill A Mockingbird and The Secret Life of Bees, recipes for jelly and salsa, and it is the official state fruit of North Carolina.

Perhaps I'll need to do some research of my own to learn more about this lovely fruit, which means going back to the Farmers Market, and getting more scuppernogs.

Eavesdropping on Nora and Maureen

Have you ever eaten a bowl of cold cereal over the kitchen sink in the middle of the night? The perfect reading material for such a private indulgence may be this article.

Thank You, Houston, You Were Delicious

Let me start by saying this: I love barbecue. And barbeque. And BBQ. Anyway you spell it, I like it. I don't know that I've had barbecue that I didn't like. But I usually refrain from initiating discussions about barbecue. Many, many people have strong feelings on the topic--the definition, the process, what is "authentic," what is "best," with subtopics of type of meat, cut of meat, preparation of meat, seasoning of meat, heat source, length of cooking, type of sauce, when to sauce, sauce or no sauce, etc. I'm not saying they aren't valid and valuable discussions, I'm just saying I'd rather eat.

While staying in downtown Houston over the weekend, I was presented with the challenge of where to eat lunch on a Saturday. The hotel in which I was staying did not serve lunch in their restaurant (although room service was available). I was honestly surprised that so many restaurants in the immediate area were closed for lunch. I went to the concierge.

The hotel was rather hip and swank, so I was not surprised to find a young man barely over the legal drinking age behind the concierge desk. I was surprised that he had to wrack his brain to come up with lunch options.

"All of the steak houses are closed for lunch," he reported, obviously scanning his memory of recommendations he was trained to be expected to give to the upscale clientele of the hotel. I threw him a bone.

"Where do you like to eat around here," I asked. "If you went out of town for a while, what would you miss eating here in Houston?"

A slow mile spread across his face, and he looked around sheepishly, almost embarrassed to say in front of another hotel employee. I raised my eyebrows expectantly and leaned forward to encourage him. His answer was just above a whisper.

"Pappas Bar-B-Q." His smile was almost devilish.

"Perfect," I replied. "How do I get there?"

He grabbed the keys to the hotel shuttle. "It's not far," he replied, still looking around to see if anyone was listening. "I'll take you there."

I walked in and couldn't help but smile. This was exactly what I was looking for. The menu, posted on the wall, boasted a variety of meats: beef, chopped beef, pork, pork loin, spicy pork, chopped pork, half a chicken, assorted chicken parts, pork ribs, beef ribs, turkey, ham, sausage--I swooned. "Vegetable sides" included spicy rice, potato salad, lima beans, ranch beans, yams, coleslaw, macaroni salad, and cucumber salad. Everything was served with a thick slice of white bread (have you heard of Texas Toast? Yes, everything IS bigger in Texas). The "regular" soda was about 32 ounces.

I had to try several things, so I got a sampling of the beef brisket, pork loin, and pork spare ribs (my favorite), with extra sauce on the side. The sauce was tomato based, heavy on the molassas, generously seasoned with cloves. Just past the cash register was a cold bar stocked with sliced onions, diced onions, pickles, jalepenos and other peppers, sliced tomatoes, salsa, hot sauce and other Texas acoutrements.

I won't try to explain the flavors of the meat, or the textures, or even share too much of my opinion of the barbecue. I'll just say that I sure did enjoy it, and that it was exactly what I wanted for lunch that day.

Sometimes the best meals are like that--not planned, not expensive, not Frank Bruni's favorite four star restaurant. Sometimes the best meals are the ones that are time and place specific, that do not translate to ratings scales or when taken out of context. Sometimes the best meals are like a clandestine tryst: the memories are not meant to be shared, but savored, privately, in anticipation of the next rendezvous.

So thank you, Houston. You were delicious. Until we meat again....

Tempting Fête

Bastille Day in Yountville is a treat. In years past I have particularly enjoyed the celebrations at Bouchon. The small parking lot adjacent to the bistro becomes a lively party, with live music and dancing, food and family and friends. The courtyard between the bistro and the bakery is filled with kid-friendly activities in the early afternoon--face painting and games. I see people I never see except at Bastille Day. It is lovely.

Each year there is a t-shirt with a clever theme. This year's is "Tempting Fête."

A "fête" is a lively party. Perhaps even a tempting one. And there's the play on "tempting fate." Nicely done.

But this year's celebration was a bit of a disappointment. The food was lackluster. There were some whole roasted pigs that tasted rather bland, and it was distressing to see flies swarming around the cheesecloth-draped pig head while a cook tried to quickly carve off some meat. The crepes were pre-made, warmed on a griddle and filled to order, but lacked the delicious freshness factor from years past. Even the grilled sausages tasted more like a brat from a weekend grill-out with friends.

The crowds were small, perhaps due to the heat (it was in the 90's until the sun went down), perhaps due to the economy. The less than bustling fête seemed a little sad.

Talking to a few of the locals, I heard comments about the lack of continuity in the celebration. It is the nature of the restaurant industry that there is near constant turn over. How is it possible to continue a tradition when those in charge of continuing it have not experienced it themselves? And in such a little town as Yountville (population around 3,000), the change is noticable. "Remember Randy? And Alysa? And Tiny?" one asked. "Remember the Nutter Butters (before they changed the recipe), and the CB&J sandwiches?" Yes, I do.

There was also sad talk of the fine balance of wanting success for a good chef and restaurant, and the tipping point of losing one's identity and control of quality. It is not a unique discussion. But it is timely right now for Yountville. It seems there's a lot of tempting fate.

Cafe Firenze in Moorpark, California

Moorpark California is not known as a culinary Mecca. Thirty years ago it was orange groves and horse ranches. In 1983 it was incorporated as a city. In 1992, the original Wood Ranch BBQ opened (and it's still there today). Moorpark College has one of the few Exotic Animal Training and Management programs in the United States. Moorpark also boast an annual "Third of July Fireworks Extravaganza."

It's one of those little cities that has enjoyed a sleepy little existence.

Until Season Five of Top Chef.

