Nosheteria

I Pity the Fool...

2008-05-06T10:17:00.003-04:00

...who doesn't try this deliciously simple dessert. As summer is approaching I can feel my culinary muscles getting sluggish. I don't want to turn on the oven. It is enough to set a pot of water on the stove to boil. And baking? Well, just forget about it. I am tired, or maybe it's just that I am lazy. That is why I'm happy to announce the discovery of the strawberry-rhubarb fool.

I had never had a fool-- that mix of freshly whipped cream and fruit compote of your choosing-- they had always seemed like a bit of a hoax to me. "So it's some whipped cream, anyone can do that," I questioned. And the answer is: precisely, anyone can do that. That is what makes this dessert so wonderfully egalitarian.

When I was a little girl we always had large Thanksgivings with all of the fixins' at home. Except for one year, we went on holiday in Arizona, and had our feast in the hotel dining room. It was horrible. Instead of my grandmother hacking into the bird, there was a carving station. The mashed potatoes were congealed sitting under a heat lamp, and the stuffing was pulverized to saw dust. The only redemptive aspect of that Thanksgiving was dessert. No, I didn't have pumpkin pie, not even an apple... there was mousse, creamy raspberry mousse.

Now what does all of this have to do with fool? I can't remember the taste of this raspberry mousse, but I do remember how it made me feel-- civilized, and all grown up. As I plunged my spoon into the fool, taking a bit of extra compote that I pooled on top, I sat a little straighter, straightened my napkin in lap.

There isn't really a recipe for this fool. I simmered the rhubarb with a bit of sugar until the fruit fell apart. Setting the rhubarb aside, I blitzed some strawberries with another small amount of sugar, then joined the strawberry and rhubarb together to make a delightfully staining compote. Then whip the cream to stiff peaks with some vanilla extract, add the fruit to the cream, folding gently to maintain soft peaks, and there you have it. It couldn't be simpler, or more satisfying.

I'm off for a bit, going to visit family in California, and hoping to see some apricots (my favorite fruit of the summer) when I get back!

Bring Some Biscotti

2008-04-23T09:22:00.002-04:00

I moved to New York for my husband’s job, but it ended up being a beneficial move for me as well. I found my agent, and eventually my publisher while living here. And when the time came to meet with my potential editor and a herd of others from Simon Spotlight, I was just a subway ride away. When my agent called to inform me of this meeting, of course I was thrilled, but equally terrified.

What would I say? What would I wear? But most importantly, what would I bring to eat? Food has the ability to say so much about a person and, considering I was writing a food memoir, I wanted to bring the perfect item. My meeting was at 11 in the morning—not really breakfast, not really brunch. I needed something that was easily transportable. Share-able. Not to heavy. And above all delicious. I poured over my repertoire for a week. Cookies? Too sweet. Cupcakes? Too quaint. What about a frittata? Too much. And then I found it: biscotti.

Restrained, rustic, with the right amount of body to say, “Yes, I have substance, seriously look at this book I am writing, and enjoy a little something sweet while you do it.” In general, biscotti were not really on my radar. I always enjoy them, I just never think to make them. But I had made these biscotti before. They were as trust worthy as they were delicious.

The recipe is heavily adapted from The Zuni Cafe Cookbook. Originally they are flavored quite heavily with anisette. I opted out of the anisette, and substituted dried cranberries. I think it can be a little dicey to bake with anisette, unless you know your audience; never have I found a person who feels mildly about black licorice. They either love it, or hate it. I was trying to please many with my biscotti, not drive them away from the biscuit, and by extension—the book.

And I guess these biscotti did the trick. They will be forever known as The Lucky Biscotti. The next time you really want things to go your way, or even when you just feel like a little something sweet to have with your morning coffee, mix up a batch of these biscotti. The recipe is on the Daily Specials page.

My Story...

2008-04-15T09:54:00.003-04:00

Everybody has a story to tell. I suppose that is why blogs are so popular; it can be liberating to tell a tale. But what about food blogs? They might be about sharing recipes, from my table to yours, but they are also about the story behind the cook.

In this month’s issue of Natural Health there’s a story all about my life in the kitchen. Why would they ask me, a regular old food blogger to write a story for their magazine? Well, I have an unusual tale to tell and, in the interest of complete disclosure, here it is:

When I was 21 years old, just finishing up college, I suffered a hemorrhagic stroke due to an arteriovenous malformation (AVM). It left me completely paralyzed on the right side of my body. The next few years were a blur, of doctors, of therapists, of rehabilitation, and of frustration.

So what does this have to do with food, or blogs for that matter? I am not going to say that a cake came in and sweetly solved all of my problems, but cooking did come in to solve some of my problems. While dealing with physical therapy and all the challenges it involved, I began to spend more and more time cooking. It was lovely to escape into the petty business of the kitchen: chopping, watching a pot boil, or tossing a salad. The kitchen grew to be my place, a warm nook for experimentation, and unlike therapy, there was no one to reprimand me for trying out that failed recipe.

I cooked, and I cooked. And then I cooked for other people, starting with family and friends, and later, clients in a small catering company that I started. I did this all the while rehabilitating. I never got back to where I once was, but I’ve learned to be fine with who I am, each step of the way.

When I started this blog, I was still wobbly like a custard, unsure of who this new me was. I would sit down to tell you all about the latest soup that was simmering on my stove, or my triumphs with a fiddlehead fern. Blogging was liberating for both the new cook and the new me. There is a certain anonymity to blogging, a faceless name behind the computer monitor, and I relished my little secret. No one could watch me fumble to peel a clove of garlic one-handed, they just hungrily saw the final product.

But as I continued to blog one-handed, there was an elephant in the room sitting right next to me. And that proverbial elephant was whispering in my ear that there was an entire other story that I needed to tell, a story of food, of loss, of work, and of joy. So, over the past year and a half, I’ve sat down each day to write that story. I know, I know, a memoir at less than 30 years of age; it doesn't seem quite possible to me either, but as I began the process, the words came, filling up page after page.

Well, one things leads to another, and a proposal leads to an agent and finally a publisher. I have written a food memoir, tentatively titled Cooking and Screaming. As for the manuscript, it is due in my editors hot little hands May 1!!! That's soon. The book will be published by Simon Spotlight Entertainment (an imprint of Simon & Schuster) and is due out Spring '09. That seemed so far off when all of the paper work was signed and the contracts drawn up, but let me tell you, the days are simply flying by.

