Have you ever had one of those moments, maybe you were cleaning out your closet, and discovered that old blue sweater in the back recesses that you never really wore when you bought, but trying it on now, years later, it fits beautifully, and is warm and soft– precisely what you have been looking for. Or maybe you have finally found the ideal ball point pen, just narrow enough to make a serious stroke yet fluid enough so that it has a bit of caché. Well that’s sort of how I feel about my latest discovery.

Branston Pickle Relish is hardly a new product to any Brit out there. But for me, an American with more of a, shall we say, austere palate– it was a revelation. It all started a few months ago, as I was getting ready to leave New York. I had dinner in Brooklyn at Northeast Kingdom, a little restaurant in Bushwick that served haute British food and whose only neighbors seemed to be the industrial buildings that lined the block. Dinner was great, conversation even better, and my fellow diners and I all shared the ploughman’s salad as a starter. The pickled beets were tangy and sublime, the sturdy greens were tough and manly, but it was the wedges of Grafton cheddar cheese, and the shiny, deep brown blob of Branston Pickle that truly stood out.

The cheddar was smooth and subtle, and paired with the sweet and tart taste of the relish it was a match made in heaven. It got me thinking, wouldn’t a grilled cheese sandwich, made in this exact combination be stupendous? And then I moved. The fridge was emptied, boxes loaded, and Bushwick became a distant memory. Some ideas die hard however, and I hadn’t been in New Haven very long when I found the bottle standing thin and proud, on the shelf of a Turkish market near my new home.

I quickly snapped the bottle up (this market has a very bad reputation for carrying products one day, only to have them disappear the next). The Grafton cheddar came next, and before I knew it, I was having the best grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Glimpsing at the ingredients listed on the bottle, it’s true– Branston Pickle has everything but the kitchen sink, and it may not be the most aesthetically pleasing condiment on the planet, but the taste more than makes up for it. Who knows, I may never eat a plain grilled cheese again.

Although New York is on the Atlantic coastline, and I lived there for two years, somehow I couldn’t imagine a crustacean cruising around the major metropolis area. So I went two years without eating a lobster roll. And for anyone who grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, like I did, the lobster roll is a thing of seafood lore, something only to be heard of and spoken about in hushed voices while picking up the latest line-caught seafood from Half Moon Bay.

But now that I have moved to Connecticut, lobster abounds in the summertime. Steamed, grilled, and of course rolled, these succulent babies are served up in a variety of different ways, at a variety of different establishments. But for my very first lobster roll, I went to Chick’s in West Haven. Chick’s is truly a relic from the past, not much has changed here since the 1950′s. While the food is standard, large and usually fried, the location can’t be beat– it’s literally across the street from the beach. Moments after ordering, my lobster roll came out of the kitchen, piping hot, dripping with butter, on a toasted hot dog bun.

The Connecticut lobster roll is ideal for a mayonnaise-phobic fiend, such as myself, because it is simplicity itself. All you really taste is lobster, moist and slightly chewy, and butter, lots of butter. The cheap white hot dog bun, toasted to perfection, is merely a vehicle for getting the lobster into one’s mouth.

My husband, though sampling my lobster roll, ordered the special, deep-fried, soft-shell crab. It was served with toast in order to make a sandwich that looked like it could literally walk away with its claws peeking out from under the bread. The crackly carapace offered a welcome crunch to the sweet crab meat hiding within.

(That’s my husband’s hairy arm. I think it is the perfect backdrop for his fried feast.)

Was the food at Chick’s amazing? No, there is better fried fish to be found, and I am sure now that I am a Nutmegger, I will eat a better lobster roll. But Chick’s was the perfect introduction to this state. Sitting outside, on hard concrete benches, with our plastic plates of seafood before us, with a watery dish of coleslaw, and a lemon wedge as accompaniments, the cool breeze of summertime by the water, and the waves lapping the rocky shoreline across the street– Chick’s was great. I definitely think I will be back again.

I don’t think I have ever moved in Winter. My moves have always been marked by the school calendar– a flurry of finals, rapidly moving, and then, enjoying a bit of summer vacation. And I guess that since I have married an academic, this is the way that our moves will always be. It works out fine, we managed this move with only a few bruises from bumping into boxes of books, and more than a few towels have been used to mop our sweaty brows.

The hardest thing for me to move is, of course, the kitchen. There are pots and pans, bake ware, popsicle molds, utensils, my fondue pot, to name just a few from the laundry list of items. Naturally, those all get packed up. (You never know just when that fondue pot will come in handy!) But then there are those spices– the staining turmeric, smoky cumin, the last few shakes of warm cinnamon, and the vials of sauces– the fermented black beans which I can’t remember when last they were used, the fish sauce, its fragrance so briny, and its flavor so bold. “Such a waste, I am a wasteful human being!” I proclaim while emptying the contents down the drain.