Top Chef is a reality TV cooking competition on the Bravo Network. In Season Five, Fabio Viviani was one of the contestants. While he did not win the competition, he was voted the "Fan Favorite."

He is the chef and owner of Cafe Firenze in little ole Moorpark, California.

Fabio made a comment that was aired (on two episodes) about his confidence in being able to serve anything, including the hind quarter of a certain exotic animal. It's nice to see he still has a sense of humor about one of his most quoted comments from the show.

For most Italians, Sunday means a big family dinner. And for my family, it means Pasta will be served. Last Sunday, while visiting my Italian Momas, our dinner plans led us to Cafe Firenze in Moorpark.

Momas had been there before and had really enjoyed her meal. "And," she added, "all of the pasta is freshly made in house." There is no refuting the Momas.

I was surprised to find that the restaurant was located in a strip mall with an Albertson's grocery store and a three screen movie theatre. Right next door, in the same building, is a Baskin Robbins.

But as we entered the restaurant, I was taken in by the frangrances of pungent garlic, fresh basil, and rich olive oil. We took our seats at the end of a counter facing into the open kitchen. A young woman worked the saute station in front of us. The first thing I noticed was that her chef jacket was patched in two places with fabric covered with a musical score.

The second thing I noticed were the hotel pans stocked with dried pasta. The kind you buy at the grocery store, not looking the least bit house made.

So I asked the server. "Yes," she replied, "most of our pasta is made in house: the lasagna...the ravioli..." It seemed she was flustered by the question and fumbling for the answer.

"Perhaps you can just tell me what pastas are not made in house," I offered.

"The spaghetti, fettucini, linguini and angel hair."

"Ah," I replied. The Momas furrowed her brow.

While many of the pasta dishes sounded lovely, we eschewed them for want of avoiding a mediocre pasta dinner. In a way it gave us license to try some more adventurous things.

Momas ordered the Green Apple Vichyssoise, which turned out to be served hot. It was quite delicious, served with small cubes of pork as garnish. I started with the Baby Octopus served in a spicy tomato stew, garnished with a parmesan toast point. It was so tender they must have beaten it senseless before cooking it.

For entrees Momas ordered the beef special, a seared loin served over sauteed baby spinach and truffle mashed potatoes--pedestrian but satisfying. I ordered the wild mushroom risotto with house made sausage--a dish so rich and hearty I could finish less than half of the portion. I was surprised that such unseasonal dishes were executed so well, but that's what you get in California. The growing season is practically year round. Beef and risotto are heavy dishes for such a warm time of year, but evenings in this part of California can get rather chilly. And obviously some people were ordering the entrees.

We had been sitting, eating and watching the show in the kitchen before us, for about two hours by the time we had leisurely finished our entrees. We had seen almost of the the desserts listed on the menu, and decided we had to try a few. We ordered the sampler (molten chocolate cake, bread pudding, and cheesecake), and the cannoli.

The sampler was mostly unimpressive. The bread pudding and chocolate cake were completely forgettable. But Momas loved the cheesecake. It was as savory as it was sweet, more like an Easter Pie than what one thinks of as a traditional American cheesecake. Mom gobbled it up and considered ordering a whole slice to go. The cannoli were almost perfect--delicious cannoli cream, not too sweet, with mini-chocolate chips in the cream, and the ends of the cannoli dredged through chopped pistachios. The shells were fresh and crisp. It was lovely.

Alas, no Fabio sightings, which didn't particularly disappoint me, but the Momas always enjoys talking to the chef. Especially when it is a man. Especially when it is an Italian man. So we will have to come again, the two of us, so the Momas can enjoy not only dinner, but a show. Although most of the seats in the restaurant were empty, I'm feeling fairly confident that Cafe Firenze will be around for more Sunday dinners, with or without the pasta.

A Berry by Any Other Name Would Be...Organic?

I recently went to a Farmers Market in Southern California in search of Organic strawberries. There were over a dozen vendors of local strawberries, but none of them were from the "Certified Organic" vendors. I headed to the Market Manager.

"There are no Certified Organic strawberries at this market," she told me [*gasp*]. "But Harry's Berries grows organically, without the certification."

Intriguing.

So I wandered over to Harry's Berries stand to investigate.

Set on a table were pints and flats of beautiful, red, ripe strawberries. The fragrance was warm and sweet and soft, seductive like a beautiful woman on the dance floor wearing red shoes and mysterious perfume. You had to look. You wanted to touch.

"Can I help you today?" asked the Harry's Berries girl, her fingertips stained red from berry juice.

"Yes, please," I replied. "Tell me about your berries."

They offered two varieties: the Gaviota, a low acid, super sweet variety with gently yielding flesh, and the Seascape, a more acidic, more complex sweet-tart variety with firmer flesh.

"The Market Manager said you grow your produce organically, without the certification. Why is that?" I asked.

"We're just a small family farm. Becoming 'certified organic' costs a lot of money and hours, so it's really not that important to us. We've been growing organically since 1998. Our customers know that. And we stand behind our products."

Sounded good to me. But the proof is in the pudding, as they say.

"Can I taste one?" I asked.

Most of the vendors at this particular Farmers Market offered samples, so I was surprised when she looked at me a little sideways. But I was bringing dessert to a dinner party that night, and organic or not the berries had to taste good.

She offered me one small berry of each kind.

They were both amazingly delicious. They were what strawberries I've grown myself and eaten off the vine taste like. The Gaviotas were exactly what I was looking for.

"I'll take a flat."

Her face broke into a startled smile. Yes, I can be a difficult customer. Perhaps it comes from too much time in the kitchen, or too much time in New York. But if I taste the best berries of the season, I'm buying a bunch, certified organic or not.

One pint was gone before I even got back to my car.

Two days later I drove twenty miles out of my way to find a Harry's Berries stand at another area Farmers Market.

It makes sense to me that any small family farm would choose to eschew the "Certified Organic" process. For small operations, it IS cost prohibitive with regard to both time and money. As choosing "Organic" became less of a movement and more of a trend, the industry struggled to keep up with demand. Many of the small operations that had jumped through the "Certified Organic" hoops were acquired by bigger businesses. Then regulations regarding the definition of "Certified Organic" began to shift.

