Sunday evening, 1987. I come to the table for a typical Sunday night meal. At the close of a busy weekend our dinners were filled with usuals: rotisserie chicken and a salad, some soup, leftovers from a more appropriate weekday meal, or sometimes my mother would whip up her version of Hamburger Helper– a mix of ground meat, a sauteed onion, and plenty of elbow macaroni. Now this wasn’t the sort of meal my mother would usually whip up, but on Sundays, typically fend for yourself night, this sort of American ease was a welcome change.

I have never even had traditional Hamburger Helper, neatly packaged in a cardboard box, with that jolly four-fingered gentleman smiling back at me; but I loved my mom’s version. It was pleasantly bland, seasoned only with salt and pepper, and I gobbled up the little crooked pasta which were far from al dente. It was starchy and simple, pleasing to my young palate. So what if I used a similar combination of foods: pasta, ground meat, onion, and perhaps a few herbs, and cooked it up to please my aging palate? Well I think I would like that too.

This is my version of Hamburger Helper– and I call it Lamburger Helper, Greek Style. Using the same principles of the Helper from my youth, and even prepared on the same night of the week, this satisfying meal was tasty enough to be prepared any night of the week.

Set a pot of water to boil on the stove, and add one cup of orzo, that rice-shaped pasta, to cook while you prepare the lamb. In a dutch oven, or large skillet, fry up 3/4 pound of ground lamb, with one diced onion, in some olive oil. (I also crumbled in one small dried chili, but heat is a preference.) While the lamb and onion are browning, chop up some fresh mint. When the orzo is done cooking, drain and add to the lamb mixture, mixing well. A squeeze of tart lemon juice, a tablespoon or so of butter, a seasoning of salt and lots of freshly ground pepper, and a sprinkling of the chopped mint, and you’re just about ready to serve.

I ate my Lamburger Helper with a cooling cucumber salad, and I must say, I didn’t even miss that diminutive glove-of-a-character who claims to help me make a great meal. The meal was pretty great all on its own.

Perhaps you all remember my quandary over the fridge that wouldn’t grow? My svelte refrigerator took some getting used to, and Brian was on the unhappy end of hearing my continual complaints, and the happy end of eating my latest, leftover inventions. So let me tell you what recently happened in my little kitchen. It goes something like this:

Brian answers his ringing cell phone only to hear the voice of his charming wife, “Can you pick up a container of plain yoghurt on your way home?” I ask.
“Sure, how much do you need?”
“Oh, about a cup, of plain– not vanilla.”
“Got it, I’ll see you later.”
Then I hung up the phone, and awaited my husband’s return. A few hours later, Brian came trudging home, carrying the hugest tub of yoghurt money can buy.
“What is that!?!” I exclaimed.
“It’s the yoghurt you asked for.”
“Okay, but I asked for like a cup. That’s enough to swathe my entire body in a calming yoghurt salve.”
“Well,” Brian shrugged, “you’ll definitely get a cup out of this container. No problem.”

So now I had a giant vat of yoghurt occupying precious space in my fridge as well. And I don’t really eat yoghurt on a good day…I’m a Jew. So, I’ve made quite a few raitas; cooling salads of cucumber and dill, adorned with a yoghurt dressing; and more than a couple light yoghurt cakes. I made another dessert too, and it could be seen as the queen of leftovers, because it utilizes both the yoghurt, and the lime curd that I made last week– Lime (or Lemon) Amaretti Cream Pots.

While browsing through my cookbooks, looking for ideas about yet another wonderful food item that contains yoghurt, that lactose-laden substance, I stumbled upon this recipe from Nigel Slater’s, The Kitchen Diaries. A simple, no-bake pudding, that is creamy yet sprightly, with just a bit of tang, this pudding not only uses yoghurt, but uses it well. With crumbled amaretti cookies within, which become a thickener as the pudding rests and chills, the pudding tastes of curd tinged with almond flavor.

My cookbook is from the U.K., and uses double cream, a thicker, more luscious version of American whipped cream. Luckily I was able to find it in NY no problem, but for those of you without a stellar market, I’m sure heavy whipped cream would do in a pinch. Although the recipe does have actual measurements, I simply eyeballed them. To me, the point of this type of dessert is freedom– a little of this, a pinch of that, substitutions galore.  Now, I only have a bit more plain yogurt left, any more ideas for for what should be done with it?

Lemon Amaretti Cream Pots
adapted from The Kitchen Diaries

makes 6 pots

1 1/4 cups double cream, or heavy whipped cream
1 cup thick plain yoghurt
1- 1 1/4 cups lemon curd, preferably homemade
1/2 cup amaretti biscuits, crushed

Pour the cream into a chilled bowl, and whisk until it begins to thicken. You want soft, billowing folds. Fold in the lemon curd, and the yoghurt gently until well-mixed.