And then I stand just a few days later, in front of new, empty refrigerator, and a pantry that is so barren the dust bunnies roll around like tumbleweeds. I buy just what is needed for awhile: a jar of Dijon mustard, dark balsamic and gleaming white wine vinegars, olive oil; my peppermill and my salt cellar are ready to be put to use. I praise the summer, with its abundance of produce, and its warm air blanketing the kitchen, making me want to assemble dishes rather than cook them. Like so…

I could eat this numerous times…and do. The quintessential summer salad, a shortened Greek salad of diced tomatoes and cucumber, fresh minced dill, a sprinkling of crumbled feta cheese, a squeeze of lemon, and a drizzle of olive oil. Put this salad on crisp, thin, rye crackers, and you have a beautiful midday meal.

Salad again– but in the summer there is nothing I would rather eat. This one features grilled figs, lending a smoky flavor to an otherwise sweet fruit, with some baby arugula. Tossed in a simple Dijon vinaigrette, this was the perfect accompaniment to have with plump chicken-apple sausage.

Now that the move has decimated ingredients from one kitchen, it has forced me to simplify and to be inventive in another kitchen. It really is amazing what can be made with just a handful of ingredients, and a little bit of care. Who knows when things will get back to spice quo in my house, but as long as summer is here, with her truncated meals, I really don’t mind.

It has been a dizzying few weeks for me, how ’bout you? This is how my weeks went: climb over mountainous piles of moving boxes to get to my computer, sit there for hours, the time punctuated by the occasional beeping of a car horn by some impatient Connecticut driver, and pour through pages and pages of my manuscript edited thoughtfully (and thoroughly) by my editor. Yes, my computer became my best friend, the only other thing/person that I interacted with was my husband…and even that was minimal.

It was difficult having an entirely new state to explore and trying to be good, trying to stick to a deadline, so I knew that this exploration would have to wait. But summer stretches out before me, bringing with it soft serve ice cream cones, baskets full of cherries, and buttery lobster rolls. I can’t wait! Now, with the manuscript resubmitted, I am free– at least for a brief while, and then the second round of edit hits, like a summer electrical storm.

As you may have guessed, I haven’t been cooking much lately; but even a busy girl, with a slightly bare pantry, gets the itch to do some cooking. Or blending as it may be. Gazpacho is not my favorite, it always sounds utterly delicious to me, but in fact, leaves me empty. Brian concurs, saying it always tastes a bit like V-8, so why not just drink that instead? Generally, we lead a gazpacho-free life. But it has been hot here, and especially hot in our new air conditioner-less apartment (more on that, if you’re interested). But this recipe, torn out of a year old copy of Food and Wine magazine, and made with watermelon in addition to the standard tomatoes and cucumbers, sounded tempting.

Refreshing and crisp tasting–if a mostly liquid supper can even be called that–this gazpacho was the perfect antidote to those hot summer days. It’s beautiful, almost fuchsia in color with a vibrant jalapeno-scallion relish of sorts, bringing a pleasant heat to this cooling dish. The watermelon and the tomato play off of one another nicely, the melon offering a sweetness while the tomato, a tang. Chilled, it was an ideal meal to have, before putting my nose back to the grindstone, and then tumbling softly into bed.

Following is the complete recipe, which makes 12 appetizer servings. I however, made half of the recipe, and it turned out well. This gazpacho keeps for a few days in the refrigerator, making it perfect for a lazy summer chef. I served mine with a squeeze of lime and a side of fried plantains.

Watermelon Gazpacho
Food and Wine, August 2007

6 1/2 pounds tomatoes, cored
2 pounds seedless watermelon, peeled- 2 cups coarsely chopped, 2 cups diced
2 pounds cucumbers, peeled and seeded- 2 cups coarsely chopped, 2 cups diced
1/4 cup sherry vinegar (I used white wine vinegar, and a splash of balsamic, it was all I had and it worked well.)
3 tablespoons olive oil
salt and pepper
6 scallions, thinly sliced
2 jalapenos, seeded and minced
1/2 cup chopped cilantro
1/4 cup fresh lime juice

Bring a large pot of water to a boil to blanch the tomatoes, until skins are loosened, about 30 seconds. Peel the tomatoes and slice them in half cross-wise. Working over a coarse sieve set in a large bowl, squeeze the tomato halves, releasing the juice and seeds. Press on the seeds. You should have approximately 2 cups. Coarsely chop the tomatoes to make 4 cups. Dice the remaining tomatoes into 1/2-inch pieces.