There are many misconceptions about food products labeled as "Organic" in the grocery store. While the USDA currently regulates the the "Certified Organic" labeling of food and fibers grown and manufactured in the United States, this article from the Washington Post earlier this week addresses the integrity of the Federal "Organic" label.

Foods labeled as "Organic" are not necessarily safer either. A search of the FDA website for "organic recall," yielded over 1000 links. Recalls listed for organic foods covered a wide range including nuts, popcorn, granola bars and other snacks, jarred baby food, dry baby cereal, fresh and frozen tofu products, chocolate candy bars, fresh produce, and eggs. Reasons listed for recalled products range from potential salmonella contamination, potential botulism contamination, potential allergen contamination, package mislabeling, choking hazards, foreign object contamination (i.e. metal, glass, etc), and lead.

And so I stand by long-time position that local usually is the best best choice (and by "local" I don't mean the nearest Whole Foods grocery store). If you have personal contact with the folks that grow the produce, collect the eggs, or "bring in" the pigs, you'll have a direct connection to the food itself. If those folks are anything like the folks at Harry's Berries, they'll stand behind the integrity of their product because they take personal pride in it (and depend on its quality and your satisfaction for their livelihood).

And after reflecting a bit in my post-berry stupor, it occurred to me that I had tried these berries years ago, again while visiting friends in the area. It was the name of the berries that finally rang a bell: Gaviota. That's also the name of a beach in Santa Barbara County, a perfect harbor for many a clandestine adventure of youth (one of which may or may not be my own), memories of which may be as sweet as these strawberries, and just as satisfying.

If this is Wednesday, it must be the Food Section

Lots of interesting things are popping up on my radar in the food world, most of it from the New York Times.

First, there was this gem from earlier this week, featuring a photo of Kalustyan's on Lex at 28th. More about obscure history than food, but I'm going to look for that little plaque the next time I go there.

Oh, and check out Here is Where while you're at it.

I was surprised to read in "Off the Menu" that Payard Patisserie on the Upper East Side is now closed, due to a "rent dispute." They had such lovely Gâteau St. Honoré. It is a reminder that good food is fleeting. Eat it while you can.

And while the Fancy Food Show returned to Manhattan this past weekend, the UnFancy Food Show in Brooklyn was much more interesting and entertaining. Put it on your calendar for next year.

My brother-in-law, who brews beer, may never have considered growing his own hops, but after reading this he might. I don't think he is much of a green thumb, so perhaps a bargain to barter can be struck. Fresh hops for beer seems like a good deal to me.

Speaking of beer, I've been noticing an increase in chile beers (as in flavored with chiles, not Chilean beer). Is this going to be like the chile peppers in chocolate fad? I'm really okay with my beer being beer (and my chocolate being chocolate). I love a good, complex wine. But please, let beer be beer. Is it too much to ask?

In Oakland, California, these folks are "urban homesteading." I sent this link to a friend and asked, "how do we find these people?" She replied, "you ARE these people."

I won't argue.

It's summer, and Thursday is Market Day. I have plans for some strawberries, peaches, and tomatoes.

Go eat something wonderfully tasty today. More stories soon.

Small World

I recently had the opportunity to eat at a new restaurant in Yountville, California called Bottega. The restaurant has created some buzz in the culinary community as the newest venture of Chef Michael Chiarello. But the buzz by the locals is more about the novelty of an Italian restaurant, upending the dearth of options to the French fare available in the little town with the most Michelin Stars per capita than any other place on Earth.

The couple at the table next to mine was indulging in dessert when my companion and I opened our dinner menus. I took a few moments to observe as they indulged in their flourless sabbia cake with strawberries lightly dressed in 20 year aged balsamic, with mascarpone cream--a lovely interpretation of Strawberry Shortcake. From their conversation, their clothing and their accent I could tell they were from out of town.

The lady saw me eyeing her dessert. "Be sure to save room!" she admonished. "It's decadent, but hey, you don't get to indulge every day...or maybe you do. Are you from here?"

I smiled in reply.

She and her husband had just arrived from Atlanta. "Oh," I exclaimed, "I was just there visiting my sister. We ate some of the most delicious food."

We spoke of all sorts of restaurants in the greater Atlanta area: Watershed, Flip, La Petite Maison. I forgot to mention The Flying Biscuit, Highland Bakery, and Sugo. And I couldn't remember the name "Rathbun's," trying instead to explain a restaurant with a lot of meat on the menu, named after the chef, with really good food. We both laughed.

With a wistful look I mentioned all the delicious barbecue I had eaten in Atlanta, though I couldn't remember the name of my favorite one. "Slopes?" the gentleman offered. "YES! I exclaimed, "Slopes! So it wasn't just me, it really is that good!" His face broke into a huge grin, "We live across the street, on the other side of the fire house. I had lunch there yesterday."

Small world.

It occurred to me later, as the waiter brought out their second dessert--a chocolate souffle cooked in a parchment paper chimney, unwrapped at the table by the server, then drizzled with anglaise and sprinkled with hazelnut brittle--that these folks may have the better deal. Yes, it is exceptional to have the option to regularly indulge in wood-grilled octopus and house made pastas. But the ribs at Slopes I could eat every day and want for nothing more.

The couple were in town for another five days, and I sure hope they enjoyed themselves in the lovely Napa Valley. I'll keep an eye out for them the next time I make it to Atlanta.

Sidebar:

Laura Cunningham, longtime girlfriend and now fiance of Chef Thomas Keller, has plans to open an Italian restaurant in Yountville on the north end of Washington Street in the former location of the short lived P. J. Steak (previous owner of the building was Chef Philippe Jeanty). Although plans for the new restaurant were announced about a year ago, few official details have followed in recent months. The restaurant will be named Vita in honor of Cunningham's Sicilian grandmother.

Recipes, Lost and Found

Some recipes are good because they are down and dirty.