What does this have to do with the magazine article? I was approached a few months ago by the editors at Natural Health to write a story, based on the memoir, for an upcoming issue. (Now you might be saying to yourself, Natural Health? Did they even read my paen to Easter candy a few weeks ago? I don’t know, what can I say?) Fitting a life's story into 2,000 words, plus recipes, was certainly a task. I had to leave a few things out.

If you are curious to know more about my story, you'll just have to wait for the book, and in the meantime, pick up an issue of the magazine. The article also has recipes for a slow roasted chicken with a fennel-apple slaw, a springtime hash with poached eggs, and a chunky watermelon sorbet with coconut tuilles (for those of you who are just hungry!).

So, that's my story.

Amaranth in Astoria

2008-04-10T08:53:00.001-04:00

My grandma loved the color purple (and no, I am not speaking about the book). She had several pairs of purple slacks, quite a few lavendar tops, dish towels, pot holders, you name it. It seemed that as she got older, her love for the color only increased. But she was not alone in her affection. She had many a friend who was ga-ga for the hue as well. Whenever I pass a group of older women, dressed in their finest or even donning casual kick-around clothes, I see an inordinate amount of purple. It is as if they are creating a flurry of springtime activity in their brightly colored outfits.

But for as much as my grandmother adored the color, I had a dance teacher when I was growing up who detested the color. So much animus was heaped onto the color purple, in all of its various shades that his students were forbidden from wearing the color, and the dance studio had not even a poster with the slightest hint of the color up on the wall. He claimed it made him physically ill; his stomach would turn, nausea would set in, eventually leading to vomit if viewing was forced. One day a girl had forgotten the no-purple rule, and had worn purple socks under her jazz pants. My teacher caught one look of the girl's pointed feet during warm-ups, stopped the class, and made her borrow leg warmers for the duration. That's serious. So I wonder what my dance teacher would have thought about this salad:

I went to Astoria for the first time this past weekend. Strolling around the avenues, stopping in the various markets, each with their own specialties, cruising past so many small bakeries selling rows of cookies, pillowy Italian breads, and cannoli by the dozen, was dizzying indeed. I refrained from buying too much; I had a long subway ride ahead of me. But I did find a purple pair: the diminutive Italian eggplant, and the spindly amaranth plant. I wasn't really sure what to do with the amaranth, never having cooked with it before, but it was so beautiful with its deep green leaves, and gorgeous purple veins running along the stalk and into the splayed out leaves, how could I not buy some?

That Saturday was the first truly springtime-like weather of the season, and as I sat on the subway train back home, the amaranth leaves flopping over beside me, I couldn't wait to do a bit of reading on this green. Here is what I learned: amaranth is an old green, and has been eaten in its various forms for centuries all over the world. Young amaranth is often beet colored, and the new green can be eaten raw in salad. As the vegetable grows older, it's leaves become large and varigated, and it is most often wilted and sauteed. As I looked at my leaves, as large as baseballs, I figured cooking was the way to go.

I roasted the eggplant first in a heavy cast-iron skillet, then finished them in a warm oven. The skin became blistery, and the flesh soft. I then sauteed the amaranth leaves in a bit of olive oil scented with fresh garlic cloves. Cooling the vegetables to room temperature, I dressed my salad in a simple lemon-tahini dressing, topping it with slivers of red onion, and coarsely chopped cilantro. The greens were similar to spinach, yet more astringent, and the eggplant was meaty and substantial, the perfect compliment for a creamy dressing with a bit of a kick. And upon cooking, the vegetables lost their vibrant purple tone, maybe even enough for my old dance teacher.

Queen of the Post-Its

2008-04-03T11:00:00.000-04:00

I am not the neatest person. I am not however the messiest-- comfortably lived-in is what I like to call it. There are always stacks of paper lying about my desk. Pens don't always have caps. The coffee table can actually be used to hold a cup of coffee, and sometimes hours will pass before I pick the empty cup up and bring it to the sink. I guess this bleeds over into how I am in the kitchen as well. My counters are always wiped clean, my utensils pristine, but as I write this, the coffee pot has not yet been cleaned-out, still holding the latest murky brew, and there is a package of graham crackers sitting out from last night's snack. So be it.

I always keep a small pad of paper with me. Tucked into my bag it becomes an invaluable resource. I jot down things that occur to me throughout the day: books to read, shopping lists, recipes to try. And when I am at home, the electronic Post-It for the computer, is similar to my pad of paper. They are a thing of functional beauty for the pack rat in me. The only problem with this method, is the desktop of my computer becomes so littered with small yellow "sheets" of paper it looks like a autumn has arrived at my desk.

All of this would be fine if I routinely checked my amassing of notes, but I stack up the tiny Post-It notes, burying ideas one on top of the other. Well, no more! At least no more for this week-- I did a bit of spring cleaning. There were recipes, and food combinations by the bundle. Some actually seemed tasty, some just seemed odd (what was I doing when I though of that?), and some seemed to be both. Like this one:

"Apple bruleed with marshmallows." Hhmm, sounds interesting enough, don't ask me when this particular doozy occurred to me, but since we are still in apple season (she writes, annoyed), I'll give it a shot. I'm not really sure if I originally intended to make apple sauce, and then brulee a coating of marshmallows like a meringue-- but that is what I did.

I don't have to tell you, marshmallows can be cloyingly sweet, so I made my apple sauce from the tartest apples that I could find. I simmered my apple chunks in a bit of water and a vanilla bean. Leaving the sauce still chunky, I put it in a ramekin, then topped each with a small handful of mini marshmallows. Popping the whole mess under the broiler, I let the marshmallows bloat and blister, before removing and eating up.

Well this was strange-- good, but strange. The nearest thing I can equate it to, would be mochi, another chewy, delightfully strange dessert. Contrasting the tart apples, the crispy marshmallow topping melted over the sauce, creating a unique melange. So the next time you're up for something a tad bit bizarre, give this brulee a try and tell me what you think.

I'm a Too Hot Tamale

2008-03-25T10:41:00.000-04:00

When I was in my first year of college I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. While my friends spent winter break on ski holidays in Lake Tahoe, or went for a tropical beach vacation in Hawaii, I returned home to my parents house to have exciting oral surgery. I subsisted on a mainly liquid diet, punctuated by the occasional cup of translucent Jello. And the only high point of my break was that my parents had finally gotten cable television, and sucked in by the novelty, I watched quite a bit of TV that first swollen week.

