There is something almost magical about a beet. Dirty, ruddy, and altogether blah on the outside, but crimson (if you’re using red beets), shiny, sparkling little orbs on the inside. When cooked and peeled they are like a sanguine surprise just waiting to be eaten. I eat beets in all sorts of ways, but I particularly love them used as a filling for (mostly) homemade ravioli.

To me, this ravioli mimics how a beet occurs naturally. All folded up, the ravioli look like neat little pillows of pasta, beige in color and well, beige in flavor too. But when these ravioli are cut into, out comes a shock of pink filling, and the flavor is divine. They are hidden treasures of sight and flavor.

Prepared simply, by roasting the beets in foil packets at 400 degrees prior to filling, the beets are then mashed with a potato masher or a fork. But watch out for staining splatters; I know of what I speak thanks to the once white wall in my kitchen, now sprayed with faded pink beet juice. Ricotta and Parmesan cheese, a grating of fresh horseradish to give the filling some zing, an egg to bind, a good dose of salt and pepper, and let the filling begin. I say that these ravioli are mostly homemade, because I purchased the ravioli wrappers, rather than purchasing a pasta maker. I bought large sheets of fresh pasta (thanks to Zabar’s), usually used for making lasagna, and simply cut them into ravioli-sized pieces.

These ravioli are so beautiful when cooked, I didn’t want them drowning in a heavy tomato, or cream sauce, just a little browned butter, and a sprinkling of poppy seeds to give the dish a nutty crunch will do just fine. And to me, the dish was perfect, just as pink as I wanted it to be.

I love a good scavenger hunt. Following a well-marked yet cryptic list to find hidden treasures around the neighborhood was my idea of a good time when I was young. It was almost too much for me to bear, the surprise that might be found, the race to find it in time, and the end result– a birthday treat. (Because usually a scavenger hunt was coupled a birthday celebration.) Perhaps this is why I love salt cooked potatoes so much. Popping each potato out of its salty nest was a tiny party, like a scavenger hunt, digging among the white dunes to find a treasure. But this time the treasure wasn’t jewels, or mounds of gold, it was a potato– but a pretty darn good one at that.

Salt and potatoes but not salty potatoes. Baked but not oven-roasted. Toasty warm but not crisp skinned. Simple to make and impressive when brought out of the oven. Why hadn’t I ever thought of this? Because now, it’s the only way I want to eat new potatoes.

I got this idea from Sally Schneider, author of The Improvisational Cook (her cookbook is a a recent purchase, therefore an often used book in my collection), and I think this idea is genius. Now I am inspired, to set out cooking everything in salt: baby carrots, Japanese turnips, even green beans. Any un-cut vegetable will do. Simply coat the bottom of a baking dish with a thin layer of salt. Add the vegetables individually, leaving a bit of space between each veggie, and then cover with salt. Bake at 450 degrees for 40-50 minutes, and there you have it.

What a simple idea: a salt crust, just mounds of coarse Kosher salt, and rolly-polly, baby, new potatoes, baked together to make an even more classic combination revelatory. Sure I had eaten the standard– whole fish, baked in a crust of Kosher salt, made into a paste by the addition of egg whites. This dish is great, accompnaied by the ooh’s and aah’s of your guests as you pull a baking dish of crackly, slightly browned, mountains of salt from the oven. And the fish is tender, steamed to perfection in its salty kiln. But preparing this dish takes some trust, knowing just when the fish is actually ready, and of course, it requires a ton of wasted salt.

But these potatoes almost seem frugal, calmly baking not in a paste but rather simply a mound of Kosher salt, which can be used over and over again to bake who knows what else. The potatoes are a combination of baking and steaming, with the forgiving texture of a steamed potato, but without the bland wetness of that process. And the salt is the workhorse of this dish, delicately flavoring, but not overwhelming. The salt infuses the potato with flavor, just make sure to brush off the excess before diving into this fabulous side dish.

Give me your poor, your misunderstood, your strong-flavored or your dark and leafies. It doesn’t really matter to me, if it’s a vegetable, I will pretty much eat it. Oh sure, there are some vegetables that I like more than others. I could eat aspargus by the spindly dozen, and cauliflower, give it to me any which way, roasted, steamed or in a gratin, and you have one happy diner. Other vegetables I feel more moderate about: iceberg lettuce for instance, unless it’s chilled, sliced into wedges, and served with bleu cheese dressing, can be pallid. But I must admit, this one stumps me.

I’ll give this spaghetti squash the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I purchased a rather bland one. But my spaghetti squash had to have been the most watery and insipid variety know to squash-eating man. Now I prepared my squash in the basic fashion– cut in half, a bit of olive oil, salt and pepper, then placed the squash, cut side down, to roast for 45-50 minutes at 375 degrees.