About a decade ago I spent some time in Louisiana. It was before Katrina, before 43, before Ken Burns Jazz. The New Orleans I visited then has been lost, and the memories of it pass before me like a jazz funeral--too full of the sound of music and the flash of movement to commit to words. It will rebirth itself, as only New Orleans can. But I cannot expect to find the city I fell in love with on my first trip there.

I remember the food best of all. It was the first time I had eaten crawfish as an adult, and the first time I'd had it prepared in a spicy boil and served with crusty french bread. That may have been as close to Heaven as I've ever been.

I decided to eat as much of the city as I could.

Restaurants in New Orleans perplexed me on that visit. I went to one of Emeril's restaurants and was disappointed by the wilted salad, the congealed sauces, and the generic food service bread. It distressed me that people flocked to this restaurant for "good" food and, for those who had no other point of reference, would leave with the impression that it WAS good food. That made me sad.

Yet at a half dozen holes-in-the-wall in the French Quarter and beyond I found such delights that made me wonder if there was a secret society of cooks who took pity on a young, hungry girl in search of good food and brought out their best in exchange for my wide-eyed wonder and irrepressible moans of pleasure as the most delicious flavors filled my mouth.

I returned to the cafe where I'd eaten the crawfish. It was too early in the day and the boil wasn't ready. I must have looked crestfallen because the chef himself--a short, stocky man with a thick N'aaawlens accent and a bushy mustache--came out from the kitchen with a muffaletta sandwich and a bowl of barbecued shrimp. That meal made me so happy I cried, which I blamed it on the spiciness of the shrimp. That is good food as it should be.

The beignets at Cafe du Monde were hot and delicious (as all good fried dough products should be) and covered with so much powdered sugar that it showered down all around you if you didn't hold your breath when taking a bite. They were busy enough that the beignets were always fresh. I was thrilled, as much for myself as for the tourists for whom this might be a defining culinary memory of the city. The coffee had the distinctive flavor of chicory that reminded me of breakfasts from my childhood at great-aunt M---'s farmhouse kitchen table. Food memories with personal nostalgic value are a rare treasure.

I met up with some friends one night at a restaurant called Feelings Cafe in the Faubourg Marigny district on Chartres Street, not far outside the French Quarter. It was the ambiance and hospitality that made this restaurant memorable. Our party was greeted as if we were old friends. We chatted with folks from the neighborhood in for dinner or an evening libation. We were given tips on the best places to hear live music, an invitation to a garden party, and passes for a "behind the scenes" tour at the Aquarium of the Americas.

There were two small (and well behaved) children in our party, and they were doted on as if they were the belle and beau of the ball. At the end of the meal they were each sent out a dessert--one slice of Peanut Butter Pie and one of French Silk Pie. The kids loved it so much, the kitchen sent out the recipes for the two pies for their mother. Since her hands were full with her two kids hyped up on sugar, she handed the recipes to me.

While going through an old box of letters last week, I came upon the recipes. I realized they were recipes that could have been from someone else's childhood, easily made with ingredients familiar to a 1960's era housewife. Perhaps they ended up on the restaurant dessert menu because of the feelings they evoked, from an employee or a customer.

I never made the pies, and most likely won't, but finding them reminded me of that wonderful trip to the New Orleans-that-once-was. I offer them now, verbatim, as they were given to me.

Feelings Cafe D'Aunoy Peanut Butter Pie

1/2 lb cream cheese

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 can condensed milk

Mix the three ingredients until creamy. Add one cup confectioners sugar; fold in 8-10 oz cool whip. Pour into cool pie shells and ice with more cool whip and garnish with shaved semi-sweet chocolate and unsalted peanuts. Refrigerate or freeze.

Crust:

3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs

1 stick melted butter

Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of two 9" pie pans and bake at 350 F for 10-15 minutes.

*******

Feelings Cafe D'Anouy French Silk Pie

3 sticks butter

2 cups plus 2 Tbs. superfine sugar

1 Tbs. vanilla

3 packets choco bake

6 eggs

Whip butter on high speed in mixer, slowly add in superfine sugar, then add vanilla, and choco bake. Add 4 eggs at high speed for 3 minutes, then 2 eggs for another 3 minutes. Makes 4 pies.

Crust:

3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs

1 stick melted butter

Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of 2-9" pie pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes.

Hunger

I'm always disturbed when I hear children in a grocery store in any upper or middle class American neighborhood exclaim, "I'm starving!" as a ploy to get their parent to grab a box of whatever snack is in arms reach to satiate and silence the child. It disturbs me more when that's exactly how the parent responds.

Let me tell you the story of Eva, a woman now in her 60's, who grew up as one of eight children in a fishing village in a Southeast Asian country. Her family was so poor they could not afford fuel for a fire to cook rice. They would put rice and water in a covered bucket in the sun during the day, then set it in a corner overnight to let it ferment until it was soft enough to eat. The fish they caught were usually sold to get money to buy clothing which was handed down as the children grew. Coconuts and bananas were available for the picking when they were in season. Sometimes they would barter for more expensive staples, like eggs. Five eggs could be scrambled and portioned to share among the ten family members.

Eva knew what starving feels like. The memory affected her so deeply that when she married and had her own children in the United States, she would wake them up at 2:00 AM to feed them steak and pork chops and rice--cooked in an electric rice maker. She believed that children inherently woke up with terrible hunger pangs in the middle of the night, because that was her experience. Her hunger was never sated because she lived in abject poverty. It never occurred to her that her own middle of the night hunger was a result of malnutrition.

Although statistics vary and accuracy is difficult, it is believed that one out of every five children in the United States lives below the poverty level. That's about twenty percent. That is abysmal.
This article from the Washington Post lays out a problem with food costs. If you don't have a car or can't afford gas, you can't get to at a big box discount retailer or grocery mega mart. Groceries at a corner store usually cost at least twice as much as those larger chains. The Washington Post article cites a Safeway on Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, where the wheat bread costs $1.19, and white bread is on sale for $1. A gallon of milk costs $3.49 -- $2.99 if you buy two gallons. At the Safeway there are multiple brands of bread and milk (and everything else) to choose from, at least one of which is usually on sale. Conversely, at a local corner store the white bread is $3, the wheat bread is almost $4, and the gallon of milk is $5. Produce, if it is available, is prohibitively expensive and typically not fresh.

