My friend, who lives in San Francisco, forwarded me this link about the new ‘Wichcraft which just opened there. For those of you who don’t know, ‘Wichcraft is a popular sandwich kiosk in Bryant Park, NYC, serving bourgie sandwiches to hungry lunchtime crowds. Chef Tom Colicchio (of Bravo’s Top Chef fame), has just opened a SF outpost of this successful food stand.

SF Chronicle food critic Michael Bauer wrote about this restaurant,

“I’ve never heard as much praise for a restaurant as I did before ‘Wichcraft opened in the Westfield San Francisco Centre; and I’ve never heard so many disparaging comments after people tried it.”

Hhhmm, a little East versus West Coast rivalry? Your thoughts?

In the vegetable world, zucchini is a lot like Olivia Newton-John’s character “Sandy” from the 50′s era movie, Grease. On its own it can be a little boring, stable and nutritious, but give it some black spandex pants, and a perm, and Va-Va-Voom! What I’m saying, is that everything needs a little bit of care to be brought from boring to sublime.

Now don’t get me wrong, zucchini is fine. Cut into rounds, steamed, and then sprinkled with Parmesan cheese is, eeh. Sliced into batons, sauteed with garlic, and a bit of red chili flake, now that’s getting better. But it’s still a bit insipid… How about grated? Now that’s what I’m talking about. Grating the vegetable brings a whole other texture to the mix– delicate, creamy, yet crunchy if you choose. It’s versatile: sauteed until crisp and browned, stirred into a batter to make fritters, eaten raw in a salad, or possibly even simmered in a delectable soup.

Though technically a summer squash, zucchini is readily available year round, and proves perfect for the fall, when the weather is still somewhat fluctuating. While it’s not cold enough for a stick-to-your-ribs wintery stew, a chilly Autumn evening requires a bit more depth than your run-of-the-mill salad. Zuke Soup to the rescue!

Simply grate the zucchini en masse; about 5 medium-sized will do. Saute a few sliced leeks, add the zucchini, with a healthy dose of salt and pepper, and about one quart of stock, either vegetable or chicken, and simmer away. In about 20-30 minutes the zucchini has softened adequately, and is delightfully limp. Remove half of the soup, and puree in a blender. Add the puree back to the pot, with a bit of heavy cream if desired, and there you have it, a wonderfully light soup. You could even add a potato to make the soup heartier, if you chose.

So give zuke a chance. With a little bit of spandex, almost everything is made better.

My sister-in-law doesn’t like rice. What? You may be asking yourself, how can a person dislike something so innocuous. That’s almost like saying you don’t like water– which come to think of it, my sister isn’t all too crazy about. I guess you could say that I come from a family of awkward eaters. But back to rice, well, I love it. And I also adore soup. So what about a meal of soupy-rice? Bring it on!

Warm and nourishing, a stick to your ribs sort of meal that is both homey and satisfying. And it couldn’t be more simple. Like a risotto, only stripped down. Minus the continual, deltoid-building stirring, Risi e Bisi makes a lovely, hot meal, with just a crust of bread, and perhaps a salad to round the whole dish out.

Made with arborio or carnaroli rice, the short-grained rice with a high starch content, this soup gets creamy and thick as you simmer it. Starting out the soupy concoction is pancetta, Italian style bacon, cut into lardons, then only a handful of other ingredients, including frozen peas get thrown in the mix. Then you let the entire mixture be, the rice grows al dente, absorbing the stock, and a cloudy, flavorful, and gorgeous soup is born.

I call Risi e Bisi delightfully bland. There was not one flavor that stood out among the ingredients, each flavor played off one another so nicely. There was no vying for top place among your palate. It was the type of meal that was addictive. Not in a crunchy popcorn sort of way, but in a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes way. 

The recipe comes from Comfort Foods, a compendium of all things homey. I adapted it by first frying up the pancetta, draining, pouring off some of the fat, and then proceeding with the onion. I reintroduced the pancetta in the last five minutes of cooking. This ensured a crisp pancetta, which is the way that I prefer. But listed below is the unadapted recipe.