I admit it, I was enthralled with the cooked squash. Spooning the seeds out, I took a fork, and gingerly scraped the flesh from the skin. And voila! thin strands of spaghetti-like webbing were made. The transformation was almost fun. But the taste was far less dynamic. After the scraping, I tasted and was less than impressed. So I even sauteed the strands in some garlic, and good green olive oil. That was kind of…meh. But still nothing to write home about.

I often read in cooking magazines that low-carb dieters should just go ahead and use spaghetti squash instead of regular pasta in their traditional Italian suppers. Let me just say, I feel sorry for those dieters. While the vegetable variety might resemble pasta, it certainly does not have the same toothsome, starchy flavor.

But maybe I prepared this squash incorrectly. I certainly will not let the spaghetti squash die a graceful death, especially when I so love its cousins, the butternut, acorn, and kabocha to name a few. Does anyone else out there have some stupendous spaghetti squash recipe that they would like to share with me? I hate to let one squash tarnish an otherwise stellar record of equal- opportuniy eating.

I have been on a mission. It is one that has taken me as far as the depths of my kitchen and the to the wiles of the public library. Yes, I have searched long and hard, and waged many a calorie-ridden day happily in hungrily in pursuit of the perfect cake recipe. And by perfect cake I mean this: it has to be versatile, it must be trustworthy, and it has to be simple. Those are the hallmarks of a good recipe if you ask me. And I just may have found the cake of my dreams.

Simplicity, meet coconut cake. Coconut cake, meet simplicity. This cake is really only called a coconut cake because of the thin shavings of golden, toasty brown coconut sprinkled gingerly on top. The cake is truly called Brown Sugar Lightning Cake from Sally Schneider’s tome, The Improvisational Cook. This cake, offered to the home chef with many other adaptations, is the ideal baker’s canvas.

Dense yet moist, with a tender crumb that is reminiscent of a banana bread, or a heartier loaf cake, this cake is ideal served any way. I made this sweet treat at its most basic, flavored with a bit of pure vanilla extract, and a modicum of cognac, though I suppose any booze (except maybe Scotch, I can’t imagine that liquor’s smokiness in a cake) would work. Blended by hand using both a minimal amount of ingredients, as well as a minimal amount of dishes and utensils, this recipe has just the ease I was looking for.

I topped the cake with a simple, but rich frosting of whipped cream and creme fraiche. The whipped cream was ethereal and the creme fraiche added a subtle tang. The crowning glory was a bit of shaved toasted coconut sprinkled over the top of the entire cake. Yum. But what is lovely about the versatility of this cake, is that it can be garnished any way that you choose: powdered sugar, ganache, jam, citrus zest in the batter…the mind reels, as the tummy rumbles.

Brown Sugar Lightning Cake
from The Improvisational Cook

1 stick unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
2 eggs
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon bourbon (or other booze, I used cognac)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Brush the inside of a 9 inch cake pan with butter, and dust with a bit of flour.

Sift flour, baking soda, and salt together in a medium sized bowl. Mix to combine, and set aside.

Blend the eggs and the sugar, and mix until incorporated, about 1 minute. Whisk the flour mixture into the egg mixture using as few strokes as possible. Then whisk in the buttermilk, the melted butter, and the rest of the flavorings.

Pour the batter into the cake pan, and bake for 35-40 minutes, or until tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake on a rack for 5 minutes, then invert and remove from pan. Cool completely before topping with whatever you choose. Enjoy!

Admit it. As good as you might try to be, eating three square meals a day, there are times, usually around four o’clock on a lazy weekend afternoon, when your stomach starts a-churning. (At least if you’re anything like me it does.) You get that hollow, hungry feeling, and you know that a bag of carrot sticks, healthy though they may be, will just not answer the rumbling. It’s time for a proper snack, one that is salty, crunchy, and more than a bit decadent.

Popcorn is just the thing. And when popped in an air popper (didn’t everyone have one of those in college?) it can really be almost healthy…and definitely boring. But this is Nosheteria, not some ascetic kitchen, and I’ve been out of college for quite some time, so leave it to me to bring popcorn from the healthy to the sublime. And what is the fastest way to do that? By adding bacon of course…everything’s better with bacon.

First things’s first, crisp that bacon in a large saucepan, or dutch oven. When the bacon is sizzling hot, and crisp to your heart’s content, remove the bacon from the pan, and add popcorn kernels to the grease. Cover the pot, you wouldn’t want your popcorn to bounce everywhere. Appalling though it might seem, this is really no different than adding oil to pan of popcorn kernels. It’s just in this case the oil tastes like bacon! Then listen for the pop. There has always been something so exciting, so transformative, about a kettle of kernels turning into a pot of fresh-from-the-stove popcorn.

