Snow Day Discovery

Ok, kids, your Saturday mornings are about to get a lot better. Because I have discovered the perfect pancake recipe, and I am going to share it with you.

First, a confession: I'm not that great at making pancakes. As someone who is pretty good at making most types of foods, pancakes are often a struggle. Sometimes they come out a little rubbery. Unlike most of my cooking, I always follow a recipe when I make pancakes, and so as a result, I'm always on the search for the perfect one. I discovered this recipe from Ina Garten a few years ago, and it is excellent, but it requires sour cream, which, if you're like me, you may not have on hand. So, the search has been on for the perfect pancake.

Today, being faced with the rare but glorious situation of a North Carolina snow day, I was looking forward to making myself a big breakfast, just like on a weekend morning. I looked at a few different recipes, and settled on one...until I remembered that I have buckwheat flour. Buckwheat pancakes are a good food memory for me. I ate them as a child, but not always--rarely enough for it to be a special event. And I always loved their earthy, nutty flavor.

Thinking of that bag of buckwheat flour, I also thought: there has to be a recipe for pancakes on that flour bag. Because honestly, how often do Americans use buckwheat flour for anything other than pancakes? And really, wouldn't the people who make the flour know the best recipe for making it into pancakes? Well, it turns out, they do. And it also turns out, this recipe is one of the simplest I have ever made.

So, go out and buy yourself a bag of Hodgson Mill buckwheat flour (and if, like I do, you want buttermilk pancakes, buy some of that too). If you've done that, well, you really don't need me to give the recipe. But I'll do it anyway. Simply whisk together the dry ingredients: 1 cup buckwheat flour, 1 tsp. baking powder (+1 tsp. baking soda if using buttermilk), 2 T sugar, and a pinch of salt. Beat an egg and then whisk in 1 cup of milk or buttermilk. The bag recipe calls for 2 T of melted butter, but I just used vegetable oil to save myself the hassle of melting butter. After whisking together the wet ingredients, pour into the dry and whisk, making sure not to over mix. I cooked my pancakes in a cast iron skillet over medium-low-ish heat. I have the unfortunate situation of living in a place with an electric stove instead of gas, and figuring out how to cook well on it has been a challenge, but I hit the jackpot today. I flipped the pancakes when they started to bubble and then cooked for a minute or so on the other side. And...success.

These pancakes were, ironically, ridiculously light. I have never seen another buckwheat pancake recipe that called for only buckwheat flour, but this worked. Airy and flavorful, these are definitely my new go-to pancake. Served with bacon, fried potatoes with dill, and a Bloody Mary with dill-infused vodka. A little Scandi, and a lot delicious.

I can't wait for Saturday.

Gin Tasting

I can remember the first time I ever drank gin. I was at the home of Ferdinand and Darcy McGrath, where several us from out of town gathered that December night for an evening of feasting. After dinner, the feasting transitioned to poker. I don't remember if I actually played poker or not, but what I do remember is sitting next to David Suetterlein, who was drinking Tanqueray and tonic. I was 21, a new drinker, and at that point in my life I knew I liked beer and wine, but it never really crossed my mind to drink liquor. But I remember taking a sip of David's drink, and then another, and then another. Finally, I had to get my own.

From that night on, gin and tonic became my new drink. I loved ordering it at bars, even though some people said it was an old man drink. One night, I was out at Ceviche with my friend Katy, maybe the first time I ever went to a "cool" bar, and we both got excited when we realized that we both drank gin and tonics. It was a bonding moment. Katy ordered for us, and introduced me to Hendrick's, asking for cucumber instead of lime.

These days, I'm more likely to drink a gin martini or gin fizz than a gin and tonic. To me, making cocktails is like cooking. I think of alcohol the way I think of food--just another opportunity for exciting (and classic) flavor combinations.

Whenever I travel to different parts of the country, I'm always curious to see (and try!) what different beers are available. And now that I live in North Carolina, I went to the liquor store to see if they had any bottles I couldn't get in PA. I was pleased to see several brands of artisinal gins that I've read about but never saw in my local state store. I picked up a bottle of Death's Door gin from Washington Island, Wisconsin.

Once home, I decided to make good use of the other gins I had in stock--Hendricks and Bluecoat (from PA!)--and do a side-by-side gin tasting. The reason gin is so unique is that the liquor is infused with botanicals--juniper for sure, but then it's up to the distiller. Coriander, lavender, orris root, angelica root, licorice, fennel, caraway, cardamom, citrus peel...all of these and more make their way in various combinations into gin (The Botanist gin, from Scotland--like Hendricks--advertises the use of "22 Native Botanicals").