Risi e Bisi
adapted from Comfort Foods

When we moved to New York, we lost our outdoor space, that tiny patch of land, right outside our front door where Brian and I grew a sorry collection of succulents. We also lost our BBQ. But have no fear, I have a stovetop grill pan. And with that pan comes my latest fixation, the Grilled Pear.

Yes, a grill pan is an indispensable tool for getting the look and some of the taste of a classic BBQ. I use my grill pan to prepare all sorts of meat and fish. But now I can add the grilling of fruit to that list. Grilling pears proved to be the perfect use for an autumn fruit. It is early in the season. While the apples aren’t at their most flavorful, and the pears are sort of firm, I just don’t feel like eating the alternatives– the last of the stone fruit. But grilling worked out like a dream.

Grilling requires a firm fruit, something that does not give much to the touch, and will not fall apart on the grill. So, early autumn fruit proved ideal. Simply cut the pears into 1/3 inch slices, and rub those slices with a bit of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper, for that salty-sweet flavor, and place on a preheated grill pan. The pears cook up in minutes. But make sure you leave them be when they are grilling. You want those beautiful charred markings.

When cooked, the pears are delicate in flavor, with a delightful bit of smoke. The sugars in the fruit are brought out through the cooking process, and carmelize, creating a pleasant contrast to the creaminess of the pear. I served my grilled pears with a dollop of creme fraiche sprinkled with light brown sugar, because fruit is so often made better with just a modicum of that thick, rich cream. Any leftovers I stored in the fridge, then had chopped up, and added to my oatmeal as a breakfast treat the next morning. And now I can’t stop thinking about which foods I could add my new grilled treasures. As a side dish for pork… Sliced on top of an arugula salad… Ah yes, the mind reels.

Nubby sweaters. Dishes of hot oatmeal, drizzled with cream. Brisk walks along sidewalks littered with crunchy gold-hued leaves. Braised meat dishes, the stewed meat literally falling off the bones. It is fall. Out my window and a few blocks down, I can see Central Park, a place where only weeks ago, couples strolled in flip-flops. Now, not only are feet getting covered by proper shoes, but in the evenings, hands are being shoved snuggly into pockets. One tree is precocious. For sometime now, its leaves have been staunchly yellow, although in its neighboring arbor, the leaves still remain green. Fall is here, a time fraught with change, and I love it. And in celebration of this time year, I made a very simple, though quite impressive (if I do say so myself), Stuffed Squash.

I love winter squash of all kind. Besides being incredibly nutritious, these babies are versatile. Roasted, steamed, pureed, and now stuffed, I’ve cooked them in a variety of different ways, each equally delicious. This time around I stuffed the Amber Cup variety. A squat, plump relative to the Butternut squash, the flesh is bright orange, and the flavor subtle. This squash had a cavernous cavity, making it an ideal choice for stuffing. Scooping and discarding the webbing and seeds, I baked the squash, cut side down and seasoned with salt , pepper, and olive oil for 40 minutes, at 375 degrees.

While the squash baked, I got to work on the stuffing, a pilaf made from farro. Farro is a hearty grain, similar to barley. A chopped onion, a few cloves of garlic, and some sliced crimini, made for a good, aromatic base. Into the same pot went the farro, and the mix was covered with stock. 25 minutes later I tossed in a handful of dried cranberries to give the stuffing some sweetness.

By this time the squash was fairly cooked. I flipped it over, and filled the cavity with the farro stuffing. I continued to let the now stuffed squash cook for a few minutes, letting the flavors meld. When the filling reaching a nice, toasty hue, and the squash browned and crisp along the edges, I knew it was ready to be served. Cutting wedges from the squash, the stuffing falling in loose morsels around the plate, this was the perfect autumn celebration– a one-pot, comforting meal. Bring on fall, I’m armed and ready for the leaves to tumble with winter squash of all sorts.

Never have I been so emphatic about a dessert, and you have to understand that I am a pretty emphatic person, especially about desserts. But these bars, are so stupendous, that I implore you, “Make them please, pretty please, with some shaved coconut on top!”