One thing that has struck me about the children I've met who live in poverty is that they rarely complain about being hungry. They have learned that there isn't food to be had, and that bringing it up to an adult can result in a reaction ranging from anger to sadness.

Prolonged hungriness can root itself deeply in the memory of a child, creating a permanent place of emptiness that he or she will carry through life.

There is a story I once heard about sleeping with bread. Some of the children who were orphaned in Europe during the bombing raids of World War II could not sleep in the orphanages and refugee camps where they were taken in. Someone tried giving them bread to hold at bedtime. The children realized that although they had lost their families, their homes, their communities, and all that was familiar to them, they had at least eaten that day, and would eat again the next day. Only then they were able to sleep.

Hunger is difficult to explain to a child, and the memory of it can be impossible to lose.

Economic times are hard right now, but if you have access to the internet to read this blog post, you are most likely not starving. Wherever you live, please believe me when I say there is a child not far from you who is truly hungry. Please consider making a donation to Feeding America, or to picking up some extra staples the next time you head out to your mega mart grocery store or big box warehouse discount store to donate to your local food bank.

And if you are one of millions of Americans trying to figure out how to feed your family in these challenging economic times, there is help: food banks, National School Lunch Program (NSLP) and summer meals for kids, Supplimental Nutrition Asistance Programs (SNAP), WIC, and other forms of assistance.

If you've got a few moments to spare, click on over to freerice.com where you can play some multiple choice games on subjects like art, geography, English vocabulary and grammar. For every right answer you get, a portion of rice will be donated to the UN World Food Program.

Bizarro

Many a moon ago, when once I lived in Seattle, my favorite restaurant was Bizarro. It was only a few blocks from where I lived, and the upside-down patio furniture hanging from the ceiling coupled with the smell of sauteed garlic seduced me.

It was just a neighborhood place back then, before it got write-ups in Zagat, before the proliferation of online food bloggers and chowhounds, when the Food Network was still a fledgling and most people had only heard of arugula ("It's a VEG-uh-tey-bul") from watching My Blue Heaven.

Back then the menu was subject to change, sometimes on a nightly basis. I remember adoring an appetized playfully called the "Fungichinni." I remember it as a glorified stuffed portobello mushroom. I liked it so much I came back three times in one week to introduce it to different friends. When it disappeared from the menu, I asked my server (who always remembered my name, and I regret that I've forgotten hers) what had happened. "The guys in the back say it's too much work to prepare," she said, punctuating her reply with a roll of her eyes towards the kitchen. To my dismay, it was never to return again.

One of my favorite dishes there was something they called the "Forest Floor Frenzy." Still on the menu, it is described as "wild mushrooms and walnuts foraged from the darkest woods melded with a cream sherry sauce," served with pasta.

It's been a long while since I've been able to make it back to Seattle, too long in fact. I have every intention of returning to Bizarro when I make my way back. Until then, here's my version of the dish I most miss.

Again, for Jen.

Forest Floor Frenzy as I remember it,

until I make it back to the Emerald City

4 boneless chicken breasts

olive oil

2 lb assorted fresh mushrooms*, sliced
OR

1 lb assorted fresh mushrooms*, sliced AND

2-3 oz assorted dried mushrooms*, reconstituted and drained (reserve liquid)

4-5 cloves garlic, crushed

3 sprigs fresh thyme OR

1/2 tsp dried thyme leaves

1/4 cup sherry**

3 tbsp butter

1/4 cup light cream or half and half at room temp or warmer

1/3 cup walnuts pieces, toasted

1. Season chicken liberally with salt. In a large saute pan over medium high heat, sear chicken breasts in olive oil, turning to cook on both sides. Remove from pan and let rest.

2. Return pan to medium low heat. Sweat garlic in 3 tbsp olive oil, seasoning well with salt. Cook for 3-5 minutes until garlic is aromatic. Remove from pan and set aside.

3. Return pan to high heat. Coat bottom of pan with oil and cook fresh mushrooms in a single layer (cook in batches if necessary) until they are well browned on the bottom side (several minutes). Stir and continue to cook, adding more oil if necessary. Season with salt at the end. Deglaze pan with sherry. Add rehydrated mushrooms(if using them), garlic and thyme.

4. Reduce heat to low and add the butter, stirring well to melt and incorporate. Slowly stir in light cream, mixing well to incorporate. Continue heating gently to just below a simmer, adding liquid from drained mushrooms (or some white wine or chicken broth) to thin sauce if desired. Correct seasoning if necessary.

5. Slice chicken and return to the pan to coat with the sauce. Finish with sherry just before plating if desired. Serve over fresh pasta with crusty garlic bread to sop up the sauce.

*I like a mix of portabello, shitake, porcini, crimini, morels, chanterelles,

and regular old button mushrooms

**If you don't have sherry, substitute madeira, port, or marsala.

A Truth about Maple Syrup

It drives me nuts when people refer to Log Cabin or Aunt Jemima as "Maple Syrup." Maybe I was just paying more attention as a kid, but I could tell the difference between the real stuff and the imitation stuff. I remember turning up my nose at the "old fashioned" pancake syrup on the table on my first visit to an IHOP when I was about eight years old. It was with my Girl Scout troop and we were practicing table manners. When the waitress returned to our table to check on us, I asked for the real maple syrup and remember being shocked--literally shocked--when the waitress said that they simply had none. How was this possible? We were at the International House of Pancakes! In America! But for my troop leader's stern glare I might have simply left the building.

I try very hard (but with questionable success) at hiding my disappointment when, as breakfast guest at the home of friends or family, I find that the syrup options are everything but real maple. But I cringe at the thought of appearing ungrateful or judgmental for passing on the syrup. Lot's of people have never had real maple. Some can't afford it. Some just prefer the "pancake syrup." So I muster up the best smile I can and ask if there are any other options. If I'm lucky there will be honey. If I'm crazy lucky there will be sorghum. If not, I stick to butter and possibly some some jam.