So, here are my tasting notes for the three different gins:

Bluecoat

This is the gin I found most difficult to describe. I've been drinking it all summer, and a way to codify its flavors has eluded me for months. The gin is light-bodied and you can taste the juniper. There seems to be a whisper of citrus, and it tastes the most classically of gin than the other two. I like it in a gin rickey.

Hendrick's

This gin has a lower alcohol content than others (44% compared to 47%), and you can definitely tell the difference. Hendrick's is smooth and an almost silky texture. It tastes very notably of coriander. Hendrick's is classically served with cucumber, but after noticing the strong coriander notes, I love to try it with orange.

Death's Door

When I was in Montana last summer, I found some juniper berries on a hike. I enjoyed eating them, and even brought some back with me. Death's Door tastes exactly of those wild Montana junipers. It is noticeably different from the usual juniper taste of gin--more woodsy and resinous. Death's Door advertises that they use wild Washington Island juniper berries, so maybe that makes a difference. In any case, I love this gin for the taste memory of Montana hiking.

Not My Usual

If you know anything about my cooking style, you know I love capturing traditional dishes of world cuisines. I'm talking little-known pasta shapes from rural Italy, Persian dolmeh (stuffed grape leaves), Tunisian turnip salad, or shrimp and grits from South Carolina. I don't care where in the world you're talking about, I want to make classic food from that place. I don't typically go for "fusion-food", like Korean tacos or pasta with corn (yes, I've seen a recipe). Getting even more picky, I usually don't make "American" versions of world cuisines (I never make "curry" with curry powder). Often, this applies to Italian-American food. Sure, I make pizza and pasta. But I also make polenta and risotto and porchetta and grilled zucchini and piadina and other dishes that aren't slathered with red sauce and called Italian food.

But. But. Tonight I had some eggplant that I needed to use, and wasn't in the mood for the dishes I would normally make with eggplant--green curry (Thai), tagine (Moroccan), baba ghanoush (Middle Eastern), or ratatouille (French). So I decided to make eggplant parmesan. Perhaps one of the most definitive Italian-American dishes out there.

I sliced some (skinny) eggplants lengthwise into 1/4 inch strips, salted them, and let them sweat in a colander. Meanwhile, I made an excellent red sauce by sauteing onion, a chili pepper, garlic, and oregano with crushed tomatoes. Patting the eggplant slices dry, I dredged them in flour (I added pepper and lemon zest for a fun twist--worth it), and briefly fried in olive oil, hot and fast. Then I simply layered the eggplant slices in a casserole with sauce and tons of fresh mozzerella and grated parmesan and baked on a 400 degree oven until browned. Served the classic Italian-American way with a bed of angel hair. And on a checkered tablecloth, no less.

My "normal" style be damned, this was a bloody good meal, and I encourage you to make it yourself. The eggplant gets smoky, the sauce is spicy, the cheese hugs your stomach, and the lemon brightly hums. Worth a departure from the norm.

Bare Minimum

I have, in my sporadic postings over the years, written quite a bit about "cooking for one". Eating alone is a highly debate-able activity--some people think food is all about community, the bringing together of people--and this notion is certainly true. However--there is something to cooking solely for oneself that I find beautiful and important. Cooking for one allows the opportunity to make something that may not be deemed "suitable" for company, whether it's simple like noodles with Parmesan, or a composed meal of olives, cheese, and bread (a meal fit for a queen, and yet somehow, offering that, and only that, to guests feels like a cop-out). These solo meals are a chance to revel in simplicity. I know that a perfectly ripe tomato is the best food out there, but it would be a rare day that you find me serving only tomato slices to a guest.

Having recently moved (to a new town, a new state!) cooking for one is back in my repertoire. And, more than ever, I truly feel as though I'm cooking for one, given that I have no furniture, save a single folding chair. Somehow, the absence of home furnishings make me feel even more alone. My things will arrive next weekend, but until then, all I have is myself. Myself and a minimally stocked kitchen. First things first.

Today I baked a loaf of bread. It is a beautiful loaf, and it is made all the more lovely to me eating it in this sparse home. Good bread nourishes more than the body.

And to drink, I made an old-fashioned. This isn't a cocktail I usually drink, but after tonight, I am a believer. The weather here has been, I am told, unseasonable for North Carolina. Yesterday and today were grey, even a little cold. The old-fashioned fit the bill. The brightness of the orange makes it a summer drink, sunny and sweet. Yet it is still mostly bourbon, and this makes the drink boozy and warm. Perfect for a cloudy summer evening. I used Jefferson's bourbon, which is fiery yet light, making it, I think, ideal for this cocktail.