I looked like a chipmunk, my face packed tightly with mouthfuls of crusty gauze, but my fingers worked just fine, and I became one with the remote control. Cable television was good then, Mary Tyler Moore and Rhoda aired each night on Nic' at Nite, and there was a new channel called The Food Channel that played fabulous imports such as the Naked Chef and the rolly-polly Two Fat Ladies, as well as superb American chefs like The Too Hot Tamales, Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger. (Aahh, the good ol' days!)

I loved these ladies. Their show was both informative and entertaining, and their dishes always looked delectable. I have picked up their cookbooks through the years, and let me tell you, the recipes never disappoint. So when I stumbled upon the recipe for these Green Corn Tamales, trying them was a no brainer.

And yes, I know it is not summer, so therefore corn is not in season, but I still made these dense maize pillows. In their book, they give the option of using 3 cups, drained, canned corn pulverized in the food processor. So pulse away I did. Now, never having had the pleasure of a fresh corn tamale--which might be stupendous--let me just say that these "green" corn tamales were pretty darn good. Pleasantly sweet, with just enough body to make them interesting, these tamales were like a little taste of Mexico right here in New York. And there is something so delightful about unwrapping your meal before you eat.

I ate my tamales with roasted tomato salsa, and a dollop of sour cream and dreamed of summer. Three for three, Too Hot Tamales!

Easter Magnificence

2008-03-13T10:34:00.001-04:00

Rite Aid was a mess, a disastrous mess. The indoor/outdoor carpet tiles covering the floor were peeling upwards displaying the worn concrete , loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and lightbulbs were scattered helter-skelter on the ground. There was one frazzled checker and a line of customer 12 deep. When we walked in the store, I calmly muttered to Brian, "Okay, I just need a few things, and then we're out of here," thinking that this was not how my husband envisioned spending his Friday night.

But all of this changed for me when I caught a glimpse of the store's Seasonal Products aisle. It was Easter! Bags of cellophane grass, miniature baby chicks made of polyester pom-poms, and row upon row of Easter candy, I was in heaven. Turning to Brian I exclaimed, "Why, this place is magnificent!" I'm not kidding.

Now, I had been to the drugstore since the first Easter items rolled in. I had seen the sparkling Peeps show their colored sugar skin, but it was not until I had entered this drugstore hell on the Upper West Side, that I had experienced all that Easter had to offer. This means that this Rite Aid had the one Easter candy from my youth, a bag of little animals that no one--save for a few highly judicious people with discriminating palates--eats and loves. The Chicks and Bunnies.

Can you tell that I love these things? They are strange. And entirely man-made. I don't think that it is even possible for something so sweet and so blue to exist in nature. They are in fact, a gussied up version of the Circus Peanut, a very special sweet treat that I remember sharing with my mother from time to time growing up. The Chick or the Bunny (and the Circus Peanut for that matter), for those who have not had the amazing fortune of trying one for themselves, are a dried up, sort-of marshmallow, vaguely banana-tasting confection. They are malleable, and can be pushed into a tiny cube without much force. And they are sweet. Really sweet. I will just put it this way, The Chick and The Bunny are kind of like high heels-- they're not for everyone.

Yes I am a Jewish girl, but this does not exclude me from reveling in all of the wonder Easter treats have to offer. So get yourself to a Rite Aid tout suite, and revel with me. Easter is March 23!

Cupcakes are Lame... or at Least I Keep Telling Myself

2008-03-04T12:25:00.000-05:00

I'm over the cupcake, in theory. They are so fashionable that they have become passé. A new Magnolia Bakery has moved in to the Upper West Side, so now ladies, babies and dogs can experience their confections a little closer to home. Hauling your butt down to the West Village, waiting in line with countless tourists for that bite-sized treat can be a grueling task.

So, in theory, I'm over them... and yet, I keep making them.

Hypocrisy? Perhaps. Delicious? Definitely. I feel like a hamster in a sugar-coated wheel, running away from and to this American dessert. There is just something about the cupcake. For a person like myself, a girl who is often looking for her will-power, a diminutive dessert is ideal. I could cut myself a huge hunk of cake, or I can savor one darling little cupcake. They are the perfect size to satiate my sweet tooth.

These cupcakes were topped with Swiss Meringue, a not too sweet concoction of egg whites and sugar that beats the pants off of 7 Minute Icing. After mounding each cupcake with the pillowy topping, I put them in the broiler for a moment. They browned to a lovely, crisp top, firming ever so slightly. The cupcakes were like little bites of meringue pie.

So I guess I will continue making cupcakes, I will just hate myself while eating every delightful morsel. I'm just a cupcake masochist.

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Eight

2008-02-28T10:35:00.001-05:00

I love potatoes. Who doesn't? Even a bad french fry, when the potato has behaved like a sponge and soaked up a bit more oil than intended, is good. And who did not live off of the classic baked potato when they were in college? With some broccoli tossed on, and a sprinkling of cheddar cheese, an entire, homey meal, made for a king-- or a college student. Boiled, steamed, hash-browned, or sauteed, I am an equal-opportunity queen of the starches.

The potato is like the little black dress of the culinary world. However you decide to dress it, it is infinitely adaptable. So when it is dreary out, cold and gloomy, when you wake up each morning, put on your glasses, and gaze out the window toward the barren, bud-less trees, hoping that maybe tomorrow, you will see a burgeoning bit of greenery, sometimes the only thing left to do is retreat into the kitchen with your good ol' friend-- the potato.

My mom sent me this recipe, for a crispy potato cake. It's been sitting in my inbox, just waiting for the right, somber day to do a little savory baking. Perhaps little is not the correct word, rather, fat or heavy might be more appropriate, because that is what this cake is. Made by ricing 5 lbs. of potatoes, the batter is mostly that-- potatoes. Mixed with prosciutto, bechamel, Parmesan, et al., this cake is not for the timid. It is for the hungry, those that have a gaping hole where their stomachs used to be, waiting for some starch to come by and spackle it.

Delightfully neutral, the potatoes get warm and crisp on top, smooth and hearty on the inside. The recipe is a bit labor-intensive, with the boiling, ricing, mixing, making bechamel, etc., but it proved to be the perfect meal to make when the only thing you wanted to do was to curl up inside anyway. Just make sure and do your calisthenics beforehand. With eight potatoes, this cake weighed a ton. If you would like the recipe, it is on the Daily Specials page.