Put the amaretti biscuits in a plastic bag, and bash them carefully with a heavy object– a rolling pin works well. You need large crumbs and small lumps, like gravel. Fold the amaretti pieces into the cream.

Divide the mixture into 6 bowls, or small ramekins, and cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours, giving the cookies time to soften, and the flavors to marry. Serve chilled.

Well, it is officially spring on the east coast. (But just watch, as soon as I post this, we will be floating away, and stomping the moisture out of our boots due to a fabled Nor’easter.) Spring has sprung, actually with summer hot on its heels, and it was hot and beautiful in New York this weekend. A sure sign of the warm weather erupting in my neighborhood is Salsa music being played by an ancient ghetto-blaster in the street below my apartment, the Mister Softee ice cream truck cruising endlessly up and down the avenues, and the occasional all-day carnival flowing for blocks and blocks up Broadway.

Now I love a good carnival as much as the next girl. Especially if it has the three C’s. But these carnivals aren’t really the county-fair sort. This city-fied carnival has repeats of vendors selling assortments of tube socks, vats of potions and lotions, brightly colored sarongs, and “Oriental” rugs. And the food is typical street foods peppered with carnival fair: kabobs, crepes, gyros, funnel cakes, enormous spiral sausages, fried Twinkies (!), and in my opinion, the stand-out food of choice: a cob of steaming hot, grilled corn doused in melted butter with a liberal sprinkling of salt.

What can I say, it’s a standout of simplicity hidden among tables laden with fried foods and not-too-subtle spices. And this corn reminds me of what’s to come: summer with its muggy, hot days, and long nights; juice from that Georgia peach dribbling down my chin; and when it’s too hot to even think of turning on the stove, salads, lots of crisp, sprightly salads. I’m not even sure where this corn came from, really it’s a little too early in the season for this starchy vegetable, but walking away from the carnival, the sun beating down on neck, creating the first signs of an oh-so-attractive farmer’s tan, and munching on my cob, I didn’t really care.

My fridge is on a diet. It seems as though it has a close personal relationship with Weight Watchers. It’s not so much that that its contents are dietetic. (I should say not, as a squat container of creme fraiche is chilling next to sticks of unsalted butter!) But it is lean in stature, skinny in breadth. It’s a midget fridge.

Due to an economy of precious space here in New York, my fridge is narrow and short. (It also happens to be the first thing that you see when walking into my apartment, but that’s another story.) Now the fridge is not a mini fridge. I would say that we all had our fill of those diminutive workhorses while living in college dorms. But my fridge is short and slender.

For someone who likes to cook a lot this depiction requires a few adaptations. One: I go grocery shopping quite a bit. Which I never really mind anyways; I love the market. Two: I actually have to eat my leftovers in order to make space for new, and exciting dishes. Some of you may remember that in the past, I did not actually treat my leftovers so kindly. Don’t get me wrong, I was never so wasteful as to just throw them away. More than likely I just pawned them off on Brian, who is only too happy to eat dishes day in and day out. But now, for me, necessity requires ingenuity. I eat my leftovers tweaked in different ways.

Perhaps you remember that meringue-y pavlova I baked a few weeks ago? Well, what to do with the six eggs yolks left over from beating the egg whites stiffly into peaks? And the answer to that question is not to simply to make a cholesterol-filled omelet. The answer is to make sweet, zingy lime curd.

Perfect on toast, swirled into yoghurt, or just spooned until your heart’s content, this lime curd was the ideal, easy sweet treat to use up all of those yolks. I used this recipe, making a few adaptations. Obviously I only focused on making only the curd; and I made the mixture over a double boiler, rather than just in a pan. It might take longer, but this ensures a thick, creamy curd, rather than scrambled eggs, flavored with lime.

So I was happy with my adjustment…Now, I just need a place in my skinny fridge to fit my Tupperware full of lime curd.

And then there were soccas…and they were socca-licious…socca-tastic…socca-ful. Okay, perhaps they did not require a whole slew of neologisms to be added to the Dictionary, but they were pretty darn good.

Soccas are a simple yet savory, French pancake of sorts. Made with chickpea flour and olive oil, the batter is quite runny, and when poured into a screaming-hot skillet, they take only moments to cook. The end result is a griddle cake unlike any that I have had — chewy, almost nutty, salty, the ideal accompaniment to have with a shallow bowl of artichoke bouillabaisse.