Enjoy your own kitchen.

The Herb of Spring

Most people associate basil with summer, and I'd have to agree, if for no other reason than it's such a great partner for bursting ripe tomatoes. But right now it's spring, when the weather is just beginning to warm, and the days of Caprese salads and raw tomato sauce are a speck in the distance. We'll get there. And until we do, may I suggest you embrace the herb of spring: chives. Like basil, chives are a spicy herb, though in a different, more assertive way. A member of the allium family, they pack an onion-y punch. In fact, I was recently in the forest with a friend, and had absent-mindedly been munching on some chives. A few minutes later, she commented that she could smell them on my breath. So. Maybe not first date material. But I still ardently recommend chives as an assertive, yet fresh and grassy way to experience Spring cooking.

One of the most glorious things about chives, and the reason I so closely associate them with Spring, is that they literally spring up everywhere this time of year. They grow wild in the woods, but also in yards and along sidewalks. Chances are, even if you live in an urban area, a walk around the neighborhood will lead you to chives. I first noticed chives weeks ago, when we were still getting snow. These babies are relentless. So let them into your kitchen.

My favorite way to use chives is to make them into pesto. This is a labor of love; I've found the best way to make it is in a mortar and pestle, not a food processor, as the long grasses tend to not actually get chopped. What I do is snip the long strands into small pieces with scissors and then smash them up in the mortar with some salt and olive oil. I've found that using some water with the olive oil helps create a nice pesto that saves money without sacrificing flavor. A squirt of lemon juice rounds out the flavor. My favorite use for this is as a dip for French fries or roasted potatoes--salty, fresh, and divine.

Today, however, I was in pasta kind of mood, so I poured the pesto over spaghetti, adding some Parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. The noodles were tinted green and spicy-fresh.

Simply put, chive pesto is a revelation. There is nothing quite like it. It manages to be silky and spunky at the same time. So, go for a walk. Find some chives. Eat them, and taste Spring.

Rainy Summer Night Still Life

I love eating seasonally, and summer is certainly a fun (and bountiful!) time to do so.  Tomatoes only taste good for a few months out of the year, so it's important to make the most of their fleeting presence.  Serve slices with salt, pepper, olive oil, and maybe some basil.  Eating in the summer is both refreshing and easy.  Actual cooking takes a backseat.  I eat cold salads composed of raw corn or zucchini.

But--but--that doesn't mean I don't love eating in the winter, when it's necessary to fatten up on thick stews and crusty bread.  And, I confess to maybe craving a little more wintry or autumnal fare lately.  The same way I might long for a ripe apricot in January.

The root of my craving began with wine.  After a summer of drinking a lot of beer (crisp IPAs and refreshing Pacificos) and quaff-able cocktails (margaritas and gin fizzes), I was sort-of dreaming about a rich, heavy-bodied red.  When it comes to wine, I'll cool off with a vinho verde or rose, but what I really desire is something that makes its presence known in the glass (and my mouth).  But ballsy brunellos and cabs are a little too hefty for the summertime heat. 

Then, a couple mornings ago, it rained.  Not just a light summer drizzle, but a full-blown waterfall coming out of the sky.  And that was enough to make me feel like I could do it--drink a red.  Unfortunately for my craving, it was hot and sticky come evening, so I drank a Negroni instead.  But then last night, the rain came.  I actually got caught walking home in it.  So the time for wine had come.  And the food followed.  A hearty(er) dinner of cauliflower risotto and crusty flatbread with walnuts, rosemary, and fleur de sel evolved. I baked an unbelievably rich chocolate cake.  And though you probably won't find me eating much food like that for a couple months, it was a delicious interlude.  

Food Notes:

To make the cauliflower risotto, follow a basic risotto recipe, with the following modifications: chop the cauliflower stem/core into a small dice and saute along with the onion and celery at the beginning.  Add the florets, cut small, to your stock as you keep it warm on the stove.  When the florets have softened, you begin stirring them into the rice as it cooks.  I found that including cauliflower in the risotto really emphasized the little bit of Pecorino I stirred in at the end.  The flavor and creaminess seemed heightened.  Very luscious.  Great with some crushed red pepper sprinkled on top.

To make the flatbread: mix 2 c flour, 1 tsp salt, 2 tsp yeast, 1 T olive oil, and 1-1 1/2 c water in a bowl.  Knead dough until smooth and let rise for one hour.  Flatten into a circle, about 1 cm thick and place on a pizza stone or baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal.  Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle on chopped walnuts, rosemary, and fleur de sel (or use kosher or other sea salt).  Bake at 425 until golden brown.

