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.

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.

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.

Ho-hum and La-dee-dah…

I have been uninspired lately. Hey, it happens to the best of us (at least that is what I keep telling myself). Maybe it has been this unseasonably warm weather. This August-like heat and humidity in October (yes, October!) has me all confused. Do I grill a piece of fish and just pretend it’s summer, or do I toil over a pot of stew and just say, “Warm weather, be damned! Bring on the fall already!”

I have turned into one of those wishy-washy shoppers for which I normally have little patience. You know the ones, standing in the middle of the produce aisle of the market, not a clue as to what to bring home with them, deliberating, while their cart stands empty and nowhere near them. The broccoli or the fennel? No, the carrots or the tomatoes? Usually I sigh loudly in front of these people, grab my bulb of fennel, then maneuver my shopping cart around them. But, I have become one of those deliberators. I have eaten one too many salads lately because of my lack of inspiration. Something had to be done.

So I packed up my empty, uninspired belly, and brought it to the Union Square Greenmarket, hoping that my mind would begin racing, and my taste buds would begin percolating. And it did. This is a truly weird and wonderful time to be at the farmer’s market. The pumpkins and coarsely-skinned winter squash are jockeying for space next to piles of late-season corn and crunchy romano beans. The crisp, fragrant apples are shouldering for a place near the slightly bruised nectarines and summer stone fruit. But what really caught my eye were these beautiful little eggplant.

Bright and diminutive, these fairytale eggplant were the first vegetables to really grab my attention, followed by branches of tiny cherry tomatoes. A last hurrah to the summer season, these veggies were just as stunning as they were delicious.
Simple, simple, simple. I first beheaded the eggplant, trimming off their green tops, and then gently sauteed them in olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. They began to soften, their skin turning from that almost ostentatious purple to a blistering brown. I removed them from the pan, and put them in a warm oven, and brought out the lovely tomatoes. Setting them in the hot pan, the little cherries begin to sputter and pop, leaking out some of their sweet juices. I charred the skins, giving them a sweet, yet smoky flavor. Then I added the eggplant back to the pan, and got ready to serve.

The eggplant were tender, seedless, and almost buttery, like a new potato, and the tomatoes were so sweet, playing nicely off the deep, rich flavor of the eggplant. So inspiration struck again. Let’s hope it sticks around for awhile.

Perhaps this month you have been inspired to make breakfast a thing of beauty. Perhaps you are exhausted by my regaling you about the wonders of grilled bread, fluffy waffles, or oatmeal, a new way. Perhaps you are asking yourself: All of these recipes are nice and all, but does Adrienne really eat like this every day? And the answer, my friends is…of course not.

I, like many people, get fixated on foods. And it seems that the one area where this is most apparent is breakfast. For the quick, grab-it-and-go, sort of breakfast I have my standards: a sourdough English muffin with butter and just a smattering of raspberry jam; thinly sliced, German brown bread with hazelnuts and five grains, that stays with you well past lunch time; a bowl of Rice Krispies with cold milk splashed in and sliced strawberries. These are nothing too special, but they are foods that I have come to rely on and look forward to each night as I shut off my light and curl into the fetal position.

And the latest fixation is a little something that I like to call the Reese’s toast. As you may remember I have no compunction about snacking on a little something sweet first thing in the morning. And sweet this toast is. White sandwich bread is what I have found to be the ideal toasting medium. Bland, fine-grained, and it has the ability to get perfectly toasted– crisp, and light brown outside, with a soft, chewy texture inside. Then I glide on a bit of smooth peanut butter, careful to leave not a morsel of bread naked. Finally a bit of Nutella, that glorious chocolate-hazelnut spread gets gooped on top of the peanut butter.

Decadent and indulgent? Yes. But my breakfast most days in September too. With a steaming cup of coffee, not too sweet (I do have my principles), and a piece of sliced fruit, that’s what I have been eating. So…at the end of this month of breakfasts, I ask you, what have you been eating this month?

The berries are gone. At least the good ones are. They’ve rolled up their welcome mats and bid the berry-loving world adieu. It seems like months ago those final rosey apricots, their supple skin veritably bursting with juice, said farewell. Of course, there are those final hanger-ons, the colonels of summer stone fruit: the random plums, the sweet Georgia peaches, and the nectarines—firm, but still holding on.

But these fruits are having to share space in the market. Hold on—fall fruit is coming! Apples so crunchy and tart, their skin so shiny, it almost reflects that the final days of Indian summer fruit are rolling in. Pears, with their buttery, sweet taste, and sumptuous physique are earning their way onto the market shelf, making company with those stone fruits.

For only a few short weeks do we have these two emblems of their respective seasons together. That means we have a little amount of time to cook with them. You can make a plum and apple crisp, or a pear and nectarine cobbler. There is always the peach and apple pie, syrupy sweet from the peaches, yet with amazing body from the apples. But this is breakfast month, and as much as I love fruit-laden desserts for breakfast, this time I wanted to make something a little more proper for the first meal of the day.