Today in the New York Times online, I read this article about the last of the 50 states to open an IHOP--Vermont. It is also the first (and only) one to offer REAL maple syrup to their customers.

Vermont is known for its maple syrup, but I've also had great maple syrup from Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Indiana, Massachusetts and other states, as well as from the Canadians. Please, make it a point to find some this week and give it a try. Pretty please, with maple sugar on top.

Listening

If you asked any hundred cooks which they thought was the most important of their five senses that they used in the kitchen, I doubt that even one would say their sense of hearing.

Unless you asked me.

Yes, taste and smell are critical (I’m no neuroscientist, but I know they are linked). Touch is important, too--the most delicate touch is required to pick the a perfect avocado or peach. As is sight--if the pork chops are green, don’t receive them.

But I can’t imagine cooking without my sense of hearing.

When I was very young I learned to cook with my ears. I’m not sure who taught me that, but I think it was my grandma. You can tell when a cake is done by pulling it out of the oven, getting your ear really close and giving a listen. Does it still sound wet? Then it’s not done. If you want to ruin the smooth top of your cake you can stick a toothpick in it confirm it.

Have you ever been in a night kitchen when the bread is coming out of the oven? The loaves are placed on racks to cool, and as they do the crusts crackle. Multiply the sound by a few hundred loaves, and the night kitchen is filled with the sound of the bread “singing.” It’s one of my favorite sounds ever.

When a steak is placed in a ripping hot pan to sear the meat, it sounds exactly like a hard rain on asphalt in the summer.

A fresh bean or carrot or spear of asparagus should have a satisfying "snap" when you break it. If it doesn't, then it's not fresh.

I know many a cook who depends on the sound of a timer for success.

And who doesn't smile at the sound of the whistle on the kettle?

But perhaps the best sound of all is the spontaneous exclaimation of "mmmmm" or "yum" from a happy mouth to the ears of the cook.

The Sound of Honey

I like honey. On biscuits and English muffins and pancakes and in tea. On yogurt and granola and whipped into butter. It is a "secret" ingredient in lavender lemonade, baked apples, and bread pudding.

My Uncle used to keep bees in Tonganoxie, Kansas when I was a little girl, and I loved receiving a jar of it for Christmas or my birthday. I remember seeing the white boxes where the bees constructed their honeycomb off at the edge of his pasture, and how I was never allowed to watch when he went to go retrieve the honey. I think some astute grown up knew that if I saw how it was done, I would inevitably try to do it myself when no one else was watching.


It's the first week of Spring and I find myself in Atlanta. I've heard the Indigo Girls sing of the "Southland in the Springtime," but I never imagined it looked and felt and smelled this lovely. The trees are fluffed with blossoms of white and pale pink and magenta. The evening air brings whiffs of dreamy floral fragrances that seem strangely familiar. The warm air lingers, flirtatiously, even in the shade and when the sun goes down.

People here in the South take lots of walks in the evenings. They stop and chat with neighbors, ask after family members, pet the neighborhood dogs. People don't walk so much as they stroll. More than once, it has taken over an hour to walk to the end of the block and back with my niece and sister.

One night last week while out at twilight, I paused under a beautiful fruit tree (which I've been told is some variety of apple tree), the boughs heavily weighted with delicate white blossoms. As I stood under the umbrella of blooms I closed my eyes and inhaled their heavenly perfume, as delicate as the blossoms and powerfully intoxicating. I think I may have I swooned.

Lost in my moment of Zen with my eyes closed and my palms opened, I paused at the top of my breath...and was overwhelmed with a humming that caused my whole head to vibrate. Was I lightheaded? Having an out of body experience? I opened my eyes and looked up.

In the hushed glow of sunset through petals, hundreds of bees buzzed in and out of the apple blossoms, dipping into the sweet nectar, bumbling back home.

So this is the sound of honey. I paused for a moment and drank it in.

As Local as it Gets

I was delighted to read in the New York Times that the "Obamas Prepare to Plant White House Vegetable Garden." I'm not sure what influence the letter from Alice Waters played in getting here, but I'm still a strong proponent of writing letters, especially to one's elected officials.

To find a friendly farmer near you, check or search the listings at Local Harvest. Consider a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) subscription.

And if you are growing your own little back yard or patio garden this year, here are a few tips to consider:

1. Plant ONLY ONE zucchini plant. (If you've already planted more than one, good luck. They do grate and freeze well for making baked goods and zucchini pancakes later.)

2. If you water from a hose, run the water into a bucket first to assure that it's not too hot for the plant roots. Water that sits in the hose can heat up during the day and scald roots, killing the plants and leaving you with a perplexing black thumb.

3. Got snails? Sprinkle dried and crushed egg shells around the base of your plants. If snails or slugs trail over them, the shells stick to their bodies and they, um, won't bother your plants any further.

4. Got aphids? Try ladybugs. You can buy them at many garden supply stores. Or, try a homemade spray of one quart water, 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil and 2-4 drops of dishwashing soap. Shake well and use a standard spray bottle to squirt leaves (don't forget the undersides) and stems of plants. Spray daily for visible aphids, every other day for prevention.

5. Don't water the plants right before bed. The additional moisture at night can encourage fungus, mold and root rot.

Context clues, knowing what you want, and the importance of communication

My fifteen month old niece is brilliant. Not that I'm biased.

My brother in law had his infamous birthday and St. Patrick's Day party last night. I had just the right amount of fun, and this morning it was time for hang over food.

I love a good day-after-drinking breakfast. Today the plan was french scrambled eggs and sharp cheddar on a toasted english muffin with Tapatio. Mmmmm. After fumbling through making coffee, I went on autopilot:

A pan goes on the stove over low heat. English muffin split and placed in the toaster (but don't start the toaster yet). Cream and eggs and cheese out of the fridge. Tapatio on the table. A small bowl to scramble the eggs, a fork to do the scrambling, a plate to eat off of, a cup for coffee out of the cupboard. A knob of butter goes in the pan. Cream and eggs and salt in the bowl. Drop the english muffins. Scramble scramble scramble. Drop the eggs.