Wine Notes:

The wine I drank was Perdera (2009) Argiolas, an Italian red made with Monica grapes.  That means nothing to me.  I've never even heard of Monica grapes.  But I've discovered a new way to find good wine, and so far, it's worked every time.  Joe Bastianich is a crazy-successful restaurant owner in New York.  He partners with Mario Batali and everything they touch is gold.  And Joe happens to know a ton about wine.  So, what I do is go to the website for his restaurant Becco, which features a $25 wine list.  Every wine on the list is $25, which means to buy the wines in a store, they'll be under $20.  But you're getting reasonably priced wine selected by someone with a good palate.  I cross-reference the list with the PA Wine and Spirits website and figure out what's available to me.  Works a charm.

Comfort on a Tablecloth

It's been awhile.  But don't worry, I've still been eating well.

Tonight, for example.  Tonight was about two foods, both relatively new on the timeline of my life, yet somehow they have both become comfort foods.  Much like croque monsieurs, Caesar salad and tuna fish spaghetti snuck into my life in the past five years or so.  But they are here to stay and are able to feed my soul just as well as they fill my stomach.  And I think that's what comfort food means.

I can remember the first time I ordered a Caesar salad, on a whim at a local restaurant.  Some people order Caesar salad all the time, but I am not one of those people.  I don't know what made me do it, but I do know that it was good.  And so, last night, when I happened to watch this video, I started craving a Caesar once again.  As I watched, I realized that a Caesar is all about the salt.  When asked to list salty foods, I, like most people, would list potato chips and french fries, popcorn and pretzels.  I would probably even list anchovies--crucial to Caesar salad--but I would never think to list the salad itself.  But the salt is there.  It's there from the anchovies, it's there from the Parmesan cheese.  And it makes sense.  Salty foods are crunchy; in its way, Caesar salad is crunchy too, relying on the heart of a romaine lettuce.

Caesar salad, though, is not just salty and crunchy, the way snack-y foods are.  The salt (anchovies) in a Caesar are emulsified into its dressing, adding what can only be called a silky component.  All the parts of a Caesar dressing (I used chopped anchovy, garlic, mustard, Worcestershire, pepper, vinegar, and olive oil) combine as though by magic, with a spell of Parmesan cheese holding it all together..  Eating my salad tonight, I didn't taste any one ingredient.  I just tasted dressing on crisp romaine.  Concentrating, I tasted the heat of the garlic, the sharpness of the mustard, the acidity of the red wine vinegar and the ballsy richness of the anchovy.  But no one thing overwhelms another.  The Parmesan is key.  A hard grating cheese, it is still a dairy product, so it brings both saltiness and creaminess to the table, and he's the one that creates the harmony.  Delicious.

The second item on the table tonight was tuna fish spaghetti.  I actually never eat my tuna sauce over spaghetti, favoring instead penne or rigatoni, but I just think of "tuna fish spaghetti" as the name of the dish.  Strange, as I did not grow up eating this dish, but there you have it.

I first encountered the dish in a Jamie Oliver cookbook.  He makes a red sauce with canned tuna, but the key, what really makes the dish, is the addition of cinnamon.  I know--this sounds weird--but when you realize that southern Italy has strong North African influences, everything falls into its place in the grand scheme of culinary tradition.  Even if you still find the dish odd, once you hear how easy it is, you'll want to make it too.  Saute an onion in olive oil, adding a pinch of salt, some basil (stalks or leaves), and a sprinkling of cinnamon.  Add a can of tuna and canned tomato sauce  to hold it all together.  Crushed red pepper for spice.  A splash of wine or balsamic for acidity.  Let it cook together, then toss over a short, tubular pasta.  Parmesan cheese if you choose.  Basta.  The cinnamon doesn't taste sweet or even dessert-y.  What it does is add depth to the dish, adding a smoky element.

Into the equation add a candle, red wine in a juice glass and a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and you've got one comforting Italian dinner on your hands.

Noodle Bowl

Tonight it happened that I had the perfect dinner for one. I should know, I eat alone all the time and almost always enjoy it. But there was something just so singular about tonight's meal that I found myself thinking as I ate it, I want to eat this every time I eat by myself.