Last weekend I was out with Brian, and we stopped in for a treat at Amy’s Breads. That is where I ate this sweet-affirming, all American goody, and my life has been forever changed. (Maybe I am being a bit dramatic, but these bars are that good!) Amy simply called them Coconut Dream Bars, but memories of a 7 Layer Cookie Bar that I ate as a child came flooding back to me. There was a restaurant that my family used to go to on occasion, it was known for it ginormous, split-worthy portions, especially desserts. They had a 7 Layer Bar, that was okay– a bit dry, almost too sweet with the inclusion of butterscotch chips, but good none the less. Amy’s bar was similar yet so much better; with a crumbly, buttery, graham crust, I knew that I could not rest until I too had found a recipe for 7 Layer Bars.

I ran home to the internet, and a quick search brought me to this recipe, and in turn brings me to unending happiness. Made with a fair amount of butter, two kinds of chips, shredded coconut, and topped off with a can of sweetened condensed milk (I mean, how bad can anything be with a topping like that?), these bars are definitely rich, and definitely sweet, but they are so good it is ridiculous. The smell emanating from my oven while the bars baked was divine, and enjoyed warm from the oven, with a cup of tea, nothing could be better. So get to it… make these bars. You won’t be sorry that you did.

What do you do when you have most of the ingredients to make a pie, but are too lazy to actually make the crust? Well, I guess you have two options. 1) Take a power nap, and wake up in the pie-making spirit. 2) Forget about the nap, but definitely not the pies. Go to the market and purchase frozen puff pastry dough, and make life simple for everyone involved by making charming, little hand pies.

I bought the last of the nectarines, and some Italian prune plums at the market. Although they were soft to the touch and fragrant to smell, when I cut into them, the plums were puckery and tart, and the nectarines didn’t taste like much of anything at all. This fruit needed some help. And the best way that I know to make less-than-stellar fruit juicy, is to bake it. Baking brings the sugars out. And what better way is there to bake up some fruit than in a pie? I sliced the fruit into chunks, seasoned with a bit of cinnamon, some lemon zest, and then kissed the mix with a touch of brown sugar.

Baking with pre-made puff pastry is so simple, it is almost ridiculous. I rolled out the pastry dough into 12 inch squares. Cutting each square into four smaller squares, I prepared to fill them. Spooning the plum-nectarine mixture onto one corner of each square, I then folded the blank side over the filling, and crimped the dough closed with a fork. 25 minutes in a 400 degree oven, and the house smelled divine, like cinnamon and the last vestiges of summer.

My pocket pies were browned, and pleasantly plump after baking. Not too sweet, the nectarines held their body, while the plums dissolved, creating a shiny sauce for the interior of the pocket. Truth be told, I didn’t really eat my pocket pies out of hand. Served up on plate with some lightly sweetened whipped cream, they were the perfect treat for a moderately lazy girl.

Most of the time I am a thin pancake girl. Almost crispy around the edges, eggy and delightful in the center, and cooked all the way through, yes, when it comes to pancakes I definitely play favorites. Growing up my mom would make delicious, silver dollar, banana pancakes. All of the ingredients were whirred around in a blender. Then she poured neat, silver dollar circles onto a hot griddle and fried us up a Sunday morning treat.

When I made the move to New York there were some things that got left behind, because my new New York kitchen was substantially smaller than my California kitchen. One of the appliances that got left behind was a standard blender. (Don’t worry, I kept the much more convenient handheld, immersion blender.) I haven’t missed the standard blender, but last weekend I got a craving for banana pancakes and the loss was surely felt. But ignoring the twinge of loss, I decided to make a new banana pancake. I cast aside my skinny propensity.

I made a light and fluffy pancake batter, by separating the eggs, and whipping the whites. Then I added a bit of flour, some milk, and a spoonful of sugar. Slicing the bananas into 1/4 inch disks, I then readied my handy-dandy, cast-iron skillet. Pouring in the pancake batter, hearing the sizzle of the liquid against the scorching metal, maintaining the silver dollar size, I then laid the banana disks on top, gently pressing them into the batter. Then comes the fry and flip, not only to complete the cooking process, but to brown the bananas up nicely.