When the corn is finished popping, season with pepper and a bit of salt, and the crumbled pieces of bacon. Then the only thing left to do, is snack away. The flavor of the corn with the bacon is salty and splendid, the texture is light and crunchy. I definitely had trouble keeping the snacking to a minimum this weekend. But then, who really cares, a little snacking, with a whole lotta bacon, can’t be all bad?

I’m sure that every family must have them– those old, tattered recipes for dishes that are so entrenched in family lore it becomes difficult to decipher where the recipe actually came from. A pot of soup, a batch of cookies, or in this case, a one pot supper, that went by the incorrect name of pajama chicken for years.

Pajama chicken sounds quaint to a child’s ears. And to my young ears I figured that this dish was to be enjoyed languishing on a Sunday afternoon in your favorite footsie pj’s– hence the name. But pajama, said quickly in passing, also sounds like Bahama. And Bahama chicken, which I found out years later, was actually the name of this Americanized dish of stewed chicken served over tomato rice and accented with black-eyed peas.

While my grandmother made this dish all the time, I actually have Roxie Roker, television actress of the ’70′s and Lenny Kravitz’s mother to thank for this one. My grandma did not usually clip recipes from magazines, in fact I don’t remember that she even owned a cookbook, and the only magazines lying around her house were usually TV Guides. She was a great cook however, but the recipes that she made– sweet butter rolls; homemade, handrolled egg noodles; pounds and pounds of pie dough for countless pies, were as much done by feel and taste, as they were exact measurements. But there was something about that recipe for Bahama chicken, donated to a women’s magazine by Ms. Roker that just spoke to her. It was torn out, loved dearly, made on countless occasions, and requested though named incorrectly, by me.

Who knows where the actual recipe has gone to now. I Googled both Roxie Roker, and her famous chicken to no avail. I am not even sure if my grandma was making the recipe as it was listed, but now I make it too– that bastardized version of Bahama chicken. I dredge chicken pieces in flour, and fry just until brown. Removing the chicken, I brown a bit of green bell pepper and onion until translucent, then add back in the chicken, and a bit of tomato sauce, stewing the entire concoction, until the chicken is done. The rice is soupy and simple. Browning the rest of the onion, as well as the pepper, you add in the rice, and continue to brown until the rice becomes translucent. Add in the rest of the tomato sauce and water, making the ratio 1:2, rice verses liquid. Add in black eyed peas, and cook until done. This takes longer than you would expect because of the thickness of the tomato sauce.

Each time I make this dish it is slightly different. Sometimes I add crushed red pepper flakes for heat, other times I add a bit of thyme to the chicken. My mom likes the chicken to still be crisp, so she does not add tomatoes. My uncle likes a whole soupy mess, with sauce tumbling over the bed of rice. And I guess now, some 30 years after the recipe appeared in who-knows-where, it’s really right however you like it. I guess my favorite way to enjoy Bahama chicken is lazing about in my pajamas, on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes it is a good thing to change things up every once in awhile. Walking a different route to the way to subway brings me new windows to peer into. Tying my scarf a new way keeps my neck a bit warmer from the biting cold. And making a favorite dish with a hearty sauce could be revolutionary. Yes, I will give anything a shot once, maybe even twice if I’m feeling daring.

So was the case with this butternut squash lasagna. It had so many of my favorites contained in that shallow casserole pan– sheets of fresh pasta, satisfying butternut squash puree, bulbs of fresh mozzarella and salty ricotta cheese. Sounds great. Smelled even better as it was baking to a bubbly finish. I loved the layers of lasagna, the pasta hiding a new treat of disclosed, melted cheese. There is something so impressive about pulling out a tray of golden brown, crisp-crusted lasagna from the oven.

This dish had all of those elements. It was belly-warming, homey, and pleasing. But I found it only made my mind wander longingly to the familiar red sauce– the bite of tomato sauce mingling with the soothing, unctuous taste of the mozzarella, puddles of delicate bechamel sauce, flecks of meat, turning the sauce from marinara to Bolognese. That is what I needed.

Who knows if this lasagna really just got a bad rap because I was in a carnivorous mood? I guess I will have to try it out again to truly see the results. The only thing I do know, is I have a mean craving for the traditional after trying something new. Maybe some things should not be messed with.

I know that I have written about the beloved pancake many times here before. There was the banana pancake, a chubby cake with creamy banana slices cooked in the batter. Then there was the corn pancake of June 2005, which was really just an excuse to sprinkle pancetta over something with abandon. And finally, there was the wild rice pancake, nutty and wholesome. This inundation of breakfast food tells you two things: this is a girl who was had this blog for quite some time, and she really likes pancakes.

And I guess you would be correct on both accounts. Pancakes are a standard, go-to food for me. They are warm and filling, and even a bad one is sort of good. I often order them when going out for brunch, and I love to make them, in all of their different variations, at home for a relaxing Sunday morning breakfast (or even for an easy dinner) . And I especially adore my latest darling– the lemon-poppyseed pancake.