Tonight I made a noodle bowl. Bowl meals in general lend themselves to the cooking/eating-for-one genre. There is something cozy about a bowl. You can hold it with one hand, taking in warmth as you eat. Bowls are round and comforting. And a noodle bowl? Well, there's something exciting about getting such a variety of goodness all in one place. Noodle bowls, as their name suggests, have noodles in them. But then they have just about anything else you have on hand in them too. I was spurred on to make one tonight while looking at David Chang's wonderful cookbook Momofuku. His signature noodle bowl, Momofuku Ramen, is full of pork belly, pork shoulder, nori, scallions, fish cake, bamboo shoots, veggies, a poached egg and of course, noodles. All topped with a rich chicken/pork broth. Now, though that sounds delicious, for the average eat-alone, quick meal in, that also sounds like a lot of work.

I was aiming for something a little more...thrown together. But still delicious. What I was craving was noodles. Skinny noodles. I was craving them in broth. I was craving them with a crispy poached egg on top. What? Those of you who know me know that I rarely eat eggs. But every once in awhile I get a craving and tonight I was craving an egg I read about in Bon Appetit magazine's r.s.v.p. section and made once before. The idea is, you poach an egg. You cool the egg in an ice water bath. You roll the egg in egg whites. Then roll it in a mixture of panko, salt, pepper and crushed red pepper. And fry it in a little olive oil. The result is a soft little pillow of egg with a thin protective coating of crisp. Great little texture play going on. (If you don't make a noodle bowl, at least make yourself this egg and eat it over some wilted greens with a little soy sauce).

Anyway, I cooked some thin spaghetti and made the egg. I quick-pickled some carrots, using an extremely speedy method I read about in Momofuku--simply coat the thin slices with a mixture of salt and sugar and let sit for 10 minutes (it really works). I happened to have a little broth leftover from making Pho over the weekend, so I heat it up. This all went into a bowl, along with some cilantro and chopped green onions. That's it. So simple, and yet so much. So many things went into that bowl, and I swear it only took about 20 minutes to throw together. And the point is, you can do it your way. If you have a can of chicken broth in your cupboard, use that, and put the extra in your fridge for another use. I'm sure the quick-pickles would be even better with cucumber or radish, but I just went with what was on hand. Add some soy sauce or Sriracha. The point is to build flavor with what you have. And then eat it all by yourself.

Kitchen Rituals

In his book, The Heart of the Artichoke, David Tanis has a section of "recipes" at the beginning called "Kitchen Rituals". Each is a moment with food that would be experienced in the kitchen, alone. They range from the simple--peeling an apple--to the more complex--making chorizo. While many of us may not undertake the making of chorizo (or tripe, another of his rituals), the point is that we all have our own. We each have our little things we do when we eat alone. Though eating is traditionally a communal activity--and I love the way food and drink bring people together--sometimes food means the most in that quiet moment when eaten by yourself.

Today is New Year's Day, and though I will be eating traditional New Year's foods like hoppin' john and pork with family later today, I also needed to celebrate alone. This was my kitchen ritual, the first of 2012:

Bread dipped into olive oil w/ salt, crushed red pepper and sumac; hard Greek feta; castelvetrano olives; glass of red

Welcome to 2012, here's to a lot of good eating!

P.S.-For more on eating alone, I highly recommend Jenni Ferrari-Adler's Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant: Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone

Summer Tomato

When the cold weather hits and stays, the only way I'll crave tomatoes is from a jar. I'll pull out a mason of the puree I canned and use it with wine for a nice slow beef braise. Or a chili. Or a long-simmered sauce. If I'm tempted to buy tomatoes at the grocery, I'll roast them till the sugars caramelize.

But right now, we're still in summer tomato season, and there are endless ways to enjoy these beauties. My biggest craving this year was for gazpacho. Mixing tomatoes with cucumbers, peppers, and acid seems like the only appropriate meal on a 90-degree summer afternoon. I added chopped raw fennel to mine this year, and the sharp-yet-subtle anise flavor sung through.

Those who love a ripe, red tomato may scoff at my next act, but I start to crave green tomatoes before the red end product even enters my mind. I love their sour crispness. Done right, a fried green tomato will retain part of this crisp texture while softening slightly, enough for the juices to flow throughout the slice. I fry my tomatoes in cornmeal, and have begun adding some uncooked grits to the mixture for extra crunch.

When my mom gifted me with beautiful lavender fairy-tale eggplant this summer, a fried green tomato seemed the perfect counterpoint to the soft, almost mushy grilled rounds. Topped with a sweet, red tomato jam, the combination was divine.

And of course, there is also a time to enjoy a tomato in its pure essence, sliced, with little adornment. After a long morning this past Saturday, I wanted a quick, leisurely lunch. A plate with kalamata olives, ricotta salata, and sliced heirloom tomato, all drizzled with garlic-coriander olive oil is a lunch you never want to end.