In a food processor, puree the the coarsely chopped tomato, the reserved tomato juice, the 2 cups each of the coarsely chopped watermelon and the cucumber together. Transfer the soup into large bowl, stir in the reserved diced tomato, cucumber, and watermelon. Stir in the vinegar, and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Refrigerate until chilled, at least 1 hour.

In a small bowl, mix the scallion, jalapenos, cilantro, and lime juice. Season with salt and pepper. Ladle gazpacho into individual bowls, drizzle with remaining olive oil, and pass the lime relish to garnish.

Things are changing around here. Do you see that stack of papers above? That is my manuscript, fresh from the editor. I know I’ve been tardy and rather delinquent in posting lately, but this unedited manuscript means that I’m going to be even more tardy and more delinquent. I gotta turn this baby around in a few weeks. And…did I also mention that Brian and I are moving? Well, we’re moving. When it rains it pours.

With all of this commotion, it seems like a good idea for Nosheteria to take a brief summer vacation. So, I will be writing to you in a few short weeks, with a newly-edited manuscript from my new home in the Nutmeg State. Bear with me.

Oh, it’s getting good around here. Since I have been back from California, I have been to the Union Square Greenmarket quite a few times, and each week, it gets a bit better. At first there were the ramps, beautifully spindly. Then came the green garlic, mild in flavor and hinting of spring, and the baby kale was soft and budding, soon to be replaced by bagfuls of gorgeous gem lettuces.

But I am a creature of habit. When the produce is this good, there is not an awful lot I want to do to it. (Except run home and eat it!) Yes, I buy the same goods week after week. The vendors recognize me by face, and I love this. In a city so large, teeming with both tourists and locals, it is nice to know that the potato man recognizes you. And when the potato man, who was also happens to be my ramp man, has such delicious looking, and tasting veggies, how can you go wrong? His potatoes are packed with starchy goodness. For weeks now I have called them potatoes+ and Brian has coined them super-potatoes. They are that good! So each Saturday I hop on the subway to get my fix.

They’re called little roasters, and the cardboard sign above the bushel even has roasting instructions displayed. But I have never actually done this. These potatoes are tiny, no bigger than a grown man’s thumbnail. So I give them a quick bath in some screaming hot water, and boil them just until tender. Then I pop them in my mouth with a bit of butter, salt and pepper, or if I am really feeling adventurous, some freshly minced dill.

But this past week, as I nodded to the potato man, and plunged my hand in the bushel, I was thinking I really should do a little bit more with my melange. So I came up with the rhyming salad– potatoes and tomatoes cohabitating together. Cherry tomatoes, lively and sweet, halved and salted, waited patiently in a bowl for the boiled potatoes to cool. I sauteed some chopped green garlic in a bit of olive oil, and let that bloom while I chopped some parsley and a bit of chive. Then all the ingredients were tossed together, with a bit more salt and pepper.

When I sat down to eat this rhyming meal, my gurgling stomach was quickly silenced by this springtime feast. I even thought of a few more rhyming meals while I finished my salad. There are: wild leek and halibut cheek, or rib-eye steak and chocolate cake. What about fried smelt and a patty melt, topped off by boiled spam and raspberry jam? I don’t know about any of those pairings, they may just have to wait until the next time I am in rhyming mood. What about you, do you have any other rhyming foods I forgot to mention?

My dad was a traveller. Not a camper, and certainly not the sort of traveller interested in lying on some white, sandy beach. He was a fly by the seat of your pants sort of traveller, an adventurer, an explorer. When I was growing up, every few months he would get that undeniable itch that needed scratching, and the only way he knew to scratch was by boarding a 747 and heading off to a foreign land. Fortunately for me (or my sister), he often brought us along on his travels.

We would take leave from school and a-travelling we would go. My dad would board the plane, with a pigtailed little me following him and besides the final destination, and maybe a few business meetings along the way, my dad never had a solid plan about what we would do when we arrived. Meticulously planning where we would stay, or even landmarks that we wanted to see was not my dad’s style. He was lucky, and a little bit crafty, because most of the time the trips went off without a hitch, leaving me with childhood memories of slurping ramen with the local fishermen in Japan, eating buttery crayfish swimming in cream in France, and experiencing the sweet, tropical flavor of this gorgeous fruit in Hong Kong.

The mangosteen. A fruit I had only eaten once, and had not had again in close to 20 years. We were on a trip to the Far East, where my dad had yet again, not made reservations at any hotels. He simply picked a hotel at the airport’s tourist desk, and we barreled through the crowded streets of Hong Kong to our destination. My dad, with his fast-talking ways gabbed his way into a hotel room for our stay. The room was standard, but set on a coffee table, near the foot of the bed, was the most splendid fruit basket, filled with luscious unknown items just waiting to be peeled or cut into.