Offaly Good

2008-02-20T09:18:00.000-05:00

Innards. It's what's for dinnards. Awhile back, when finally coming clean to you all about my, well...diversity of eating habits, I mentioned that offal, delicious though it may be, "doesn't photograph too well." I stand corrected. Though it may not be the beautiful girl, with a sparkling smile, and hair so buttery blond she is simply crying out to have her picture taken, it is not necessarily the gangly, pre-pubescent, girl with wiry hair and a mouth full of metal either. I guess it is all in how one handles a little bit of liver, that makes one exclaim-- beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I myself was not always a lover of liver. When I was young my mom would prepare them every so often for Sunday supper, and I would gag. She would drag out the heavy, cast-iron skillet, and set the individual chicken livers to sizzle in the buttered pan, with a healthy seasoning of sliced onions, salt and pepper. My nose would set to twitching even before I could see what we were having for dinner. My family would sit down to eat, my parents each taking a hearty portion of liver, and even my sister, my kindred spirit of sorts, with an even more timid palate then my own, liked the liver too. I, on the other hand, would take a small serving, poking it, rolling it around my plate, smelling its acrid, pungent odor, and ultimately leave it. It was just plain nasty.

But then I went to Italy. Oh, and about 10 years passed. In Florence, on a warm July evening, with people zooming by on their scooters, anything, even chicken liver, smeared on a crostini, and drizzled with fruity, olive oil is going to taste good. Smooth and creamy, with just the right amount of heft to truly remember what it was that you were eating, I was now a chicken liver convert. And I have never gone back. Now it is me, who drags out my cast-iron skillet to fry up some liver for dinner. I make my own rustic pates. That smell that was once so acrid is now deeply savory, and a bit smoky.

So this weekend, while watching cooking shows on PBS, I saw Lidia make a pasta sauce with chopped-up chicken liver and I knew that this was a sauce I had to try. Although this may appear to look like a hearty bolognese, it is anything but. Don't get me wrong, it is no primavera, but it is simply not heavy and rib-sticking either.

To make the chicken liver sauce, saute an onion and a few cloves of garlic with a bay leaf. Add a few tablespoon of butter, and a bit of tomato paste. When all is toasty, add about a pound of coarsely chopped chicken liver, and some peas. Continue to saute, until the liver has a nice crust on the outside, and then add a bit of stock. Stir well to mix, and heat through. Season with salt and pepper, then add in your cooked pasta (I used linguini) and some Parmesan cheese.

Delicate and buttery, smooth in both consistency and texture, with a pop of sweetness from the peas, this sauce was a dream for those who have a taste for the innards. And maybe it is even unassuming enough to sneak past the liver haters left out there.

Pudding for Lazy People

2008-02-13T09:03:00.000-05:00

I can be a lazy cook. I am not however a lazy eater. I often have very lofty aspirations about what I want to eat, it is just getting there that can seem a bit daunting. But I have found that from laziness often comes resourcefulness, or pudding, as it was this time.

Pudding is not something that is in my file under often-rotated recipes. I generally prefer something I can sink my fork into for dessert, and well, pudding is the stuff which won't even hold your spoon straight. But when it is a snowy Sunday, with the wind whipping around so quickly the flakes do not fall softly to the ground but briskly fly at you, perpendicular to the sidewalk, in a pinch, pudding will have to do.

Making pudding from scratch is just about as simple as making it from the box. In fact, I made this dessert with ingredients I found in the fridge and pantry-- you can't beat that. For this particular batch, I substituted light brown sugar for white sugar. I suppose that makes this pudding butterscotch, but I found the dessert not so much butterscotch-y as just different from the usual.

Cool and creamy, with just the right amount of sweetness to satisfy my sweet tooth in even the nastiest of weather. I set the plastic wrap right on top of the surface of the pudding, so nary a skin was in sight as I set it to chill. Then spoonful after wobbly spoonful I ate the pudding up. If you would like the recipe, a similar one is found here.

Just Like Chicken

2008-02-07T10:02:00.000-05:00

Looking over my past posts to Nosheteria, I make a lot of salads. Because I eat a lot of salads. There is nothing more satisfying to me than a pile of crisp lettuce, a crumbling of cheese, and for interest, a melange of crudite. What can I say, I grew up in California-- bring on the sprouts. So, I realize that it is possible for my readers to think I am a vegetarian, or at least close to one. Well, that couldn't be farther from the truth.

I will eat just about anything. There were the bunny hearts of last year, grilled and skewered on pine-y rosemary branches. They were chewy. I have loved sweetbreads from the time that I was young and traveling in France with my father. At the time, I thought they were artichoke hearts and ate them right up. Yes, give me your snails, slippery and drenched in garlicky butter! I don't suppose I cover my carnivorous leanings on this site because offal usually doesn't photograph too well. But roasted mustard rabbit, wrapped in salty prosciutto, adorned with pan juices deglazed with cream and lying on a bed of soft polenta, that looked, and tasted pretty darn fine.

When my sister (who still lives in California) called me this weekend, our conversation went something like this:

"So what are you doing?"
"Making dinner."
"Oh, what are you having," she asked, as she heard pans clattering in the background.
"Rabbit."

Silence.

"That's gross. I couldn't."

And I realize many people couldn't. No amount of soothing my sister's nerves by telling her how they were farm-raised, or that many people think that rabbit tastes just like chicken could alleviate her gag reflex. And I understand, I really do. But I thought that you, my faithful readers might like to see what I had for dinner this weekend.

I can see why parallels are so often created between rabbits and clucking barnyard fowl. The meat tends to exactly the same in color and texture. But with rabbit it is more subtle, more delicate. I tucked one fresh sage leaf under each slice of prosciutto, this perfumed the meat in a woodsy, herbaceous way. And the pan-juices, salty from the ham, and pale from the cream, were perfect. I thoroughly enjoyed my supper, but you should feel free to make the same recipe with chicken as well.

You're a Crumby Bun

2008-01-30T12:54:00.000-05:00

I love a coffee cake for breakfast. Or a piece of pie. And if there are any homemade cookies in the house, I can't think of anything better to have with my morning cup of coffee. (If these cookies happen to be oatmeal, all the better. I rationalize it away as eating a breakfast grain first thing in the morning.)

Growing up my mom would occasionally make a coffee cake from the back of the box of Bisquick. I would wake up to the warm smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. Rolling out of bed, I sleepily made my way down the hall. On a cooling rack my breakfast would sit, its craggy streusel topping with lumps of shredded coconut peeking out. This is what probably gave me my very first sweet tooth in the morning.

As I was looking through Carole Walter's book, Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins and More, I thought to myself, "Fantastic, an entire book of foods that are bad for you, yet taste so good." And then I spotted the crumb bun, which was reminiscent of those streusel coffee cakes of yore. So what exactly is a crumb bun, you may be asking? They are a yeasted roll, slightly sweet, with a topping of sumptuous, crunchy streusel. They are good.