Baked fruit seemed like the ideal solution, simple, ever so slightly sweet, and perfect with Greek yoghurt. My combination of fruit were fist-sized, thin skinned peaches, and diminutive Fiorelli pears. I made a simple syrup of one-half cup water, one-half cup sugar, the juice and zest of one lemon, and a vanilla bean, split and scraped. Put the mixture on the stove, just until the sugar dissolves. Then into baking pan the syrup goes, along with three pears, and three peaches, cut in half. The fruit bakes at 400 degrees, cut side up, for 30 minutes. Make sure to baste the fruit frequently, you want the finished product to be moist, and flavorful.

And flavorful they were. The pears were tender, and spoonable; the peaches were meltingly soft, and vanilla-scented. And with the yoghurt, cool and slightly tart, the fruit was the perfect combination—good for you, but not too good. A breakfast like this emboldened me, and made me say, “Come on fall, bring it on!”

I would not, could not, in a box.
I could not, would not, with a fox.
I will not eat them with a mouse.
I will not eat them in a house.
I will not eat them here or there.
I will not eat them anywhere.
I do not eat green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Perhaps Sam’s curmudgeonly friend had not tried these green eggs and ham:

You can pile just about anything on top of grilled, rustic style bread, and it would be good. I don’t know about having rodents as your dining companion, but a delicious breakfast can be made. I glided on a bit of bright green pesto that acted as the glue for a morning-time, open-faced sandwich. Next, some thinly sliced, still-summery tomatoes, then a beautiful poached egg simply awaiting a puncture.

The piece de resistance, the ham, or in this case prosciutto, crisply fried (laid in a dry, non stick skillet until the fat becomes smoldering), and we’re almost there. Lastly a few shaving of salty, pungent, Parmesan cheese, and the sandwich is assembled. So delightful, it might even make you say:

So I will eat them in a box.
And I will eat them with a fox.
And I will eat them in a house.
And I will eat them with a mouse.

And I will eat them here and there.
Say! I will eat them ANYWHERE!
I do so like green eggs and ham!
Thank you! Thank you, Sam-I-am!

When I was learning to read, I remember this beloved book. Not really liking eggs, green or otherwise, I empathized with Sam’s desperate friend. But now, I have to say, I love a gooshy poached egg as much as the next gal. And prepared like this, I have to say: Who doesn’t love Green Eggs and Ham?

Donuts and a cuppa joe. As American as apple pie, a juicy hamburger, or a skinny hot dog. Glazed, chocolate frosted, jelly-filled, raised or cake, have your pick. Some people dunk ‘em in their breakfast-time coffee, then quickly take a bite, careful not to allow the donut to get too soggy in their hot morning brew. Other people are purists, munching on the gooey sweetness anytime of the day, but completely unsullied.

On Saturday mornings, when I was young, my dad used to take me fishing off of the pier in Half Moon Bay, CA. Dad was a not an outdoors man. He was not even an organized sports man. He was a business man. Not the suit-and-tie sort, but still the sort that awoke at the crack of dawn to get to the office early before anyone else had really started their day. But sometimes, he would awake early on a Saturday morning, his body still on the Monday thru Friday clock, venture into my room, and give me a nudge. Then I knew.

I would quickly dress as the sun was creeping over the driveway. We grabbed the fishing poles, dangling off the wall in the garage, taunting us as to what we would catch that day. I would hop into the car next to dad, slowly we would pull out of the driveway; not quite ready to head to the pier. I knew where we were going first.

Minutes later we would pull into Happy Donuts. It never really mattered what time you entered the parking lot: it was always full of people. I would get in line, dreaming of which sugary treats I would bring to the pier, and then return to the car, hot cocoa in one hand, a sack of donuts in the other. My dad and I never really caught anything other than mudsuckers on those Saturday morning sojourns. We never brought a passel of fresh fish home to fry in lots of butter. We just talked…and ate donuts.

It seems that donuts may never be as sweet to me as those memories. Don’t get me wrong, I still love a donut, piping hot, straight from the grease. But in this day in age, when one worries about trans-fats, saturated fats, fatty fats, I could use a donut that was… well, a little bit lighter.

Enter: baked donuts. The traditional donut’s svelte sister. Yeasted, so they’re light and pillow soft, made in about two hours, and baked until they are golden brown, these donuts really are superb. And yes, I still rolled them in powdered sugar, or cinnamon-sugar, I wouldn’t want to get too healthy on you. These donuts are a breakfast time treat, perfect with a cup of coffee.

Baked Donuts
from Marion Cunningham’s The Breakfast Book

Makes about 2 dozen donuts plus holes

2 packages dry yeast
1/3 cup warm water (105 degrees)
1 1/2 cups milk
1/3 cup vegetable shortening
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly grated if possible)
2 eggs, lightly beaten
4 1/2 cups all purposed flour, approximately

butter, melted
cinnamon-sugar (1/2 cup sugar, to 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon)
powdered sugar

Sprinkle yeast over water, and let dissolve, about 5 minutes.