At this point my niece noticed I was in the kitchen. Analyzing the context clues she determined something tasty was afoot. She toddled in with a piece of buttered toast she had been clutching for about half and hour and went straight to her chair at the table. After a minute of trying to get into it herself, she signed to me for help.

Buckle her in. Shake the eggs in the pan. Butter the muffin. Shake the eggs. Cheese on the muffin and under the broiler. Shake the pan. Pour the coffee. Finish the eggs. Everything goes on the plate. Grab the coffee and to the table I go.

Little Miss Smarmy Pants had been sitting at the table munching on her toast and, as it turns out, waiting patiently. As I tucked into my breakfast she tore off a piece of her toast and handed it to me. Then she lunged towards the scrambled eggs. I'd never known her to eat eggs before, but I'm all for kids getting to try any food they might find appealing. And I was amused at her impressive attempt at bartering.

"Would you like to try some eggs? "

She smiled and nodded. I gave her a forkful.

She threw down her toast and lunged at my plate again. The girl knew what she wanted.

"Do you want more?" I asked, mimicking the baby sign. She signed back definitively: more.

I proffered another bite, mindful to avoid the Tapatio.

Immediately, she signed more again.


Wow. That was the first time I'd ever seen her sign unprompted. I suppose that, even at fifteen months, if you know what you want, you figure out how to communicate it.

Pie

I love coming to visit the South if for no other reason than to shamelessly indulge in the making of pie.

My youngest sister fortuitously married a gregarious Southern boy. He happens to be her first beau from college in Upstate New York. There's is a lovely story of losing touch for a decade, finding each other again, a fairy tale wedding, and their version of happily ever after with their beautiful daughter and baby-number-two on the way.

That's where I come in. Time to visit Atlanta.

And since I'm in the kitchen, bring me the butter.

I've always enjoyed making pie. I have memories of making pie crust with my grandma--just one of those things she taught me, like how to tie my shoes, and thread a needle. You start with fresh flour, and fresh cold buttter (or lard, if you have it; but lard isn't the same today as when she was making pies). Work with strong fingers but a gentle hand to get a tender, flaky crust. Remember to rest and chill the dough.

Fillings are particular, too. Use fruit as close to picking as possible. Strawberries and cherries taste best when cooked on the stovetop and poured into a blind baked crust. Apples weep, so there are different approaches to preparation, depending on the apple. Rhubarb is good any day of the week. And don't forget savory pies. Chicken pot pie is one of the best comfort foods around.

Hank loves pie. Specifically Lemon Meringue Pie. Once, while visiting with his parents in North Carolina about five years ago, I copied down his Mother's recipe so my sister could have it in her collection. She laughed at me (she's not one much for baking), but I sent the recipe home with them anyway. Imagine my surprise when I walked into her kitchen for the first time and found the recipe card--in my own handwriting--stuck to her refrigerator with a magnet. "Hank actually made if for himself, once." I pulled out the butter right then and started baking.

The pie didn't last 24 hours.

The next day, I decided to let my pregnant sister choose a pie. "Chocolate Cream, Vanilla Cream, or Butterscotch Pie?" I offered. "Not chocolate," she replied. I grabbed the brown sugar and got to work.

Butterscotch Pie, for my Pregnant Sister in Atlanta

Make a pie crust like Grandma. Start with a stick of cold butter. Add a few fists full of flour, a bit of salt and sugar. Cut in the butter to the texture of coarse sand. Add a spoonful or two of cold water, just enough to bring the dough together. Pat it into a circle about an inch thick. Wrap in plastic and chill about half an hour. Roll out and press into a pie pan. Rest and refrigerate another half hour, then trim and blind bake. Cool completely.

Butterscotch Pie Filling

In a mixing bowl, combine:

2 large eggs

1 cup whole milk

1/8 tsp kosher salt

Whisk well to combine and set aside.

In a medium pot, combine:

1 cup dark brown sugar, packed

4 Tbsp all purpose unbleached flour

1/8 tsp kosher salt

1 cup whole milk

Whisk to combine, then heat to a boil over mediu high heat, stirring constantly.

Remove pot from heat and slowly add egg/milk mixture, whisking vigorously to combine. Return pot to medium low heat and continue to cook, stirring constantly, until mixture reduces and thickens.

Remove pan from heat. Stir in:

3 Tbsp butter

about 1 tsp good quality vanilla extract

Immediately pour filling into prepared pie crust. Bring to room temperature, then contact cover and chill at least four hours, or overnight.

Jambalaya

This story is about research and improvisation, and sisters.

I arrived in Atlanta on Marti Gras. I came to visit my youngest sister, who is pregnant with her second child. So I, the Super Aunt (dah-dah-da-dah!), offered to make dinner that night.

"How about Jambalaya?" asked my sister.

"Sure!" I replied. I'm a firm believer that pregnant women should have any reasonable request fulfilled.

When we got into the kitchen, I turned to my sister and said,

"I have a confession to make...

"I've never made Jambalaya."

"Well," she replied, "let's pull out the cookbooks."

If Jane Austen had written a novel about sisters such as us, she would have titled it Pride and Pragmatism.

My sister has only a handful of cookbooks, but they are well chosen. We consulted The Joy of Cooking, The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, and Better Homes and Gardens. While no one recipe appealed to us, we got the general idea and improvised. Here's what we came up with.

Jambalaya for Marti Gras 2009 with Alli, et al.

Ingredients:

3 (or so) tbsp bacon drippings

1 young chicken, about 4-5 pounds

1 cup water

1 pound andouille sausage links, sliced

1 medium onion, chopped

8 cloves garlic, chopped

1 orange bell pepper, chopped

3 stalks celery, chopped

4-5 cups chicken broth or stock

2 medium tomatoes, chopped

4 oz tomato paste

4 cups cooked brown basmati rice

several sprigs fresh thyme from Avalyn's garden (neighbor)

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper

cayenne pepper

Quarter the bird, and season liberally with salt, pepper and cayenne.