Dipping the soccas, hot from the griddle into the saffron-y broth of the bouillabaisse was sublime, but I was imagining all sorts of other soccas I could make. I could spread a socca lightly with Dijon mustard, and sprinkle it with French ham and arugula, then eat promptly with a fork and knife; or what about dousing the crepe in a light tomato sauce and a smattering of Parmesan cheese, for a Frenchman’s pizza. Soccas are delicious on their own, but I imagine them to be a superb base for anything you might like to build on top of them.

Go ahead and try them (the recipe follows the bouillabaisse), and tell me how you prepared them. Or just make a pile of soccas to eat, fresh off of the griddle, all by themselves.

In college, I used to live with a vegetarian. A strict vegetarian. No leather shoes. She wouldn’t eat non-vegan cheese. There were no marshmallows floating around our apartment. She certainly didn’t slurp down any jiggly Jell-O desserts (they were made with gelatin, a no-no). So when I cooked, you can imagine I wasn’t grilling up any lamb chops for myself. There were plenty of Mexican-style taco salads overflowing with TVP, but nary a roast chicken would be found in our little kitchen.

But it was Berkeley in the late ’90′s, who wasn’t a vegetarian? Dietary restrictions were the norm. Although I wasn’t a vegetarian, due to the time, and to the place, I ate like one. Now it seems, that I know very few vegetarians. Even my old roommate, that staunch vegetarian, is now an omnivore. So goes it. But last week, a vegetarian came to dinner, and I had the dilemma of what to prepare. Something told me that TVP salad just wouldn’t cut it.

I had lost my vegetarian cooking chops (excuse the pun); I just didn’t know what to prepare. I didn’t want to make that old standby pasta, always a vegetarian option. But I was having difficulty coming up with a suitable entree option. Then I recalled a recipe that I read recently in the SF Chronicle. It was for an artichoke bouillabaisse, and I remember thinking how springy it sounded. There it was, the entree for my vegetarian dinner party.

The stew was excellent. Made with both saffron and orange peel, it was bright yet subtle in flavor, and chock full of springtime vegetables such as, young carrots, crunchy fennel, hearts of artichoke, and new potatoes, each bite celebrated the season. Enriched with white cannelini beans, the broth became murky and rich, a settling combination for the vegetables. And it felt good to eat, healthy and substantial. And Oh, did I mention the soup was vegan to boot?

Wondering how the soup went over? Stay tuned for the next installment…it’s socca-licious!

Let’s continue the egg theme as of late, shall we? Here is my post from last Easter, wishing you a sugary sweet holiday!

Easter by far has the greatest confections. Cadbury’s Creme Eggs with sugary sweet fondant center– love them! Peeps, I gladly gobble up, the more stale the better. And Reese’s peanut butter eggs– bring them on, I am an equal opportunity sweet treat fanatic. Why is it that ordinary candy tastes all the more sweet when eaten in the spring, and ovum-shaped?

But despite my love of the sugar parade, even I have my favorites. And Cadbury Mini Eggs do it for me every year. They look a bit run-of mill, just a candy-coated, solid milk chocolate, mini-egg. But to me they are things of beauty, the soft pastel coloring, the crisp sugar shell protecting the smooth chocolate center– mmm. They are a bit more difficult to find than your average box of Peeps, or even than their gargantuan sister, the Creme Egg. But it is the thrill of the chase, when you spot that lone bag, sitting on the drugstore shelf, signaling you that Easter is fast approaching. I always buy a few bags when I find Mini Eggs, to ensure that some of these pastel babies make it into my belly each day from late February to mid-April.

But this year eating them plain was not enough. I decided that they had to be baked with too. I thought long and hard. Brownies? They might burn. Cupcake toppers? As charming as that might be, it was a little expected. And then it came to me, in a flash of inspiration: Thumbprint Cookies, little nests to house the precious eggs. So here they are, a Jewish girl’s take on Easter fancies.

I found a recipe for thumbprint cookies here, used ground pecans rather than ground walnut pieces, and simply omitted the jam placing a Mini Egg or two into the center of each cookie. The cookies were dense, rich with butter, and not too sweet, the perfect compliment to the chocolatey candy of the Mini Eggs. Equally as important to me, when all assembled they looked delightful, the perfect baked showpiece for my beloved Mini Eggs. It is like the Easter Bunny himself came by and laid these perfect pastel confections in individual nut-covered nests all for me! And I’m sure he would lay some for you too!

We all know that Dr. Pavlov, with his multitudes of salivating mutts, has very little to do with a sweet Pavlova dessert, besides a similarity in surnames…but this dessert was so scrumptios it had me salivating, bells or not!