And they are time-consuming. The dough must be made the night before, and then needs to come to room temperature (about 1 1/2 hours). They need to be kneaded, formed, allowed to rise again, and then finally, baked. So these buns may not be the most ideal morning treat; they are clearly not a quick bread.

But if you are anything like me, and slightly neurotic, you will make the dough the night before and as it sits, hibernating in the refrigerator, you will go to sleep. Let me rephrase that, you will try to go to sleep. I tossed and turned all night waiting, and wanting to make those crumbs buns. Finally I just got up. At 7 o'clock AM. On a Sunday. The dough had rested nicely. I had not.

But the buns were great. Warm from the oven, yeasty, with a rich crumb, streusel abounded (although I did not use the entire recipe's worth), and if you're neurotic like me, they make the perfect breakfast treat. If you would like the recipe, it is on the Daily Specials page.

When is a Grape a Raisin?

2008-01-22T08:49:00.000-05:00

There are times when going out to eat can inspire great cooking at home. I went out for tapas with some friends recently. We had plates of serrano ham, thick fried potatoes with a garlicky aioli, roasted baby brussels sprouts swimming in earthy olive oil, and chewy baguettes filled with spicy tuna, and hard-cooked egg. What can I say, we feasted.

We also had a plate of roasted grapes. A fruity side dish that was definitely not my favorite dish of the evening, and I will tell you why. They were beautiful and plump, wrinkled slightly like a sigh, sitting tightly in clusters-- these grapes were begging me to try them. So I did, plucking one from the bunch. And you know what? They were cold! I'm not talking slightly cool, these grapes had been sitting in the fridge for hours. Now I beg the question, if one goes through all of the trouble to roast a bunch of grapes to wrinkled perfection, wouldn't you serve them at least slightly warm?

I am a bit finicky. I will admit to preferring my fruit unchilled. A cold apple hurts my teeth, and a melon when set to languish in the fridge, loses its summertime perfume. Having a piece of fruit that is cold is like putting a juicy snack on mute. I was irked, not enough to abandon my glass of Rioja, nor enough to decline ordering the churros (with a velvety chocolate dipping sauce) but irked none the less.

But from dissatisfaction comes resolve. I did not forget those grapes, I wanted to try them again-- this time unchilled. So I purchased a bunch, doused them in olive oil, gave them a sprinkling of salt and pepper, and then roasted them in a hot oven (450 degrees) for 15-20 minutes. They were delightfully dessicated, like a raisin but better. Withered and juicy they popped in your mouth. I continued my savory experiment by using my new grape/raisins in a winter salad.

Fried capers, curls of Parmesan cheese, torn and toasted bits of bread were nestled cozily in a bed of sprightly arugula and topped with roasted grapes. It was the perfect mix of salty and sweet. And the grapes were just as I wanted them to be-- wrinkled and warm.

And the Beet Goes On

2008-01-10T12:10:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you just get a certain food stuck in your head, or maybe it is more apt to say, stuck in your stomach. Like a nagging craving, the flavor is gnawing at you like a dog gnaws on a prized bone. I have always been one to give into these cravings. I figure, if your body is crying out for precious food-- give it what it wants! This is of course assuming that what your body is crying out for is not an entire pint of Fudge Ripple ice cream or a large, oozy pizza, extra anchovies.

I have been thinking a lot about beets lately, in all of their many incarnations. Roasted, steamed, boiled, sauteed, or shredded. Beets have become my Fudge Ripple ice cream. I know, I know, you're probably saying, "Beets? Beets? Come on, you have got to be kidding me. Now this girl is going to wax poetic about the beauty of beets?" And to this I have only one comment to make-- wax on.

I was at the farmers' market recently, with a few moments to kill before I had to be at work. The day was blustery, the trees barren, the ground damp from the chilling rain of the night before. The market was dead. Many of the vendors had taken the morning off, due to the inclement weather. There was a table of the requisite apples/apple stuff (cider, dried apple rings, apple cake), a pathetic table of onions, a few winter squash, and the largest head of cabbage, with the droopiest leaves I had seen in quite some time. There was honey, lots of honey, and there was a lone table of fresh pasta. Amidst piles of durum wheat penne, and semolina angel hair, there were a few containers of beet fettucine.

Now I'm not usually big on colored pasta. They can be so... 80's. I can still taste the tri-color pasta corkscrew salad, with sundried tomatoes, sliced black olives, drenched in Wishbone dressing. Come on, I know that you remember them too. But this fresh fettucine was lovely to look at, a dusty magenta, smooth, and soft. And besides, it was beet, how bad could it be?

I bought some, and brought it home for dinner that night. When boiled it shirked the fine coating of dusty flour, and turned deeply garnet. I grated a few beets (and have the finger-stained evidence to prove it), and sauteed slowly until tender with a few sprigs of fragrant rosemary. I browned a few tablespoon of butter in a separate pan, and added a small handful of poppyseeds, then added the butter to the beets. A quick toss with the pasta, and a very pink dinner was ready.

Eating this pasta, was rather like eating in the dark. Pink on pink, I couldn't really see what I was eating, but I surely could taste and feel it. The sweetness of the fresh beets, the crunchy nuttiness of the poppy seeds, and the piney scent of the rosemary--my all pink supper did just the trick to satisfy a relentless craving.

Frying in the New Year

2008-01-02T10:39:00.000-05:00

Did everyone have a pleasant, gluttonous holiday? Good. I don't know about you, but each year come January, I am so ready to get back to my real life. I am ready to kiss those candy canes goodbye. Ready to extinguish those chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Ready to blow off those powdered sugar cookies. Is anyone with me?

As excited as I become to ring in the holiday season, I think that if I see another Bûche de Noël I just might have to toss it into the fireplace. (She says with a bah-humbug!) I am ready to go back to the daily, winter grind: obsessively checking the weather forecast for signs of snow, piling on layer after layer of woolen winter clothes, and slowly exhaling warm air hoping to catch a glimpse of my breath. And the food-- there is always the food.

This year, I just might have a new favorite-- the polenta fry. Or maybe I should call it, the polenta bake, since there really is no frying to speak of...but fry is somehow a catchier word. I have never much been one for New Year's resolutions. But for many, after an indulgent holiday season eating a fried anything is too much to bear. So...enter these lovelies.

They couldn't be more delicious. Simply make a recipe of polenta, then pour the molten carbohydrate into a pan, either 8-inch square, or slightly larger, to cool. When polenta is cool, what you will have is one giant mass, ready to cut. Slice this into manageable fry-size portions, place on a Silpat, or parchment-lined baking sheet, brush with olive oil, then bake at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.