And you know what? My chubby cakes were a delight! The bananas had just enough time to toast and caramelize. They were warmed through, with a delectable, soft texture. All of the sugars within the fruit concentrated and I was left with pure banana essence. The batter was ethereal, and pleasantly bland, the perfect vehicle for a bit of caramelized banana. Who knows, I may just have to rethink my thin pancake prejudices after all…

When was the last time that you had some Ovaltine? Well I can tell you, for me, it had been ages, years, perhaps even decades. As I get older, I am just not much of a milk drinker, and yes, I know about calcium, bone density, etc. But… I don’t drink much milk, and that means I have rather forgotten about malted milk powders, or other items that you mix into milk. Shame on me. I had forgotten about one of the most delicious aspects of being a child. That is until, while glancing through Donna Hay’s Modern Classics 2, I stumbled upon her recipe for Malted Oat and Raisin Biscuits.
I ran out to buy a jar of Ovaltine, and the memories came flooding back. In elementary school, my best friend was a classmate named Julie. We had the sort of pure friendship that only exists between children. No petty jealousies, never a cruel word, and no ulterior motives (kind of makes you long for those days, doesn’t it?). Together we would play for hours: veterinary clinic with her stuffed animals, browsing through her mother’s closet, or playing Frogger on her ancient Mac Classic (am I dating myself?). One day we found an old silver-plated tea service, in her linen closet. We cleaned and polished it, and Julie not being a big fan of tea, offered hot cocoa, made with Ovaltine, as the contents of the tea pot. This was the last time I remember consuming that chocolatey, rich beverage.

So when I saw this recipe, enriched with malted milk powder, I knew it was for me. By American standards, where a biscuit differs from a cookie in taste and texture, these were aptly named. Crisp, and on the thinner side, these biscuits had a pleasing texture from the addition of oats. And the malted milk powder added a richness and depth of flavor that can’t be achieved by plain flour alone.

If you are anything like me, and are a lover of dessert items for breakfast (pie, for example is an early morning dream!), these biscuits are ideal. Not overly sweet, with a little bit of fruit from the raisins, some whole grains from the oats, and an awful lotta’ carbohydrates from the biscuit itself, they made for a well-balanced breakfast. If you would like a little treat in the morning, or anytime for that matter, try ‘em.

Malted Oat and Raisin Biscuits
from Modern Classics 2

Makes 15-20 biscuits

1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup sugar
4 oz. softened butter
1 egg
1/2 cup malted milk powder
1 1/4 cup flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup rolled oats
3/4 cup raisins

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat the sugars, egg, and butter until light and creamy. Add the rest of ingredients, stirring to combine.

Place by flattened spoonfuls on a baking tray, lined with nonstick paper. Bake for 18-20 minutes, until golden brown.

I can’t resist. I have explained my new salad fixation; so yes, Brian and I have been eating quite a lot of them lately. And the latest incarnation, is my favorite type of salad to make: a very green, non-lettuce variety, enriched with imported tuna, packed in olive oil. Fresh, rich, the 3 Bean Salad of my dreams.

How could I not make a 3 Bean Salad when these beautiful, bright pink, shelling, or cranberry beans were lying in piles at the market? They were calling me to take them home, peel off their racy outer coat, and simmer to my heart’s content.

But 3 Bean Salad? How gauche. And salad again? Well, you might say that I am a bit homesick; and you can blame the fixation on heredity. You see the fixations with food are nothing out of the ordinary for my father. I guess you could say he is a creature of habit. Some may call it repetition, but my father just calls it routine. The food fixations have been rather simple. Sliced white sandwich bread, never toasted, yet slathered with butter, or in the summer, fresh, ripe tomatoes sprinkled with salt and a grinding of pepper, and in the winter, soups made almost into stews, by crumbling in soda crackers, and letting them set and soak up the broth, all of these things have at one time or another been a part of his routine.

And yes, he too had a salad fixation, and a 3 Bean Salad fixation at that. But dad’s three beans came strictly from the deli. Garbanzo, kidney, and green beans, drowning in a sea of vinegary brine, were de rigueur just a few short years ago. As much as I love my dad, and miss him now that we live 3,000 miles apart, his 3 Bean Salad, kind of turned my stomach. But the bourgie 3 Bean Salad I could do.

Fresh fava beans, cranberry beans, and green beans, cut into bite-sized pieces, were all cooked and prepared individually. Toss in some croutons, fresh from the oven, chunks of the tuna, and a lemony Dijon vinaigrette (heavy on the acids), and there you have my 3 Bean Salad. I guess when it comes to salads, in theory, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.