This is my take on that classic grab-it-and-go breakfast, the muffin. Usually they are not great. The muffin may be dry, the crumb is crumbly, and you would be lucky if you even spotted one poppyseed, let alone a handful. But the taste of lemons and poppyseeds, is a super combination when done right. There is a bright and breezy taste from the lemon, combined with a nutty crunch from the poppyseeds– a winning duo that translates well into a pancake batter.

These pancakes were light and ethereal, made by separating the eggs, and beating the whites until soft peaks formed. Moist and spongy on the inside, with a crisp, light brown shell on the outside, these pancakes were simply crying out for a pool of pure maple syrup to be poured on top of them. I answered that call, and as a reward, these pancakes went straight into my stomach.

Lemon-Poppyseed Pancakes

It’s been cold here. Really cold. It’s the kind of bone-chilling, nose-numbing weather that makes me want to hole up inside, wearing my latest gift from the in-laws, and hibernate until the chill wears off. But even I get bored by simply lounging around, and I begin to look for something to occupy my time. But what to do when all of the pilly lint-balls have been shaved off of my favorite sweater, I have bugged my husband sufficiently, and have organized both of our sock drawers? Well, I guess I could make some pickles.

I was really scraping the bottom of the pickle barrel (the cold has affected my sense of humor as well) in terms of groceries. I had a few measly Kirby cucumbers lying in the refrigerator, some rice, and a can of tomatoes. So rather than make an interesting (read: revolting) main-dish stew, I focused just on the cucumbers instead, making refrigerator “dill” pickles.

Really a combination of bread and butter, and dill pickles, these pickles were a breeze to put together. I thinly sliced my Kirby’s, and placed them, helter-skelter in a Bell jar, wedging fronds of fresh dill beside the slices. (I might be freezing, but no one said Brian couldn’t pick up a bunch of dill on his way home from work.) Onto the stove went some cider vinegar, a bit of sugar, and a dose of salt. I had some mustard seeds, so those got thrown in the pot as well. Bring this vinegary concoction to a simmer, really just to melt the sugar, and pour over the cucumbers.

The pickles bring a crisp, brightness to your palate. The perfect foil for a blustery day. And they were almost too easy to make. Now what to do with the other 23 hours of arctic air? I guess the bathroom could use a good scrubbing.

All the leaves have tumbled off of the trees. I can see billows of moist, white breath cascading from my mouth and floating into the chilly atmosphere. Yesterday a little boy scampered by me, down the street, so bundled up he could hardly bring his arms to rest at his sides. And it snowed Wednesday night– my first real snow. It is definitely winter. And along with winter, comes winter produce. But rather than get depressed at the market by the dearth of stone fruit, and lugging home yet another hard, butternut squash for my nightly veg, I instead choose to revel in the winter produce.

There are Meyer lemons– just tart enough. Or my favorite, the Cara Cara orange with its pinky flesh, and mild citrus flavor. There are tangelos, satsumas, blood oranges, each calling out to be rescued from the cold New York weather and brought home to rest in the fruit basket on my kitchen table. And then there are kumquats, diminutive, and egg-shaped with a their sweet, almost delicate peel, and their puckery, seed-filled flesh. It is the the perfect fruit to make a marmalade with, and this marmalade, ideal to blend into a buttery spread.

Sometimes in the winter I need something sweet and bright, to perk up my breakfast; and this kumquat marmalade butter did just the trick. I was inspired by Suzanne Goin, and her fabulous book Sunday Suppers at Lucques, where she includes this recipe as part of a dessert. The pain d’epice, a sort of sweet bread, looked like a bit much to take on for a Monday night. But the accompanying kumquat marmalade butter, looked like the perfect accompaniment to make for my morning toast.

I simply simmered slowly for 25-30 minutes, a 1/2 pound of kumquats, in a saucepan with one cup of sugar, and two cups of water. The kumquats softened, turning shiny and translucent. I drained and reserved the liquid, which was now a rosy, pale peach color, and set the kumquats to cool. I deseeded, and sliced the cooled fruit into narrow batons, about 1/8 inch thick. I whipped 2 sticks of softened butter, sweetened with 1/4 cup of powdered sugar, until light, and fluffy. Finally I added the marmalade strands, and a bit of the poaching liquid, and mixed completely.

The next morning, as the butter melted, leaving behind chunks of sweet kumquat marmalade on my breakfast toast, I savored this little bit of sunshine on a bleak winter’s day. Even with store-bought toast, this butter makes breakfast more special.

p.s. If you’re feeling you too could use a little something special along with your morning toast, I’m sure this butter would be great (and much easier to make) with a store-bought marmalade as well.