Heat a large dutch oven on the stove. Add bacon drippings; when melted, stir to coat the bottom of the pan. Add the chicken (including neck and back) skin side down and cook until well browned. Flip quarters and continue to cook about 5 minutes. Add 1 cup water to deglaze delicious brown bits, cover and cook until chicken is just done. If there's not enough room in the pan, cook chicken in batches. Remove chicken from pan and set aside.

Add sausage and onions to the pot and cook in pan juices until onions are tender--about 5 minutes. Add garlic, bell pepper and celery, seasoning with salt and pepper as you go. Continue to cook about 5 minutes.

In the meantime, peel off the skin and pick the chicken. Meat should be in bite sized pieces. (Reserve the bones for stock.)

Add chicken stock. Cover and bring to a boil. Add tomatoes and tomato paste. Stir well to combine.

Add rice, chicken meat, bay leaves, and thyme. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer until liquid reduces and Jambalaya thickens.

Serve it up when it smells so good, you can't stand to wait any longer.

By the time we dished it up, a couple of neighbors had shown up at the back door. We pulled up some extra chairs and called it a party. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

White Chocolate Mousse for Miss D

My friend Jen, who lives in Dedham, Massachusetts, is a fan of white chocolate. While visiting with her recently, we discussed White Chocolate Mousse. She remembered seeing it on dessert menus everywhere a few years ago, then it just disappeared.

Jen had three recipes for White Chocolate Mousse in her collection, all from the teacher of a cooking class she had taken with her husband. The variations were typical--one was whipped cream based, another called for whipped egg whites, and the third employed gelatin.

It struck me was that all three versions seemed to be dark chocolate mousse recipes for which equal parts of white chocolate were substituted. But dark chocolate and white chocolate are not interchangeable. They are, in fact, very different. Dark chocolate is composed of cocoa solids, cocoa butter and sugar. White chocolate is composed of milk solids, cocoa butter and sugar. They melt differently, have different mouth feels, and react differently when combined with other ingredients.

I asked Jen if she'd tried the recipes yet. She had tried one, but was very disappointed with the results. She asked if I had a good recipe. I did. And I offered to make it.

We started with the white chocolate. First manufactured in the United States in the 1950's, it wasn't until 2004 that the FDA established a standard of identity for white chocolate. That's also about when Jen started seeing white chocolate appearing all over dessert menus.

I am not much of a fan of white chocolate, mostly because I've tasted very few white chocolate couvertures that I like. The general availability of white chocolate for baking has decreased with its decline in popularity in the recent years, although higher quality options can be found at gourmet and boutique food shops. At a regional Massachusetts grocery and at a Whole Foods Market, we found only Nestle Premier White Morsels (ingredients include palm kernel oil, sodium caseinate, hydrogenated palm oil, and artificial flavors), Baker's (subject to a recall in 2007 for Salmonella), Ghirardelli White Chocolate Baking Bar (which Jen doesn't care for), and Whole Foods 365 Brand White Chocolate Chunk (which we ended up using). If it had been available, I would have preferred Callebaut or Valrhona.

Next we contemplated cream. I like to use pasteurized organic heavy whipping cream. Unfortunately, none of the pasteurized cream at the store was organic, and all of the organic options were ultra pasteurized. Ultra pasteurized cream doesn't taste as good or whip up as well, since the molecular structure of the cream is compromised when it is heated to the required minimum of 280 F. Frequently, manufacturers ultra pasteurize cream and other liquid dairy products to give it a longer shelf life. The pasteurization process is the same for shelf-stable milk milk products, except the packing conditions are not sterile so they still require refrigeration. I stood in front of the dairy case for about five minutes, staring idly at my disappointing options, dreaming of the delicious cream from the Strauss Family Creamery in Marin County. Alas, my magical powers failed that day. I settled for the organic ultra-pasteurized and headed for the check out.

So, Jen, here's a new recipe for your collection. Throw those other ones out.

White Chocolate Mousse for Miss D

8 oz good quality white chocolate, such as Callebaut or Valrhona (in small chunks)
1/4 cup heavy whipping cream

1-1/4 cup heavy whipping cream

2 tbsp sugar

1) Keep cream well chilled for 24 hours before making mousse. Chill metal mixing bowl and beaters/whisk for 15-20 minutes.

2) In a large glass (microwave safe) mixing bowl, combine white chocolate and 1/4 cup heavy whipping cream. Heat in the microwave on high for 20-30 second, then mix with a spatula for 45-60 seconds. Repeat just until white chocolate chunks are indistinguishable and mixture is smooth. Set aside to cool while you whip the cream

3) Place 1-1/4 cup well chilled heavy whipping cream in well chilled metal bow. Beat with well chilled beaters/whisk until foamy. Slowly stream in sugar (while still whipping). Continue to whip at medium high speed until soft to medium peaks form.

4) Check the texture of the melted white chocolate. It should be slightly warm to the touch and easy to stir. If it is not, return to the microwave for 10 seconds, then stir well for 30 - 45 seconds. Repeat, if necessary, to acheive this.

5) Add about 1/3 of the whipped cream to the melted white chocolate and mix well by hand with a spatula or whisk. This step will lighten the white chocolate mixture.

6) Add another 1/3 of whipped cream to white chocolate and fold gently to incorporate.

7) Add last 1/3 of whipped cream to white chocolate and continue to fold until mixture is well blended. If necessary, briefly use a whisk at the end to acheive a smooth mixture.

8) Pour mixture into individual ramekins and chill until set--at least 4 hours. To store for up to 3 days in the fridge, cover chilled mousses with plastic wrap and protect from strong odors (e.g. cheeses, onions, fish). To freeze, wrap aluminum foil over plastic wrap and freeze for up to 3 months.

P.S. This mousse can be poured directly into a prepared graham cracker or cookie crust and chilled as directed for a white chocolate mousse pie.