Put milk and shortening in a saucepan and heat until shortening is melted. Cool until lukewarm.

In a large mixing bowl put yeast, milk mixture, sugar, salt, nutmeg, eggs, and two cups flour. Beat until well blended. Add remaining flour and beat until smooth. Cover the bowl, and let double in bulk, about 1 hour.

Dust board generously with flour, and turn the dough out. The dough will be soft and sticky, but easy to work with the addition of flour. Pat dough out into 1/2 inch thickness. Using a three inch donut or biscuit cutter, cut out donuts (and donut holes) and place on a greased baking sheet, one inch apart. The donuts will continue to rise, though they don’t spread much. Preheat oven to 450 degrees, and let donuts rest for 20 minutes, uncovered.

Bake about 10 minutes, or a little longer, until they have a touch of golden brown. Remove from the oven. Brush them with melted butter. Roll them in either the cinnamon-sugar, or the powdered sugar, and enjoy while warm.

A commenter from last week had this to say, “Let’s see a substitute for the egg-McMuffin (but we all know nothing beats the real thing!).” It seems that many people have a soft spot for that ubiquitous breakfast sandwich, the McMuffin. I can’t say that it was a part of my childhood, never having even tasted the bizarre egg patty until just a few years ago.

But I can understand the mystique. There is just something so pleasing about having your first meal of the day being hand-held, self-contained, and probably given to you by a person wearing a paper hat behind a plexiglass window. An entire meal, nestled cozily in a muffin or biscuit, waiting to be gobbled up by morning time diners– now that’s good eatin’. But here in New York City, a city bustling with pedestrians, subways, and a sea of yellow taxi cabs, the drive-thru is a bit of a moot point. But the breakfast sandwich is still served right up at my house.

Rolling out of bed on Sunday morning, and feeling a bit peckish, I made a sandwich that was far from a McMuffin. Maybe my sandwich could be considered a second cousin once removed to the fabled original. The haute McMuffin, if you will. Let’s talk about just what was in this scrumptious Sunday morning concoction.

First I scrambled some eggs, slowly over low heat, creating small curds. When the eggs were just about set, I turned off the heat, and leaving the eggs in the pan, and sprinkled some creamy gorgonzola cheese over the eggs. I toasted an English muffin until crisp and golden brown. Then taking it from the toaster I spread on a thin layer of rich honey. Some thin slices of pear were piled on next, followed by a grinding of cracked black pepper. Finally the eggs were piled on top, the gorgozola by now melting to an oozy finish. I capped the creation with the other half of the muffin, and took a bite.

Far from what you’d get from the drive-thru, though I would have to say, perfect nonetheless.

When my in-laws first got married, my mother-in-law, ever the good 1960s wife, prepared a bowl of globby oatmeal for the two of them every morning. Little did she know that her husband actually disliked oatmeal, almost as much as she did. Both ate their oatmeal every morning thinking that the other one liked it, until one day the truth came out and, much to their mutual relief, ne’er a bowl of oatmeal was to be seen on their table again.

But, I like oatmeal. The steam rising from the bowl emitting a wholesome, nutty fragrance first thing in the morning can be both comforting and restorative. But you know what might be even better than hot oatmeal? Well, not necessarily better, just altogether different…and wonderful– bircher muesli.

Now I know muesli. In fact I went through a brief, albeit red-hot desire for Familia Muesli in high school. Yes, I could not get enough of that granola-like cereal of wheat germ and oats, nuts and dried fruit. I needed my morning fix of that crunchy mix — Familia became like my crack cocaine (and I guess one could have a slightly more dangerous fixation like, well– crack). But perhaps my jaw actually grew tired of the constant chewing because, eventually, I moved on.

When I saw the recipe for the bircher sort of muesli in my breakfast cookbook (which will be making several appearances in the coming weeks), it sounded delicious and satisfying. This muesli has a little bit of everything, a tart apple for crunch, a bit of cream for richness, and a small amount of oatmeal for body. But this isn’t any old ordinary oatmeal. You take the oats and soak them in water overnight. They lose their brittle texture and assume a creamy, pleasingly lumpy form. And, I felt free to consume as much bircher muesli as I wanted, I knew my jaws could handle it.

With all of the stunning, boogley-eyed figs in season, I adorned my muesli with them, but feel free to substitute berries or even raisins as it says in the recipe.

Muesli comes from a Swiss word that means mush. And this muesli, coming from Marion Cunningham, is one sweet, delicious mush. Her recipe calls for blackberries as a topping, but you could substitute other fruit as well–with all of the stunning, boogley-eyed figs in season, I adorned my muesli with them, but feel free to substitute berries or even raisins.
Bircher Muesli
From The Breakfast Book, this recipe serves one:

1 heaping tablespoon rolled oats
3 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon cream
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 small apple
1 handful blackberries

Soak the oats and water in a small bowl overnight. Just before serving, stir the cream, honey, and lemon juice into the oat mixture. Grate the unpeeled apple and quickly mix into the oats. Add the blackberries. Serve with brown sugar and cream.