New riff on something great

So many people are a fan of kale chips these days, and I am certainly one of them. I first read about them in the February 2009 issue of bon appetit magazine, and instantly wanted to try them. I fell quickly for these crisp green leaves. Baking the kale slowly at a low heat with olive oil, salt, and pepper condenses the brisk, vegetal flavor.

But friends, I am here to tell you--do not limit the making of these chips to kale. Today, I made them with beet greens, and the results were superb. They have the same great crispness as the kale, and though more delicate (a little less mineral, and you can taste the beet), still bring ballsy flavor.

The best thing about making chips with beet greens is that you're probably not going to use the greens otherwise. Kale, sure, you'll saute it or throw it in a fritatta. But beet greens? Not so much. To begin, if you buy any beets other than the classic red--say golden--the greens don't taste good. But in chip form they do. Truly! Plus, different kinds of beets have different colored tops, so you get fun, multi-colored chips.

So, jump on the head-to-hoof bandwagon, only in veggie form. Buy beets from a farmer with the tops still on and crisp up those greens!

Squash Interpretations

There's a saying, "You eat with your eyes," that I think is really true. Food tastes better to us when it looks beautiful. I don't mean pretty. Chef David Tanis talks in one of his cookbooks about pretty food versus beautiful food. Pretty food is when you go to a restaurant and everything has been piled on top of each other to fit neatly in a perfect square on the plate and then the plate--not the food, but the plate--is drizzled with balsamic reduction. Lovely, pretty, but not beautiful.

Beautiful food is when the elements of the food are allowed to shine. Scattering something with a few pomegranate seeds seems luxurious, but it is also real; pomegranates

are a natural, edible jewel. Cooking a while fish, as I recently did for the first time, is beautiful. The presentation is simultaneously simple and special.

Color in food amazes me. Take, for instance, these two interpretations of patty pan squash. I had a yellow patty pan, a food that is naturally a bright, vibrant yellow. Thrilling that something like amaranth microgreens exist with their shocking burgundy threads. A salad of the two is a surprise and a great way to "eat with your eyes".

But take the same squash. Slice into thin slivers and arrange, overlapping on a plate, as if the squash is fanning itself out. Marry with pieces of basil, a lemon-Siracha-oliv

e oil dressing. Yellow and green is a more classic color combination, but the dressing brings a pink-orange note that glides across the white squash flesh. This is fresh food that is as good as it can possibly taste, but then made even better through its beauty.

American Pie

Happy 4th of July! To me, 4th of July has always been about having a brunch picnic with my family and watching fireworks. This year, neither of those are happening (though last night I saw fireworks go off here and there). So, what does 4th of July mean when the traditions are taken away? I think it's all about remembering things that make America America. Not the principles and ideas like liberty and capitalism, but the real tangibles, the fun(ny) things like cookouts and cut-off jean shorts, and those little embroidered aprons worn by 50s housewives.

And as they say, what's more American than apple pie?...maybe a cherry pie with star crust! Here's to celebrating in style!

Simple Pleasures

Food doesn't have to be fancy. In fact, it usually shouldn't be. Mint leaves, white peaches, chioggia beets, Tuscan kale, a hunk of parmigiano--these things are all beautiful on their own and need no adornment.

And sometimes, foods come upon us as a surprise. There is a place on my street where I happened to see two tiny red gems peeking up through the foliage--wild strawberries. Every so often, I will check back and gather a couple more. On Monday, I was thrilled to discover several berries, wet with dew, and I picked all of them. There is delight in holding a handful of these wild red orbs.

And sometimes the delight comes from resurrecting food from a dismal state past its prime. I had a hunk of home-baked bread that was old and had been left out over night. Was was once relatively soft and porous turned into a rock-hard heel. It was too large to crush into breadcrumbs, too hard to cut for croutons. But I developed a trick. Last night, I put the bread in a bag with a touch of milk and let it soak overnight. This morning, I was rewarded with something soft and edible. I soaked the entire piece further in milk and egg and made a hunk of french toast. And these three simple things when fried in oil become sublime.

Spring Eating

Just a few pictures to get back in the swing of posting...baby bok choy with peanut noodles...a vase full of mint...herbs de Provence goat cheese with raspberries and pears...A spring lunch: culzeroni with butternut squash and microgreens, flatbread, and Campari spritzers...a chicken, peach, goat cheese pizza with balsamic reduction drizzle...black cherry almond crostata

I am so happy to be eating this fresh, warm-weather food!