If you are anything like me, and have difficulty leaving well enough alone, pile the fries high, and dust with Parmesan cheese and fried sage leaves. So I guess I made a baked fry, then slathered my "healthy" alternative with a fried herb. Well, we can't be good all the time, can we?

A Date for Christmas

2007-12-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

Before Brian became my husband, he was my forever boyfriend. No, he was not my high school sweetheart, but I did meet him when I was still in college. So, he robbed/saved me from regaling you with horrific dating stories, of scrambling around trying to find a date for some holiday party or another. But I do have one.

I was 18, had just moved out from under my parents roof, and I had my first real, honest-to-goodness boyfriend. A Frenchmen we'll call M. With a penchant for fast-talking, heavy black framed glasses, and a haircut like Tin Tin, M was the man of my post-adolescent dreams. We met on the subway, and a romance was quickly born. We lasted a handful of months, one of which was December, that month of candy canes, egg nog, and holiday parties.

I brought M home with me to attend a family holiday party. He got out of the car, snuffing out his Gauloises cigarette, in skinny, scuffed suede pants, and smelling faintly of sweat (although I'm not sure why, he was not in the slightest bit athletic). My parents were gracious enough, and welcoming of course, but I think they were shocked to see their youngest's paramour.

Now watch this segue...

Yes, dates (the non-edible kind) can be tough around the holidays, while dates (the edible sort this time around) can be a perfect holiday match made in buffet heaven. The dulcet sweetness of an innocent-looking, knobby, brown fruit pairs so well with salty foods. I have eaten them all sorts of ways: stuffed with goat cheese, or wrapped in bacon, or stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. But I had never eaten them prepared in these perfect little holiday packages.

A few simple ingredients: salted roast peanuts, paper thin prosciutto slices, and plump dates, all rolled into a savory packet. Pit the dates, then stuff them with a few salty peanuts. Roll each date in a portion of prosciutto, securing them with a toothpick. Then into a lightly greased pan they go, to crisp up the ham. When finished the prosciutto crackles, the dates are warm and sumptuous, and the peanut offers the slightest bit of salty resistance. Now that is what I call a fine holiday hors d'oeuvres!

Go ahead and bring these dates, along with your date to your next holiday party. (Suede pants optional.) Have a lovely holiday season!

Burn Baby Burn

2007-12-11T11:35:00.000-05:00

Do you remember eating grapefruit as the starter at a savory dinner party? I do. It must have been an early 80's things to do. Or maybe it was a late 70's thing, and my mom was simply holding on to a remnant of the past (sorry, mom!). Anyhow, I loved it. It seemed so grown-up and glamorous, to eat a grapefruit instead of a standard old green salad in preparation for the rest of the meal.

To my young palate eating a piece of fruit for the first course was equivalent to the excitement that I felt when a small dish of sorbet was set down in front of me as a palate cleanser during my first dinner at French restaurant. Ice cream! In the middle of my meal? I could get used to this whole fine dining thing! Well, it's been years since I ate a grapefruit as a first course, but come winter, I eat a grapefruit virtually everyday.

The Ruby Red is my favorite. That shock of pink flesh, the sweet-tart pungency, it gets me salivating every time. Usually I eat it simply, with just a touch of brown sugar crystals melting ever so slightly on the top. But when I have a moment to spare on a blustery weekend, it becomes all about the brulee.

So easy, it's hardly a recipe; but I have to share anyway. Cut your grapefruit anyway you like, I use my handy-dandy, dual-sided grapefruit knife, with the curved blade (whew, how's that for a mouthful). Then encrust the surface of the fruit with brown sugar, a bit more than a sprinkling. Pop the halves under the broiler for a few minutes, just until the grapefruit is beginning to brown. And there you have it.

The sugar seeps into the fruit, making a perfume-y, subtly sweet concoction. The grapefruit is warm and juicy, the perfect accent to a weekend breakfast, to be enjoyed while lazing around in you warmest pajamas. They may not be the grapefruits of yore, accented with bright maraschino cherries, and served chilled, in a cut-glass bowl, but somehow I think that this will still do the trick.

Not Your Grandma's Pumpkin

2007-12-05T23:45:00.000-05:00

Who has eaten a real pumpkin? Not the kind that come already pureed in a can, and not the pre-made, pumpkin pie filling. Well, I hadn't. Pumpkin seeds, I was all over. Butternut squash I can roast with the best of them. And let's just say, I get a kick out of kabocha. But pumpkin, I had never had the joy of making.

Pumpkins had always been too round, too cumbersome, too heavy to negotiate all on their own. I would have visions of me as Sweeney Todd, wielding my kitchen cleaver to hack a whole pumpkin to smithereens, in the hopes of obtaining one salvageable wedge to roast. I read a lot of British cookbooks, and thumb through the occasional British food magazine, and they are always using pumpkin in its various forms. But do they expect me to hack up the whole squash as well? I might be into the Slow Food Movement, but come on, even I require some amount of accessibility in the foods that I prepare.

But then I saw them at a produce market. Like someone's busted Jack O'Lantern, shrink wrapped, and piled high, just in time for the holiday season-- wedges of pumpkin, ready for roasting. So I brought one home.

Roasted very simply until soft, with pinches of salt and pepper, and a glug of olive oil, this pumpkin was an altogether different sort of squash. I drizzled the roasted wedge with a balsamic reduction, and gave it a healthy sprinkling of toasted pumpkin seeds. It was delicious! The pumpkin was unlike any other squash, as it had a soft webbing, like spaghetti, of intricate flesh. It was subtle and sweet, warm and delightful.

Who's to say if I would ever get violent with my own complete pumpkin in order to cut it into wedges, but I will definitely keep on the lookout for sizable pieces at my produce market again. I hope you will too.

Impulse Shopping

2007-11-27T08:50:00.000-05:00

Awhile back I bought this book. At the time, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I was at The Strand, which in my opinion, does not have 18 miles of books. It seems to me they might have 1 mile of books, and what makes up the other 17 miles are repeats and remainders. But 1 mile of books is still a hefty sum. So Brian and I went to the bookstore and split up accordingly-- he goes to philosophy and music, and I go to cooking and fiction. So I'm browsing, and I pick up The Big Book of Casseroles.

I thought to myself, as I thumbed through the recipes, I'm American, I should know a thing or two about casseroles. I have a Pyrex pan, an oven. I like rice; I've been known to eat elbow macaroni. I don't really come from casserole people, my family is Jewish, but there is no reason not to give this casserole thing a try. And the book is quite large, 310 pages of rib-sticking recipes. I am bound to find something that I like.