The Pavlova is one of those desserts that is only read about in novels set in the turn of the 20th century. Clarice, the young traveller, gazed across the linen table cloth with a longing desperation at Antonio, who firmly grasped his silver spoon, and with utter obliviousness to the torrent of thoughts in Clarice’s head, plunged it into crisp Pavlova, adorned with stiff whipped cream, and mounds of fresh berries. You get what I mean. And I guess it must be fairly clear that I don’t read much from the early 20th century. But with the first of the spring berries showing their rosy faces at the market, I felt the need to celebrate. So I made a chocolate Pavlova with this recipe from The Joy of Baking.

Relatively simple to make (if you can make meringues, you can make a Pavlova), and impressive when presented to a table full of hungry guests, this dessert however does require fairly strong nerves from the cook. Meant to have a crisp and crackly outer shell, with a sweet and marshmallow-like interior, picking the meringue shell up from the baking rack and placing it onto a serving dish, all in one piece, poses a bit of a shattering problem. But never fear, a Pavlova isn’t truly a Pavlova unless it is first mounded with cool whipped cream. And whipped cream can hide a multitude of sins.

I modified this recipe slightly, adding less cocoa powder, and omitting the chopped chocolate entirely, because I wanted the dessert to only be tinged with chocolate. The concoction was ideal; the crunch of the shell and the delicacy of the interior contrasted with the richness of the strawberries and cream. Yum!

Now if only Clarice and Antonio were here to enjoy it with me…

So it’s almost Easter. And what does a Jewish girl do around this springy time of year? She writes a post about eggs, the secular symbol of the holiday. (Alright, I could write a post about braised bunny, but how attractive of a picture is that?)

I should say that hard- boiled eggs and I have not always been the best of friends. In fact, some could say that I detested these little orbs of protein. To me, hard-boiled eggs smelled like sulfur, felt like rubber, and tasted like chalk. But times do change; I have learned the proper way to cook a hard-boiled egg– a way where the whites feel less like a rubber flip-flop, and the yolk have a creamy, not chalky texture. I won’t say that I am a complete convert, but an occasional eater…sure. Especially if the egg is interesting.

And these eggs were certainly interesting. I found the recipe in Country Living magazine, for an egg, peeled and steeped in turmeric, then drizzled with brown butter, and sprinkled with a bit of curry powder. Now anything made with brown butter is stellar in my book. So I knew that this dish, hard-boiled-egg-centric though it may be, couldn’t be all bad.

I boiled the eggs for 5 minutes, took them out of the hot water, stirring in some bright yellow turmeric. Peeling the orbs, I popped my naked eggs back into this turmeric-water, and let them steep for an additional 5 minutes. Upon completion, I removed the eggs from the turmeric-water. It was as if I dyed my very own set of Easter eggs, sans shell. The eggs were a sunny yellow, matching the creamy, not overcooked yolk almost exactly. A drizzle with some butter, a sprinkle with the spice, and a bit of salt, and I set them on plate, mounded high with a springtime salad. And I must admit, it made a better than fine lunch.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I had never had a homemade biscuit until just a few short years ago. There were biscuits in my youth, it was just that they usually came in a refrigerated cardboard tube, and the young Adrienne, all bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked loved those biscuits any which way she could get them. My mom would open the tube with a whining peel, and out would pop a roll of dough, all perforated for easy handling. A few short minutes in the oven, and the house would smell like bread, and a warm biscuit would be resting on my dinner plate.

What can I say…it was California (not a place typically known for its homemade biscuits, fresh produce– yes, biscuits– no) and it was the ’80′s, an era of ease. And when I grew up, I actually tried several recipes for real homemade biscuits; and they were great. But I will be frank, the rolling pin, that sturdy object needed to make so many biscuits, is not always my companion. Don’t get me wrong, I will yield it when necessary, but struggling with the pin can be a bit much for me to take. That was why I was thrilled to find a delicious recipe for biscuit muffins that bake up like little starchy pillows of goodness.

A sweet morning treat, delicately sweetened and tinged with the flavor of ground nutmeg, these are not the sort of biscuits one would generally eat as a side to a fried chicken dinner, but they are a stupendous breakfast bread. In fact, I got the recipe from Bread for Breakfast where author, Beth Hensperger claims the recipe is from K-Paul’s restaurant in New Orleans. See, all biscuit-making credit goes to the Southerners, not Californians.

These biscuits were relatively simple to make, and required no use from my dreaded-at-times rolling pin. Just a quick pat out, and a gentle knead, and the dough is divided into 12 muffin-sized pieces. Simply plunk eat piece into a greased muffin pan, and set to bake for 30 minutes. Out of the oven comes a perfect little package of a biscuit. Tender on the inside, crisp and flaky on the outside, these muffing were the ideal conduit for rich butter, and some sweet-tart raspberry jam.