There were crisp starfruit lying next to pruney passion fruit. Mangoes by the handfuls luxuriated next to smooth skinned bananas and tumbling forth in the center of this basket were what I later knew were the slithery, tiny mangosteen. The rough, hard shell of this fruit adequately hides the delectable fruit inside. Pick it up, knock it around, try to bruise it– you would never know its contents. But peel it gently, and an off-white orb pops out. It is slippery and cool, segmented like a tangerine, but with a taste like no other. It feels like a peeled grape in your mouth, tastes a bit like a plum, but has a uniquely tropical flavor that was like nothing I had ever tasted before.

I promptly ate all of the mangosteens in that fruit basket, and made my dad stop in to buy more mangosteens at the markets throughout our trip. I was mangosteen crazy. There is more that I remember about that trip, like the air being so humid and stifling that when the clouds finally burst, and raindrops fell quickly to the ground, the water evaporated on contact rather than pooling into refreshing puddles on the cement. But it is that fruit basket that I remember most.

I had heard and read other Westerners’ accounts of the mangosteen, it appeared that I was not the only one so taken with this fruit. I had even read about farmers trying to grow them in the West, but I had never seen them for sale. That is until walking through a market in California, when I saw a small basket and a sign scrawled with the word– mangosteen. At $16.50 a pound this fruit was like gold, but still I had to buy at least two to give them a try. They were remarkable, sweet, juicy, strange– just as I remember. Maybe they were even better, or maybe it was just that I was so thrilled to finally eat them again.

I’m back. Humor me please. My kitchen in New York is bare. The only things that sit in my refrigerator are a jar of baby cornichons floating in murky brine, and a half-used jar of Dijon mustard. Now I like vinegar as much as the next person, but cornichons dipped in mustard is a treat I will save for another day. So yes, I have to go the market.

I like where I live, but there are times when I just do not want to pay $3.00 for one measly avocado. I become sick and tired of the strawberries looking beautiful but tasting insipid, because well… they are all coming from California. So what do I do? Haul my cookies to California to see the family and lay on the hammock in the backyard of my parents house under the welcoming shade created from the apricot tree (no, I’m not kidding), thinking about what I will do with the bags of fresh produce from my sorely missed, favorite market.

I didn’t do much to this stellar assemblage, because really, there isn’t much to do to such delicious specimens. Frissé, prickled the roof of my mouth. Slippery fava beans (55 cents a pound, and organic!) lay next to mini Haas avocados ($1.89 a pound– a pound I tell you), smooth and buttery. Torn chunks of buffalo mozzarella from another favorite store, lent substance to the salad. Sprightly green garlic quickly sauteed in fruity olive oil, some fragrant lemon zest, a sprinkling of salt and pepper, and there you have it: springtime on a plate.

Yes, I ate well. And, in regards to my last post, I did enjoy the first apricots of the season, but at the market only. When I left, the burgeoning fruit on my parents’ apricot tree was beginning to weigh down the branches, but they remained green, just beginning to blush like a school girl. Alas, I could not lie in the hammock, reach up, and pluck a plump piece of fruit, dabbing my chin as the juice dribbled down. So no, life is not perfect in California either.

…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!

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 Lucky Biscotti
adapted from The Zuni Cafe Cookbook

makes 20-24 biscotti

3/4 cup hazelnuts
4 tablespoons cold butter
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/4 cup all purpose flour
2 tablespoons cornmeal
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup dried cranberries

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Roast the nuts on a small baking sheet for 15 minutes, or until fragrant. In order to peel the nuts, place in a tea or kitchen towel, and rub to remove papery skins. Pick out the nuts. Finely chop 1/4 cup, and coarsely chop remainder. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, barely cream butter and sugar. Beat in egg and vanilla. In a separate bowl, mix flour, cornmeal, nuts, baking powder, and salt, tossing to mix well. Add to the butter mixture, and mix. Add the cranberries, stirring to combine.

Divide the dough in half. Roll each portion into a log, approximately 2 inches in diameter. You may need to dust the counter with flour. Make sure the dough is firmly pressed into shape, so the biscotti will not be too crumbly upon cutting. Place on a cookie sheet, and bake until lightly brown and just firm to the touch, 20-25 minutes.

Transfer cookie logs to a cutting board and slice at an angle 1/2-3/4 inch thick. Place biscotti on the same cookie sheet to bake once again for 5 minutes, or until lightly brown. Cool completely, and place in an airtight container.