So I brought this book home, and it just sat there, occupying precious shelf space. I would look at is occasionally and wonder: what was I thinking? Beef Strips with Mushroom and Artichokes just doesn't sound that appetizing. And no, I am not tempted by Salmon Loaf. I had made an impulse purchase. But determined to give this book a shot, I finally decided on this recipe.

New Potato and Blue Cheese Pie. Sounds simple and wholesome, and it was, but the recipe definitely needed tweaking. Made in a pie plate (hence the name) this dish was like a potato gratin sprinkled with blue cheese. If the recipe was followed exactly, I would have had my warm and bubbly potato pie in 45 minutes using just 1/2 cup of chicken stock and baking at 350 degrees. What I got was neither warm not bubbly; it was pale and crunchy. The potatoes didn't brown, they remained crisp, and the cheese had hardly melted.

To save my dinner side dish I had to raise the heat to 400 degrees, add about 1/3 cup more chicken broth, and wait another 20 minutes. And then the dish was okay, not terrific, but fine. The cheese that had been nestled under the top layer of potatoes had melted to a pleasant blue mess, and the potatoes baked into a dense, crisp mass. Weren't casseroles supposed to be easy, not stress inducing? Maybe the Beef Strips with Mushroom and Artichokes is the way to go after all.

Gobble Gobble...It Up

2007-11-20T21:43:00.000-05:00

Dear readers, I'm sure you are getting ready, as am I, for a holiday full of turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. But let's not forget about Thanksgiving's most maligned side dish, the jello salad. Probably not eaten at Plymouth Rock, but neither were those bubbling casseroles of yams topped with marshmallows, the jello salad is worthy of inclusion in this festive meal. Here's a post from 2005, detailing one unique variety of the dish. Happy Thanksgiving!

I am a Thanksgiving traditionalist. I don't like anything fantastical at my feasts, and I come from a long line of traditionalists. Parsnip-Potato Puree may be scrumptious any other day of the year, but on Turkey Day it has to be pure-- Russet Potatoes mashed with milk and butter and slathered in homemade turkey gravy. For me a ginger-lime rub on the turkey would be sacrilege, I'll take butter anyday, and I'm getting racy if I add some bourbon to the sweet potatoes. For one day a year I forget about haute cuisine, and it's true Americana at my house.

But this year I borrowed from another family's tradition and made the weird and wonderful Layered Raspberry Jello Salad. Salty, sweet, and pungent, this is a bizarre trio of flavors-- raspberry jello with whole raspberries, Cool Whip, mixed with cream cheese, all plunked on top of a crust of salted, crushed pretzel sticks and butter. Mmmm.

First let me say, I am not one of those people who is ga-ga for jello. It all seems a little strange to me; a clear concoction of sweetened fruit is an alien invention-- just eat a piece of fruit. Mixing the cream cheese with the confectioner's sugar, and blending it with the whipped topping, made my stomach turn, but the layering process was a thing of beauty. Neatly wedged into a clear Pyrex baking dish, then plunked in the refrigerator to set, this quivering mass of white trash goodness came out only hours later and made me giggle with glee. The holiday season had arrived!

What makes this "salad" even more of an anomaly, is that the recipe doesn't even come from a typical American family. My sister had a roommate in college who was first generation American, much of her family is still in Italy, and scattered around the world. They had a huge Thanksgiving feast, replete with an American-style turkey, and many Italian side dishes. They always ate early in the day, and my sister and I would stop by to wish them a happy Thanksgiving before our own feast began. We would bring some fudge that my mother had made the night before, and in return we would get a plate of Italian cookies, and a little dish of Raspberry Layer Salad for my sister and I to share. We loved the stuff!

Those Thanksgivings have passed. It had been years since I had tasted the jello salad, but I thought of it each November, as I was buying up my yams, and sorting through mounds of brussel sprouts. So this year I decided to make it, and it was almost as good as I remembered. It was a little too strange for some people at our Thanksgiving dinner, and that's fine. They don't know what they are missing.

Still Life With...

2007-11-13T10:44:00.000-05:00

At the market last week, I just about stopped dead in my tracks. There each one was, assembled in such close proximity that I almost couldn't bear it. Check out the loveliness of the following: Fuyu persimmons, Satsuma mandarins, and Belgian endive.

If I were Martha Stewart, hostess extraordinaire, queen of all good things, CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire, and owner of several palatial estates along the East Coast, I know what I would have done. I would have bought a basket full of these stunning edibles, arranged them beautifully on one of my 12 foot long, maple dining tables, careful to hide all of their bruises and imperfections, and had a stunning centerpiece to enjoy for the few days that the produce remained rosy.

But let's get real. Martha may be great, but she can also be a tad, well... unrealistic. I live in New York City, in a tiny one bedroom apartment, with a three foot square Ikea dining table, and as lofty as my aspirations may be for autumnal, perishable centerpieces, my stomach always gets the best of me. I guess I am just too human to be a marvelous homemaker.

I bought a handful of Satsumas, a few crisp, ripe persimmons, and an endive that went solemnly into the fridge. Sure I enjoyed the fruit for a day, sitting in my fruit bowl, I glanced at their day-glo beauty as I carried on with my days activities. But soon the fruit beckoned to me, and it told me it wanted to play with that lonely endive in the fridge.

And play they did, quite beautifully, together on the chartreuse salad plate. I love a salad with fruit, not a fruit salad mind you (though they are stupendous as well), but a salad that has the mystical interplay between sweet and savory, and that is what this salad had. Crisp leaves of endive were plucked, but left intact; puckery, first-of-the-season mandarins; and smooth, slippery, peeled persimmons; were assembled on a plate. Sprinkled with crumbles of salty blue cheese, then drizzled with a simple vinaigrette to heighten the salty-sweet advantage, and my salad was ready.

For the moments that the salad sat resting while I tore off a hunk of bread to go with my meal, it was truly lovely. I could even imagine Martha saying it was, "Bee-yoo-tiful!" But then I ate it, my stomach gurgled pleasantly, and I have to say, my lunch was pretty beautiful too.

What Comes Around, Goes Around

2007-11-05T08:45:00.000-05:00

Well, we've definitely come full circle, at least culinarily. Frozen yogurt (or fro-yo as it was affectionately called in California, where I spent my childhood) is back, with a vengeance. Oh sure, this time around it is vaguely different, flavored with green tea, or just plain-- a simple, tangy version of the refrigerator variety. But it still is a cup of fro-yo.