'Tis a gift to be simple

Often, simplicity is best. Sometimes it's easier to enjoy food when you savor the food itself, pure flavors, unadorned. Think of the sweet corn of summer, simply boiled on is cob, buttered and salted. Or a sharp farmhouse cheddar, cutting off buttery shards with a knife. These are foods that want nothing more. They have no need of preparation. These are the foods that remind us why we love food. The best food can be delicious without the best chef.

Simple foods are a different kind of comfort food. They do not fall into the category of beef braised for hours in a stew or rich, gooey macaroni and cheese. They comfort--not because they are hearty, but because they are real. They need little, if any, preparation--the original fast food. We are comforted because we can eat well the moment we are hungry, without agonizing over recipes.

I ate this way last night. I recently acquired a beautiful bottle of Greek olive oil, pressed exclusively from kalamata olives. It is a bright, vibrant green, the exact green you would hope for to celebrate spring and new life. It is silky. And grassy. Perhaps you have read about olive oils before, and there are these strange descriptors, the way wine is spicy or jammy. Olive oil is nuanced in a similar way, and people say it is fruity or herbal. Or grassy. The second I opened the bottle and tasted my oil, I knew. I knew I was tasting a grassy one. It was fresh and alive. And I wanted to eat that pure flavor, un-muddied and true. So I made a vinaigrette. I smashed a garlic clove in my mortar with a little sea salt, making a satiny paste. Poured in my olive oil. Whisked in a little cider vinegar. Chopped up some romaine. Dressed the lettuce. Accompanied by a beautiful chunk of pecorino, a simple food in its own right.

And another thing about simple food--it loves to be presented simply too. And that somehow makes it all the more beautiful.

Homemade.

It is so satisfying to eat food that comes straight from my own hands, to be completely connected to what I'm consuming. Because so often, we don't know. Today's sandwich came pretty darn close, save the basil leaves scattered on top, which I really have no business eating in the winter, anyway. But sometimes we make little exceptions. But the rest? Pure goodness.

The base is Irish soda bread that I baked last night. I've started baking bread regularly, and I have a basic rustic loaf that I bake a couple times a week. When you can't find the time to let your dough rise, however, Irish soda bread is a good go-to-loaf. I like mine with currants and caraway seeds.

Next, I slathered on some good, homemade ricotta cheese. I discovered around Christmas time that it is so easy to make your own ricotta, and have been making it ever since. The texture is divine, and the taste is clean. It tastes exactly like what it's made of--milk. I have used my ricotta to make ravioli, a dessert across between a cheesecake and souffle, and ricotta fritters--little balls of fried, crisp, gooey goodness. And ricotta is great on sandwiches, especially as a foil to stronger flavors, as in today's interpretation...

Chili pepper chutney. At the end of the summer, I bought up a bunch of chilies and cooked them into a spicy-sweet mass with onions, balsamic vinegar, and brown sugar. The chutney is very spicy, so it's a perfect match for ricotta, which helps tame the heat and bring out the flavor.

It's a lunch to feel good about.

How to use up that open bottle of wine

Walking into my kitchen last Wednesday morning, you might have thought me a fool. You would have found me, standing in front of a hot oven, eyes closed, as the passionte voice of a tenor singing opera filled the air. I would have seemed lost. Anything but. In fact, I was smelling heaven. See, I made these:

Biscotti al vino. Wine cookies. Flour, sugar, olive oil, white wine, a little fennel seed and lemon peel. Basta. Now that I have made them, I can't think of anything more miraculous.

It began as I was reading Marlena di Blasi's wonderful A Thousand Days in Venice, in which she falls in love with a "blueberry-eyed" Venetian, and marries him. The book is as much a meditation on life as it is on love, and in Italy, life means food. And so, page after page contains the simplest mentions of some meal, each one restrained yet tempting. And I am easily seduced by the power of suggestion. So when Marlena goes to the bakery and buys biscotti al vino, "cookies made with white wine, olive oil, fennel seed, and orange peel," I want some too.

I began searching for recipes, finding them mostly in Italian. The ingredent list is short, however, and easy enough to understand. (None of the recipes I found called for the fennel and orange flavorings, but as she was eating her cookies in Venice, I figured that's authentic enough. I substituted lemon for orange.) The method seemed intuitive. So I began, mixing flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and fennel seed. To it, I added olive oil, white wine, and lemon peel, bringing the dough (which is almost like a bread dough) together. I let it sit. I shaped the dough into little doughnuts, dusted them with sugar, then into the oven. After awhile, I could really begin to smell them, which is where you would have found me, reveling in the luxurious combination of aromas. Let me just say, that if you ever would like someone to fall in love with you, put a tray of these in the oven before he arrives.

And they taste pretty darn amazing too. The wine offers a subtle, je ne sais quoi kind of flavor. Or, to quote one of the Italian bloggers I discovered in my search for a recipe, they are, "facile, facile, ma buona, buona" (easy, easy, but good, good). And I'm thrilled to find a baked good I can make without butter or eggs.

I have made these cookies twice in the span of one week. The first time I made them, the recipe I developed yielded good results, but the dough was hard to work with, so I tweaked it a little and was satisfied the second time around. So, here is my recipe for biscotti al vino:

Put 1 1/2 c flour, 1/4 c sugar, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1 1/2 tsp. fennel seeds, and a pinch of salt in a bowl. Use a whisk to mix. Pour in 1/4 c olive oil and 1/3 c white wine. Grate over the zest of half a lemon. Use a wooden spoon to begin incorporating ingredients, then use your hands to knead into a smooth dough. Let rest, covered with a dishcloth, for 15 minutes and preheat oven to 360 degrees.

Pour 1 T sugar on a plate. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Take a walnut-sized piece of dough and roll into a snake. Join the ends, making a little doughnut-shaped cookie. Dip the top in sugar and put on the baking sheet. Continue. Will make around 12 cookies.

Bake in preheated oven for 15-25 minutes--depending on what you want the texture of the cookie to be. Shorter time will give a softer cookie, but it will not color. Longer time will slightly brown the cookies and yield a crunchy cookie.

Mangia!

PS-Haven't tried it yet, but I hear you can make these with red wine too. Might change the other flavorings, like clove instead of fennel.

Homage to the turnip

Turnips are a humble vegetable. They get little notice, seem to be an afterthought thrown into pot roasts. I grew up eating them only on St. Patrick's Day, boiled up with the corned beef and cabbage. Turnips even look humble, their purple skins make them appear to be blushing, coloring the otherwise perfect white flesh.

It's time turnips get their due. They are sweet. Throwing turnips in a pot roast adds an unmistakable sweetness to the broth. And unlike onions, which also sweeten during cooking, turnips are perfectly sweet and delightful raw. I first discovered this when I made this salad, which has since become a personal staple, being a favorite of mine as well as my roomate. Raw, turnips give a lovely crunch, more so than that of an apple. And turnips have a slight fire to them. A little heat to contrast the sweetness, a subtle spiciness.

And so, seeing a large basket of turnips for sale at the farmers' market last week for only $2.50, I couldn't pass it up. $2.50. Talk about a deal. That's like 10 cents a turnip. They were giving them away.

But what's a girl to do with all those turnips? They'll keep for awhile in the fridge, but aren't as hearty as a squash. So, I decided to pickle some. Maybe you've never heard of a pickled turnip. I haven't. But, I thought, what's the harm? $2.50 isn't much to pay for an experiment.

So I peeled about half my turnips down to their beautiful white flesh, cut them into chunks, and threw 'em in a pot. Added some vinegar and water to cover and to season, added: peppercorns, fresh ginger, star anise, crushed red pepper, sugar, and salt. I brought it all to a boil and let the turnips cook, but not get too soft. Then put it all in jars. I also packed some sliced garlic in with the turnips as I jarred them. Kind of an asian vibe going on.

And the result? Nice. It's exciting to bite into something pure white, but get all these spicy flavors melding together on top of that underbelly of sweetness. My pantry is a little happier with these babies around

.

Pickled turnips, canned tomatoes (both diced and crushed), chili pepper chutney

Late-Night Mexican

Alright, so it's not even late. But when I'm home alone on a Saturday night, there's something that's bound to happen--snack concocting. And my kind of snack often starts with a drink. I was recently given a cocktail book, with everything from classics (a Manhattan) to "pitcher drinks" (Bloody Marys and rum punch). And then in-between there are handy little chapters organized by type of spirit. I have tons of tequila, but all I ever know what to do with it is make a margarita--wonderful, but maybe not on a cool autumn evening. So I turned to the book and found a sueno. Still has the lime of a margarita, but a little rosemary for warmth. To make:

Muddle a few slices of cucumber and some rosemary leaves in a cocktail shaker with 3/4 oz. lime juice and a pinch of sugar. Add 2 oz. tequila and ice. Shake. Strain into highball glass with ice. Pour over 1 oz. tonic water. Garnish with rosemary sprig.

Once the drink was made, I couldn't just leave it at that. I had some tomatillos that I got from my farm share today, so I chopped them into a simple salsa with onion, chili, sea salt and lime. Simple. And perfect for a little alone time.