A Pinkberry's moved in near my apartment, and hearing all of the hype, I knew this was something I had to try. The bubbly decor, infectious-beated pop music, and unfazed, high school-aged staff, were all some how strangely familiar. I ask you, dear reader: do things every really change at the fro-yo parlor?

Picture it: summer 1989. I was nine years old, and I was obsessed with my cool, older sister. She was 16, had her outfits of Units clothing (It's a dress, no a shirt, no a belt, no a head wrap! No, it's whatever you want it to be!), listened to edgy New Wave music, and wore her hair just so, half up, scrunchy firmly tying her rambunctious curls away from her face. And she, for some reason, felt an obligation to me. That summer, I gleefully rode around town with her small group of friends.

Tiffany (I know, I couldn't make up a better name for this 80's memory if I tried) was my sister's friend who lived up the road from us. She would come barreling down the driveway in her Ford Mustang, which always just looked like the much-lesser ride, the Ford Escort to my unskilled eyes. I would squish myself into the backseat, and off we'd go, down the hill to Yummi Yogurt.

Yummi's was the best. With eight flavors of yogurt, seemingly chunky styles, like rocky road, made unctuous and smooth, awaited to be adorned with countless toppings. And can you believe it, it was fat-free? "One small cookies-and-cream (?) yogurt, with crushed Butterfinger topping please!" And then I would sit in silence as my sister and Tiffany prattled on about the new Units top/skirt/belt they coveted. Ah, the summer of '89.

And it all came flooding back to me at Pinkberry's. Because even with all of the hype, the new, "healthy" fruit toppings, or the gauche Fruity Pebbles that I opted for, it's still just frozen yogurt. Excuse me, fro-yo. Pinkberry's is becoming huge, and in no time one will be causing a "fro"-motion near you too.

The Seltzer Man Cometh

2007-10-23T08:11:00.000-04:00

I moved from Berkeley to New York in August, that sticky month of the year, when the city smells like the armpit of a sweaty construction worker, and you really wish that it were permissible to just run around the crowded streets in your underwear. But when Brian and I arrived, in typical Northern California fashion, we still had our light sweaters to ward off a chill in the evening. We learned quickly that a sweater was never needed in August in New York. And that same summer, I also learned about the wonders of seltzer water.

We had been in the city a total of two days. We were still waiting (not-so) patiently for our furniture, which had been sent ahead to arrive from California. We were sleeping on our new “Klik-Klak” sofa-cum-bed-cum-dining table-cum-coffee table-cum-every piece of furniture you would ever need. We Klik-ed and we Klak-ed this sofa for the two weeks it took the rest of our belongings to find its way from the other coast. But I digress, we had been in the city just two days, barely a weekend’s worth of time, when we were invited to a dinner party.

It was at a friend of a friend's house, no one we really knew, but this couple opened up their apartment, and cleared space at the dining table to feed these two new New Yorkers. In typical Manhattan fashion, we were told to be at their apartment in Chelsea, at 8 o’clock. We arrived, and then the rest of the guests invited arrived by 9. After mingling, and noshing on mixed nuts all washed down with a chilly glass of white wine, we sat down to eat at 10. On a Wednesday night.

After hours of good conversation, chilled pea soup, and a large handful of steamed shrimp awaiting a quick shedding of their peel before being popped, naked and unadorned, into one’s mouth, we had drank all of the wine, and had to switch to seltzer. Maybe it was the heat-- at midnight our hosts had shut off the persistent rattle of the air conditioner, and threw open the windows, allowing in the drone of the city, or maybe those shrimp were actually thirst-inducing, whatever the reason, we went through bottles of seltzer that night like, well…it was water.

And since that day, I can’t get enough of the stuff. I would say that I drink seltzer water now, much more than I consume still water. You could say that I even have seltzer coursing through my veins.

October, is a very festive time of year. Gourds abound, it is the month of Halloween (my favorite childhood holiday), and it is my birthday month. And this year I received the greatest of all gifts from the greatest of all friends—home delivery of the king of all drinks, seltzer. Each Saturday there is a buzz at my door, and I let in the seltzer man. Up the four rickety flights of stairs he trudges and drops off 10 of these stunning vintage glass bottles filled with effervescent, nose-tickling, crystal clear seltzer. Each time I open the fridge, a bottle is standing their waiting for me. Perfect. Maybe next year, when I turn the big 3-0 I’ll get home delivery of a genuine soda jerk to go with my glorious seltzer filled bottles.

A Salad and a Scarf-mina

2007-10-16T08:17:00.000-04:00

Farewell dear, sweet corn. Goodbye bright melon salads, see you next year. And don't think I have forgotten about you smooth, seedy summer squash. I'll pick you all up next June, when the weather's warm, and tank tops beckon my shoulders out into the sunshine. For now, there are new foods churning their way into my psyche. I mean, it is October for heaven's sake!

The weakening sun hides behind the ever-burgeoning clouds, and it's warm one moment, cool the next. I leave the apartment with a light jacket and scarf-mina (one part scarf, the other part pashmina) firmly affixed round my neck one moment, only to remove the jacket, and blot the perspiration from my brow with said scarf-mina, the next. This of course, translates into stomach confusion for my appetite-- a salad...no, a stew...no, a salad.

Well, what about a hearty salad, how does that sound to a fall appetite? A fall salad sounds quite alright, especially one with roasted beets, kohlrabi, and a hint of salty blue cheese.

I had seen kohlrabi many times before at the market, and always up for exploring the world of new veggies, I brought a small pile home with me. For those of you who aren't familiar with this knobby little vegetable it's a member of the cabbage family, and grows just about anywhere. It can be eaten raw, or eaten roasted, or cooked in a variety of ways. I peeled my kohlrabi, and crunched away. I chewed. And chewed. And then I decided to roast it. With a mild flavor, a bit like jicama crossed with a tart, green apple (although some people say it reminds them of eating broccoli stems), I thought this would be the perfect roasting vegetable.

I sliced the kohlrabi, tossing it in olive oil and giving it a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Then I set the slices to roast for 40 minutes at 425 degrees. I also roasted the beets in foil packets for a bit longer, at the same temperature. Removing the roasted veg from the oven, I cooled them to room temperature. Then I set to work assembling the salad: peppery arugula, creamy and salty blue cheese crumbles, and of course the roasted beets and kohlrabi. Dressed in a simple balsamic-Dijon vinaigrette, this salad was the perfect autumnal feast. Try it yourself wrapped in a scarf-mina, jacket on the side.